Most Gracious Advocate (Terrence Reid Mystery Book 4)

by Mary Birk

  “His mum’s French, and he took German in school, and learned Italian and Spanish there as well. The others he learned in the military.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “I guess he’s mentioned it over the years.”

  “Do you think my learning Arabic is worth it? That it would be useful?”

  “Can’t hurt.”

  She started putting the food back in the fridge while he leaned against the counter watching her. “I don’t suppose you’d want to watch a film tonight, Harry? I mean, till Susie gets off work? We could put it on right now. You’d have plenty of time to go out after.”

  “Don’t you have class?” Or a date, he thought.

  “Not tonight. It’s only Mondays through Wednesdays.”

  He pretended to consider. “Yeah, maybe so. I guess there’ll be time before I need to leave.”

  * * * * *

  They’d chosen a suspense film that was also funny in parts. He loved the way Allison giggled. There was something about a sweet, giggly girl that tugged at his heart and made him want to smile and scoop her up. But for right now, he was content to sit there next to her until he had to go off to his imaginary date.

  They made popcorn and sat companionably on the sofa. She had her Arabic book perched open on her knees, but never looked at it. He wanted to pull her over and lean her against him, but he wasn’t sure how she’d react. He did let his hand graze against hers when they reached for popcorn at the same time, and played at taking her book from her and pretending to pronounce the unpronounceable words. She’d laughed and grabbed the book back.

  Once, when they paused the film for a bathroom break, he’d reached over across where she sat to turn on the lamp. He let his hand brush ever so slightly against her breast. They both acted like it hadn’t happened, but she hadn’t moved away. Just maybe, if he leaned over and kissed her, she’d not stop him. But he hadn’t had the courage to try. What if he was wrong? Or worse yet, what if she let him, but didn’t really want it?

  On the long walk he took during the time he was on his supposed date with Susie, Harry came to some conclusions. The first was that he and Allison were still friends, the second was that she might be interested in them being more than that. The evidence for that was that she’d never brought that bastard Michaud or anyone else home, and she couldn’t be dating as much as he’d thought if she was at class and studying afterwards every night.

  Besides, it was Friday night and she was staying home alone. Watching the movie together had been her idea, so she had to like being around him. So what if she’d gone a little crazy with her new freedom? He didn’t like it, but he certainly didn’t have any room to talk. He just wished he didn’t know the blokes she’d been seeing. Faceless men would have been easier to stomach.

  Tomorrow morning, he would subtly try to get things out in the open, and figure out exactly where they stood with each other. He’d be careful not to say anything that could be misinterpreted if it turned out she wasn’t interested.

  In the front garden, he spotted some yellow daffodils that the previous owner must have planted. They reminded him of the dot of yellow paint she’d had on her nose when she’d painted the kitchen. He took his pocket knife and cut a small bunch. In the kitchen, he filled a glass with water and stuck the flowers in it, then left it on the counter for her to see in case she came up. He kissed two fingers, touched the door that led down to Allison’s room, then loped up the stairs to his bedroom, two at a time.

  SATURDAY, APRIL 17

  Chapter 50

  HARRY WAITED in the kitchen for Allison to get up. He’d made coffee, put the electric teakettle on, and set the table for two, putting the flowers he’d found the night before in the middle of the table. Then he paced. He decided to make her a proper fry-up. He put bacon and mushrooms in the pan, started the heat, and paced again. He took out another pan, started the sausage. The bacon and sausage and potatoes he could do ahead. He’d fry the eggs when she got up. He decided to forego the beans and tomatoes, as he didn’t care for either.

  He poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter. He had almost talked himself into going down and waking her, when the door of the stairway leading up from Allison’s rooms opened. He put down his cup, straightened, and put a smile on his face.

  “Finally, sleepyhead. I thought you’d never wake up.” He stopped talking when Eddie Michaud, shirtless, and barefoot in his jeans, emerged from the doorway.

  “Hiya, Harry. Allison sent me up for coffee.”

