The Shadow Behind Her Smile

by Janene Wood

  Kate’s puzzlement increased ten-fold. “No, I don’t think so...” she replied uncertainly. “No, wait. This morning I was supposed to see a patient called Pritchard, but he never turned up. I don’t know his first name. Why do you ask?”

  “Jaamir observed a man photographing us from across the lobby just now. Part of Jaamir’s job is to ensure my privacy, as well as my safety, so he questioned the man. It turns out he wasn’t photographing me, as we had both assumed, he was taking pictures of you.”

  Catherine handed her the business card Jaamir had given her. Pritchard was a journalist from Behind the News; a current affairs program known for its boots and all approach to gathering stories. “Bloody hell,” muttered Kate softly, “he must have followed me here.”

  “Don’t worry, my dear. Jaamir had a word with him and he won’t be bothering you again.” Catherine placed a small spool of film on the table in front of Kate. “He even offered to hand over the pictures he’d taken,” she remarked ingenuously. It didn’t occur to Kate to wonder what sort of bribe – or threat – Jaamir had made to ensure the man’s sudden disinterestedness; she was simply grateful for his intervention.

  “Thank you,” said Kate softly to the woman across the table. “And you, Jaamir,” to the young man who had saved her from unwanted public exposure. Kate was extremely protective of her patients and the glare of publicity would have made it impossible to continue working the way she did now. The success of her practice relied absolutely on the discretion of her patients and their quiet word-of-mouth referrals, not upon wholesale advertisement or cheap stunts, like this had threatened to become.

  “It was my pleasure, Miss,” said the young bodyguard, with a smile and a bow of his head.

  “So you’re a doctor, Kate?” enquired Catherine anew, satisfied the matter had been dealt with satisfactorily. Picking up the teapot, she filled Kate’s cup and then her own. Kate helped herself to a scone, spreading a generous dollop of jam and cream onto both halves. Her mouth salivated at the sight.

  “In another life, perhaps,” replied Kate wistfully. “In this one, I'm a naturopath, a practitioner of natural holistic healing. That sounds a little airy-fairy, I know, but alternative therapies have an important role to play as an adjunct to mainstream medicine. Naturopathy in particular is a field that's often denigrated, but I assure you, it's a legitimate method of healing and a valuable tool in the maintenance of a healthy body.”

  That entire spiel came out a little more defensively than she intended, but it was what she believed. No doubt Catherine thought she was a proper nut-job, but right now she was too hungry to care. She took a bite of her scone and sighed with pleasure. Following it up with a sip of tea, she thought she had died and gone to heaven.

  “There's no need to convince me,” replied Catherine reassuringly. “In the many, many years I have walked this earth, I have seen more miracles performed by unqualified but nonetheless talented healers than have taken place in all the hospitals in England.” Her lips turned up in a mischievous smile and Kate couldn't help laughing.

  “It’s nice to hear a positive opinion for a change; they're quite rare,” said Kate. She shoved the rest of her scone in her mouth and washed it down with a gulp of tea. Not very lady-like, but she needed fuel, fast.

  “I’m always interested in hearing of good works being performed by good people. In fact–” Catherine glanced at her gold Cartier watch and her entire demeanour changed. “Oh, goodness, is that the time? I’m so sorry, Kate, but I have to go; I’m extremely late for an appointment.”

  Standing gracefully, she dropped a ten pound note on the table, hooked her handbag over one elbow and smiled archly at Kate. “They'll be sending out a search party if I don’t get a hurry on, and that would be embarrassing for everyone.” She held out her hand once more, and again, Kate felt a brief tingle as their flesh came together. “I’m delighted to have met you, Kate McDermott,” said Catherine sincerely. “I look forward to seeing you again soon.”

  “The pleasure was mine,” Kate assured her, knowing it was unlikely they would ever meet again. It was obvious they moved in vastly different social circles. She watched the older woman retrace her steps through the lobby, Jaamir a few paces behind, and thoughtfully took another sip of her tea. What a strange encounter! Time was clearly a valuable commodity to Catherine, yet she had taken the trouble to come to the aid of a perfect stranger. Most people would have kept on walking, making Kate someone else's problem.