  Before he knew what he was doing, Harry bounced toward Michaud, and punched the man square in the face. He stood looking down at the stunned man on the floor, feeling just as stunned himself. Allison’s footsteps clattered up the stairs, and she looked from him to Michaud. Harry watched her, but had no words. She pushed a curl behind her ear, then bent down and checked on Michaud. She helped him up and whispered something to him. Without looking back, Michaud nodded and went back downstairs.

  Allison stood in front of him now, her hair still mussed from sleep, her face clean of make-up. She glanced over at the table. He saw her take in the two place settings, the flowers.

  Why the hell had he set the table? Now she’d know he’d planned this for her. He was an idjit. He could tell from her response that it had been a bad idea.

  “What happened, Harry? You didn’t like the way he asked for coffee?”

  Harry shook his head.

  “Then what?”

  “He surprised me.”

  She went over to the stove and looked in the pans. “You made bacon. Sausage, too.” She opened a cupboard and took out a mug. “Okay if I have some of your coffee? You’re not going to punch me?”

  “Help yourself.”

  A door slammed downstairs. He wondered if Allison heard it. She didn’t mention it, just got her coffee, got the milk from the fridge, poured in a splash, and spooned in some sugar. She raised the cup to her mouth as she leaned against the counter facing the stove.

  Harry turned off the burners under the food. “Maybe you should check on Michaud.”

  She didn’t seem to hear him, just stood there sipping her coffee. “Susie must really be special. You made her breakfast.”

  He reached for his own coffee, forcing his aching hand to steady while relief flooded through him. Allison didn’t realize he’d intended the breakfast for her. Another, louder, slam came from downstairs. Harry jerked his head toward the door to her rooms. “That was the door to the street. Maybe you should go after him.”

  Allison acted as if she hadn’t heard him. “Isn’t she coming down for breakfast?”

  “She couldn’t stay. Got a call from the hospital and had to go in. Help yourself. I’ve got to go.”

  “Where?”

  “Work.” He had to get out of here, away from her.

  “It’s Saturday.”

  “I was out all morning yesterday for those interviews, and I’m behind.” He turned to go upstairs. How the sweet fuck were they going to work together, or live together, after this? If she filed a complaint about him, or Michaud did, he’d probably lose the promotion. He would have screwed up his life completely for a girl he’d never had a chance with anyway.

  “Harry?”

  “Sorry, but I’m running late.”

  In his room, Harry packed his rucksack with his work files and his computer. He took his time, hoping she’d have left the kitchen by the time he got downstairs. He threw in a change of clothes, and went to the bathroom to get his toiletries kit. Maybe Rita would forgive him for giving her the gate, and he could hide out at her place until he could face being here again. Or maybe he could bunk at Frank’s for a couple of days.

  Coming out of the bathroom, he stopped short at the sight of Allison in the doorway of his bedroom. She was still in the flowered pajamas she’d worn last night; apparently Michaud thought she looked cute in them as well. She’d not been in his room before, and he saw her taking stock of it. As she looked a
round, he had a dull sense that she was measuring who he was from his room, and finding him wanting. He tried to see it through her eyes. Big bachelor’s bed, black sheets and counterpane. Utilitarian lamps. A stack of books on personal finance on the night table. He was glad he’d made up the bed so she wouldn’t be able to tell he’d slept alone.

  “Allison, I don’t go to your rooms uninvited. I’d appreciate it if you would show me the same courtesy.” He needed her to leave.

  “Sorry. It’s nice.”

  “Thanks.” Please leave, he thought. Please, please, go.

  She turned around looking at his bedroom from all angles. “Needs a different color paint.” She took a drink of her coffee. “I could paint it for you.”

  “I’m fine with the paint as it is.” He zipped his rucksack, tried for a jaunty smile. “I’d offer you a ride, but I’ve got to get going. I’ve some errands to do on the way. Sorry about clocking Michaud. I’ll take him out for a pint and apologize. I don’t want to screw up your social life.”

  “You didn’t screw up my social life. Nothing happened.”