  The waitress had also paused to watch the pair's abrupt departure. Kate beckoned her over and asked, “You wouldn't happen to know who that was, would you?”

  If the girl was surprised to hear that Kate had spent twenty minutes in the company of a stranger without even learning her name, she didn't think it worth mentioning. “You mean Lady Emberley? Oh, sure, she and that hunky bodyguard of hers are in and out of here all the time.”

  “She runs the Leonica Foundation, doesn't she?” Lady Emberley was a well-known philanthropist, responsible for giving away millions of pounds each year to a variety of worthwhile causes.

  “That's right. And she has a seat on the hospital board.”

  Which was no doubt where she was heading in such a hurry. Mulling over this new information, Kate smiled her thanks and went back to her tea. Wow! She had never met a member of the aristocracy before. Not unless you counted her former BFF, Tayo, King of the Dipsticks.

  Kate drained her cup and decided to take a taxi back to work. The mere idea of battling the crowds on the tube was exhausting and she could definitely use a little quiet time to rest and regroup. And she wanted to go over every word of her conversation with Catherine and try to figure out where she knew her from, although having now identified her as the Countess of Emberley, it was more than likely she had seen her picture in a newspaper or magazine.

  Her legs were a little wobbly as she made her way out of the overheated lobby and into the chilly autumn air, but fortunately she didn't have to wait for a taxi. Climbing into the back of the first one in the queue, she settled herself comfortably with her bag on her lap, leaned her head against the door and promptly fell asleep.

  Marc and Pax's destination was an Italian caffè, not far from St Pancras station. Giulio’s had been a favourite way-station for the three Sant’Angelo cousins while they were at boarding school, in Marc’s opinion making the best coffee in London and the finest chocolate-pistachio biscotti outside their grandmother’s kitchen. Moira Sant’Angelo might be English-born, but her heart and soul were pure Italian.

  The three boys used to meet here before boarding the train to Derby to spend occasional weekends at Sully Park, Lord and Lady Emberley’s country estate, breaking up the dull routine of school and the monotony of study. The D'Raegans were old family friends, and while Marc had always liked and admired Lady Emberley, his lordship had always seemed like a bit of a cold fish. Leo and Chris would spend the days discussing politics and history with Edwin and making plans for self-sacrificing careers at the BoJ, while Marc saddled up one of the horses and rode off by himself to explore the extensive grounds, dreaming of glory and honour on an imaginary battlefield.

  Things hadn't turned out quite the way he had planned, but what was life without a few missteps? He was on the right track now, he was certain of it; the only thing he truly regretted was Kate, but he hadn't given up hope where she was concerned.

  “Pax, did you ever cross paths with a DS Ryan Leach while you were with the Met?” Marc asked casually, taking a sip from his tiny cup of espresso. Breathing in the fragrant steam, he was transported back to his grandparents' vineyard.

  Pax took a moment to search his memory banks before replying. “Not personally,” he said, “but I know the name.” He picked up one of his biscotti and dunked it in his coffee. “He’s a bit of a legend, actually – definitely on the fast track. He works out of Organised Crime and has more collars than just about anyone else in the Met. He must have great sources to keep his stats up so consistently
. Why do you ask?”

  Marc explained that his sister and Kate were good friends. “According to Jules,” said Marc grimly, “Kate's practically engaged to the guy.”

  Pax groaned. “I feel for you, man,” he said sympathetically, his mouth full of biscotti. “But once she sees you again, I’m sure that will change. How could she resist your good looks and sparkling personality?”

  Although Pax tried to make light of the situation, they both knew it wasn’t that simple. Marc had no way of knowing how Kate would react to seeing him again. Four years apart was a long time. He knew she would never have left him by choice, but whatever story she had been told had taken that choice away from her. The lies would be deeply rooted by now. And the fact that she had met someone new didn’t bode well. It was entirely possible that what she felt for this Ryan Leach had supplanted her very strong, very real feelings for him. The commitment they had made to one another, although serious and heart-felt, was bound to have been eroded by time and distance. After all, they had been apart far longer than they were ever together.