  “None of my business.” He pasted a nonchalant smile on stiff lips. “Do whatever you like. I’ll make sure I’m not surprised next time by seeing one of your fellows in the morning. I was only half awake myself.” He gave a little laugh, hoping she’d realize he was non-threatening, not file a complaint. “Last night you hadn’t mentioned you had plans, so I wasn’t expecting to see a bloke come up the stairs. I totally understand if you want to move out. We’ll forget about the lease. You find a place, and I’ll pay the cost of moving your things.” Please, please move out today, he silently begged.

  “He just came over. It was late, and he’d been drinking. He couldn’t drive, so I told him he could stay if he slept on the floor. He got sick all over his shirt, so I put it in the wash.” She sat on his bed. “Is Susie moving in? Is that why you want me to leave?”

  Allison looked like she was about to cry. Was she upset about Michaud, or about him wanting her to move out?

  “That’s daft. Why would you say that?”

  “You cooked breakfast for her. Flowers on the table and everything. For you, that’s serious.”

  “She’s not moving in.” He motioned to the door, and she got up to leave. He followed her down the stairs. “Things are over between you and Michaud?”

  “Never got started. A couple of lunches, that’s all. It turns out I don’t like him like that. I guess that’s why I didn’t do it with him in the first place.”

  Not Michaud, then. He decided to ask her. “Then who’s the guy?”

  “Who’s what guy?”

  “Which of the blokes hanging around you have you been . . .?”

  She gave him an incredulous look. “When would I have had time? You and I slept together Saturday, plus we spent Sunday together, I had class on Monday night, Tuesday night, and Wednesday night. Thursday, we were at the pub together getting into a fight, after which Frank dropped me off, and last night I watched a movie with you, then Eddie came over and slept on my floor. Not a lot of opportunities.”

  “Right.” He couldn’t think of where to go from here. He now had a fictional girlfriend, a fictional trip to Majorca, he’d hit Michaud, and he’d all but told Allison to move out. They reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “You can’t wait long enough to eat breakfast?”

  “I need to get going.”

  “How about if I come with you? Give me a minute to get dressed.”

  He shrugged, but felt better all of a sudden. “Sure. I’ll make some of this up into sandwiches and we can take it with us.”

  * * * * *

  When they got to High Street, Harry left Allison at her desk and went upstairs to the big, open room where Oscar had been working with the floaters. He walked around examining the logs each officer was keeping to note down anything of interest in the Von Zandt investigation, just to make sure he hadn’t missed anything while he’d been focusing on the nanny case.

  They’d examined the financial holdings and transactions not just of Von Zandt’s living son, Henry, but also went back through the man’s dead son’s accounts. Walter Von Zandt had set Frederick up as the fall guy when they’d tried to bust him on money laundering charges, so all of those accounts had been in Frederick’s name. That had been the first time they’d relieved Von Zandt of a big chunk of his assets, then after they’d discovered his bogus hedge fund scheme, they’d cleaned him out again and closed Von Zandt Capital down, minus what he’d negotiated with the powers-that-be to keep in exchange for his cooperation, and what he’d had to hand over to Elisa in the divorce.

  But now it looked like maybe Von Zandt was getting new infusions of cash from somewhere else. Harry ran through his mind what he knew about the man, trying to figure out what logically he could be doing to make money. He’d started out with nothing, according to Glasgow folklore, then went to work for one of the local crime syndicates in the protection racket. When an internecine war ended the reign of his employer, Von Zandt ended up with enough money to set up several brothels. He’d never been busted on the pandering gig; there’d been talk he’d had some cops on the payroll.

  Eventually, he’d left his roots behind and supposedly went legit, opening VZ Capital. Of course, it had been anything but legit. A money-laundering operation, and a lucrative one at that. When they’d shut that down, Von Zandt rose again, this time with a dodgy hedge fund scam. The man no longer had access to the kind of money he’d had when he set up the hedge funds or laundered great gobs of terrorist money. What would a self-made man do when he was skint?