  “That’s a pretty powerful coincidence, isn’t it?” remarked Pax. “Your sister being friends with your former fiancée, whom you believed to be dead all this time?”

  “Coincidences do happen,” rebutted Marc unconvincingly. “We’ve just been trained to mistrust them. Honestly? I don’t know what’s going on, but I do know neither Jules nor Kate would be involved in anything dodgy.” He hesitated a moment as a new thought struck him. “Speaking of coincidences, didn’t I see the name Leach somewhere in the Wulverov file?”

  Pax looked at Marc sideways. “You’re not trying to stitch up the golden boy, are you, Marc? I guess that’s one way to get rid of the competition,” he chuckled.

  Marc refused to be side-tracked. “I'm pretty sure it wasn’t Ryan Leach, I would have remembered that,” he muttered, frowning in concentration. “A relation maybe? It’s not that common a name.”

  “It was Jasper Leach,” replied Pax easily. He tended to remember details, while Marc generally kept his focus on the big picture. “He's a legend in the London underworld...a real nasty bugger, into just about every kind of illegal activity you can think of, but clever enough not to get his own hands dirty. Never been convicted of anything more serious than petty larceny, and that’s going back thirty years. He and Wulverov were in each other's pockets long before Lavinia's murder, but there was no talk of Leach ever being involved in that, otherwise his lordship would have seen to him as well.”

  Marc’s eyes narrowed at Pax’s seemingly off-hand comment. “What are you saying, Jimmy? Are you insinuating it was Edwin who forced Wulverov to go on the run?” That was actually the conclusion he himself had reached upon reading that Makamu Zende chased the Wolf all over the world after Vinny J's murder, but he wanted to hear Pax's take on it.

  “I’m saying – and it’s only rumour and innuendo, mind – that it was his lordship's intention to have Wulverov put down like a rabid dog, but he fled the country before the job could be done.”

  “And you know this how?”

  Pax shrugged. “I asked around before I agreed to come over to the Dark Side. My old DCI wasn’t long off retirement and had plenty of stories from back in the day. He was more than happy to tell me what he knew over a pint or three.”

  Marc was pensive. It was certainly plausible, knowing how unrelenting Edwin could be. And it explained why he was still so hell-bent on finding Wulverov and... what? Bringing him to justice? Or quietly arranging his execution? There was no more evidence of his guilt in the Lavinia James case now than there had been thirty years ago, and realistically, it was unlikely they would ever be able to tie him to Errol’s murder. The best they could hope for was to find him sitting on a stash of imported heroin. He refused to contemplate the death of another D'Raegan family member.

  But all that was irrelevant until they actually caught him.

  “I know it’s a bit of a stretch, linking one of the Met's up-and-comers with a common crook like Jasper Leach, based on a common surname–”

  “But we don’t like coincidences,” finished Pax. “And it’s our job to follow all the leads, no matter how unlikely they might seem.”

  Marc took that train of thought a step further. “It would certainly explain the source of Junior Leach’s intel, and why he has such a good arrest record. Could be he’s been systematically getting rid of the competition for this father, uncle or grandfather of his.”

  Marc almost admired the man for his ingenuity. He wondered if it had been part of his reason for joining the Met, or if he had become disillusioned over the years at being under-paid and under-appreciated and the role just evolved over time. With a start, he realised he had mentally convicted the man without even investigating the facts. No doubt that was because of Kate. It was driving him crazy, knowing she was involved with another man. A man, it seemed to him, completely unworthy of her. If his suspicions were confirmed and it turned out Junior Leach was complicit in Errol’s murder in any way, even after the fact...well, he’d better start praying for salvation.