  The answer came immediately. Go back to what he did to start his pile in the first place. Either protection or prostitution. The protection racket wouldn’t be easy to break back into. Von Zandt was too old to be out in the fields, and no way the local gangs would let him take over from them at this point.

  Prostitution, then.

  That made sense. Harry quickly pulled up Von Zandt’s old files from the police national computer database, and perused the mounds of historical data. In the old days, Von Zandt ran four high-class brothels masquerading as saunas, using a different madam at each location to manage the day-to-day business. One of the madams, Rebecca Pomeroy, had also been Von Zandt’s mistress at one time, and from all appearances, she’d taken over for him when he’d moved on. Harry’d been doing surveillance on Walter Von Zandt’s city flat last Christmas, after they’d realized someone was inside. It had taken a while because whoever was there kept the blinds shut most of the time, but finally, he’d managed to get some clear shots, and had been able to identify Rebecca Pomeroy. Wondering what Rebecca was up to now, he went back downstairs.

  “Allison, do you remember Rebecca Pomeroy?”

  “The woman that was babysitting Von Zandt’s place while he was in Germany.”

  “Right. Her computer file doesn’t have a current address.”

  “Did you check with Vice?”

  “On it now.” He got voicemail, and left a message asking them to call on the off-chance someone would be in later despite it being Sunday. At the very least, he’d hear back by tomorrow.

  The night before, lying awake by himself, he’d been beating his head over Albert Braytoun’s car, trying to remember where he’d seen it before. He hadn’t been able to pull it out of his brain. But now his mind flashed a picture of Anne Reid next to Allison, showing her the photos she’d taken of Lynstrade Manor.

  “Allison, take a quick look at Lady Anne’s photos. The ones she took that night she’d gone by Von Zandt’s old house. See if you can determine if one of the cars there with Von Zandt could be Albert Braytoun’s Audi.”

  She nodded, going to her computer.

  Meanwhile, Harry pulled up the photos of Rebecca Pomeroy he’d taken back in December, studied them, and tapped the file on his computer where he’d saved the video file of the surveillance. He played it through again two more times. Next, he opened the video file of Lizzie Fr
ost’s abduction, stopping it when the woman appeared on the screen. He froze the screen and zoomed in on the woman, then played it again. The hair had been different, and he couldn’t see her face clearly, but her profile was the same, and the body was the same. It had to be her.

  Allison called out. “No visible registration number, but one of the cars looks like Braytoun’s to me.”

  “That’s what I thought. We need to go to Lynstrade Manor right now.” He unlocked the drawer where he stashed his gun, and took it out. “Bring your weapon, Allison. I’ll ring Reid.”

  “What’s at Lynstrade Manor?” She was already standing up, strapping on her holster.

  “I’m hoping our missing nanny.”

  His mobile rang right as they reached the door. He listened, said a few words, then hung up.

  “That was Vice. After they got my message, they sent someone around to look for Rebecca Pomeroy.”

  “And?”

  “They found her. Beaten, left for dead.”

  Chapter 51

  TABBY TRIED to stay calm as a man she’d never seen before waved his gun, yelling at her to get ready to go. In his free hand he carried a duffel bag. She was confused. Where was Rebecca? And who was this strange man who was yelling at her? Tabby didn’t see her guards or even that hateful Albert anywhere. Trying to control her panic, Tabby did her make-up and hair as Rebecca had taught her, and put on the shapeless gown that she’d been given to wear to go to her buyer.

  Finally, her worry overcame her instructions about not speaking without permission. “Where’s Rebecca?”

  “She’s not coming.” The man seemed nervous. He didn’t put the shackles on her or bind her hands.

  “She said she would be going with me.”

  “Forget that. She’s not coming. I’m taking you. Let’s go.” He motioned for Tabby to precede him up out of her room. He directed her out of the basement to the upstairs, following close behind her. Upstairs, she suddenly halted. A man’s legs were sticking out of the doorway to one of the rooms. She’d spent so much time looking down, she easily knew the men by their shoes. This man had been one of her guards.