  Upon their return to the Shed, they commandeered an empty conference room on the ground floor and began setting up their command centre; Pax was happy to give the powers-that-be their daily update, but preferred not to have them looking over his shoulder all the time. Having already discussed what needed to be done, they set about assigning specific jobs to specific officers – the resources Leo had promised would be at their disposal – and briefing the new task-force so they had a general overview of the case and could finally get the ball rolling. The briefing lasted an hour and their team of eight officers set to work with alacrity. Most of the initial work would be tedious, but the files they were working from were thirty years old and needed updating before they could move forward.

  Marc worked until six o'clock and felt no guilt at all over leaving Pax and the others behind, huddled over their desks, still hard at work. He had a much-anticipated appointment to keep and nothing and no one was going to get in the way of it, not even his sense of duty. If there was one thing he had learned over the years, it was that he, and no one else, was responsible for his destiny. If he didn’t look out for his own interests, no one else would.

  Bitter Reunion

  Piles of discarded clothes were strewn across the narrow fbed, where they had been tossed in favour of more suitable options. The girl with the smoky grey eyes and long black hair studied her reflection in the full-length mirror, twisting this way and that and smiling provocatively, as if the mirror itself was the target of tonight’s foray. The tiny leather skirt, fringed midriff top and red, knee-high boots all screamed Tart! but the hand-made, cable-knit cardigan she wore over the top, a bargain from the op-shop on the high street, fell conservatively to her knees and effectively dialed back the entire outfit. The net result was an assertive, provocative statement of, Come and try your luck; if I like you, I’m yours!

  Finally satisfied her outfit said what she wanted it to, the girl stepped into character and aggressively kicked the wardrobe door shut. She gathered lipstick, comb, cash and a small, much-handled talisman and poured them into a cheap, silver bag, which she hitched up over one shoulder by its painted silver chain. She smoothed her hair behind her ears, checked her makeup one last time and exited the dingy bed-sit.

  It was a perfect night for hunting.

  A brisk wind assaulted her as soon as she emerged onto the street. Glad of the insulation afforded by her cardigan, the girl wrapped it more tightly around herself and focused on her mission. She had timed the three block walk so she would arrive just as the passengers from the 6.46pm train from Euston straggled out of the tube station. Although the leather boots (a little scuffed by their previous owner, but good as new after a bit of spit and polish) were as comfortable as shoes with four inch heels could be, they still required slow going. But she had made allowance for the weather and her footwear and was only a few paces behind him as they made their way up the high street,
both of them battling the strengthening headwind.

  Once within spitting distance of the welcoming red and blue lights, the girl picked up her pace and was hard on his heels when he reached for the door. Good manners necessitated he hold it open and allow her to precede him inside. Stepping past, she gave him a saucy smile.

  She headed straight toward the spirits aisle, knowing of course his habits and preferences, but making it seem like he was following her. When they both reached for the same bottle at the same time, she giggled and commented, with just a hint of a suggestive smile, that if they had the same taste in whiskey, maybe they had the same taste in other things too. Her cardigan happened to fall open just then, revealing shapely, fish-net clad thighs and an ample bosom, and he knew he was in with a chance – with relatively little effort made on his part.

  Just the way that degenerate sex liked it: quick and easy.

  He took the bait, as she knew he would. “I know a quiet bar, just around the corner. Would you care to join me for a drink...er...?”

  “Roxie.” She simpered sweetly. “It rhymes with foxy,” she added. And with doxy, she thought drolly. Which was why she'd chosen it.

  “I’m Bruce,” said he, holding out his hand expectantly.

  As if she didn’t know already.

  “I like a man with a good, strong name,” said Roxie huskily, taking his hand and stroking it with her thumb. “Why don’t we go and have that drink now?”

  The taxi dropped Kate halfway down the high street, directly opposite the off-license and only a few streets away from Jules' flat. She planned on walking the remaining distance, after first picking up some wine. She was famished, despite stuffing herself with leftover Thai takeaway when she arrived home to get changed. Hopefully Jules would have dinner ready by the time she arrived. Since her embarrassing collapse earlier in the afternoon, she had been feeling less than her normal robust self and knew from past experience that only large quantities of food and rest would remedy the situation.