The Wardour Street pub Dwyer had suggested was an old place, reeking of stale cigarette butts. Either regulars smoked illegally during off-hours or the stained velour of the seats was as old as it looked and had absorbed more tar and nicotine than a four-pack-a-day addict’s lungs. Nelson himself fit in with the surroundings: fiftyish and seedy around the edges, wearing a shiny suit and stubble, and with cigarette-stained teeth like walrus tusks. The gleam of sly intelligence in his eyes completed the tabloid stereotype.
He got himself a second pint after draining the one he’d been nursing when she walked in, bringing back a half of cider for her. “So, Lisa Jones, tell me,” he said as he sat back down again, “why hasn’t your newspaper in New York heard of you and why the fuck did you think an old hack like me might believe some cock-and-bull story about suicide in a time of terrorists?”
His tone was light, but she sagged into herself, diminished by her stupidity. “Don’t be glum, luv. Not a bad cover story, but nobody in the world would have any interest in Olga from the Volga’s final Tube journey unless they had a better reason. I’m not refusing to help you, but you need to level with me.” He paused. “And sweeten the deal.”
“Sweeten the deal?” God, did this tabloid hack want a king’s ransom for the photos?
He tapped his red-veined nose. “I have a feeling, Lisa Jones, that you’re investigating a hot trail gone cold. Eh? And hoping Olga’s tragic ‘passenger action,’ as they call it, might lead to something on the real story, eh? Getting warm? Needless to say, if there’s a story there, I want it first for the UK, with a shared byline, if you please.”
“Well—” In the dead silence that followed, she was surprised Dwyer couldn’t hear the gears of her brain racing around like a hamster in its wheel. She needed to pass for the savvy journalist he thought she was. “Shared byline for the UK, I take it? Not for the US, too?”
“Well, it’s a necessity to have both, innit? Otherwise, it will look like your mate Nelson gave you the good stuff only to be fobbed off with just a wee British byline, won’t it?”
She sighed as if in reluctant agreement, then said a silent prayer that the new lie she’d just worked up was slicker than her last. “A source told me that some names that must not be named—serious higher-ups—are involved in subsidizing and protecting a Russian and Eastern European call girl ring, the clients of which comprise a roll call of celebrities, city wheeler-dealers, and peers straight out of Debrett’s—a list harder to get into than the Royal Box at Ascot.”
He laughed. “Depends which royal’s box you’re thinking of, pet. If you mean the Royal Enclosure on Royal Ascot Day, it holds so many people you could be there all day without setting eyes on a bloody royal. But I get your drift. And I’ve heard whispers, too,” he bluffed. “You were told this Olga was involved?”
She nodded. “Attractive Russian girl, working in some half-assed marketing job, unfriendly to her coworkers and out of the office on ‘appointments’ a lot. Could be nothing. But your write-up grabbed my attention.”
“The other papers dropped the ball. Looked at the statistics and shrugged it off. See, about eighty people end up under a Tube train each year, more than ninety percent of them jumpers. Most of the others are written off as slip-and-falls, what with folks shoving to get in front at rush hour. If, at a coroner’s hearing, some muckety-muck from the office says, ‘Yeah, Olga wasn’t herself lately, acted weird and depressed,’ then Bob’s your uncle, the verdict’s going to be a jumper. So by that point, it doesn’t strike anyone as odd that, for all intents and purposes, Olga Novrosky didn’t exist. Police never managed to trace a family; no one ever reported her missing.”
“I’m going to do some more digging,” she said. “If I need to call you, I’ll just say it’s Lisa from Wardour Street, all right?”
He chuckled. “You’ll be having the lads thinkin’ I’ve got some bimbo in a knocking shop. This part of Soho was all brothels once upon a time,” he explained. “Still not exactly Pall Mall.” He reached under the table and pulled up a manila envelope. “Here. Typical crap CCTV quality, I’m afraid.”
They bent their heads together over the copies of the photos. “See, this is her. Now, look here: in this sequence either of these two blokes could be following her on purpose.” He pointed to two indistinct blobs.
“Dark hair, both of them?”
“Nah, black caps, I think. Like watch caps. That’s clearer in the other photos. Here, this is immediately after she went under.” The two men’s heads were now closer, and the figure that had been Olga was no longer to be seen. “So, siren’s going off now, announcement being made to clear the platform.” He leafed through a few more photos and then spread out three. “And here they start to leave.”
The faces beneath the dark caps were indistinct, but the two were moving separately and didn’t seem to be together. It was hard to make out any one person moving toward the cameras; all were partly blocked by others or out of focus. And then, staring at those last three, flipping through them to see one after another quickly like CCTV footage, Anna caught something that almost made her gasp.
Walking toward the camera—not 100 percent clear but in sharp enough detail to be recognized, not with the dark-cap men at all—was Martin Kelm.
She didn’t tell Dwyer she’d recognized anyone; she just tucked the photocopies into her bag, paid for the next round, and made inconsequential small talk as best she could about her imaginary journalism work in America. She felt a little skeevy lying to him; on the other hand, there was an actual chance of his one day getting his scoop.
It was easy to find a Pakistani-run call center and Internet café near Leicester Square. There, she fed Olga Novrosky’s name into every search engine she could find. Dwyer was right: she’d existed no more than Tanya Avery did.
She went onto the BarPharm website, vaguely remembering seeing photos of staff parties in the newsletter archives she’d skimmed while seeking background on Pierre. There were plenty of photos, most with the subjects identified—but no Russian names.
She did find something, though: a feature on BarPharm’s spring retreat in March. Photographs showed a sprawling estate. But it wasn’t the one she’d stayed at, the one in which Barton had told her all retreats were held. Even the exterior was of a different color stone. “Our spring retreat for department heads and managers brought together key players from throughout Britain and Switzerland. Held at the company’s exclusive sea-view villa in Cornwall . . .” Sea view? Cornwall? If this was the BarPharm estate, then where had she been taken for training?
Maybe the company had two estates, but that seemed unlikely. She was going to have to find the answer to that question for herself.
As long as she was online, she checked her BarPharm and personal emails, responding in the affirmative to one from Rob asking if she wanted to have brunch Sunday. Daytime was good; perhaps his way of saying he wouldn’t be putting the moves on her again.
Richard’s email said Madame X was doing well, “but it’s not the same without you.”
Allie’s message brought the happy news that Shawna was up for a TV sitcom, but with a disturbing note at the end.
Have you heard from Jan? She and George are going to London for the film’s British premiere, and she might want to meet up, even though she knows you’ve gone to Belgium. The movie’s a hit here, so George has become even harder to bear, and Jan’s drinking a helluva lot more than she should. She quit her job at the school—said it wasn’t ‘challenging’—and is working out with a trainer and secretly (she hasn’t said a word) getting Botox and bad filler from some quackatologist, judging how her face is now both puffy and unmoving. Think: ‘taxidermied squirrel hiding nuts.’ And her bitterness level is through the ceiling! Sad, but I feel something close to dread when I know I’m going to see her. So get bored with the rest of the world soon, Ms. A, ’cause we need you! xoxo, Allie Oop.
&nb
sp; Anna sighed. She missed Richard and Allie and hated deceiving them. And, even though she didn’t miss Jan, she wished she could see her in London instead of lying. It sounded as if poor Jan could use a friend.
It didn’t take long for Anna to get a feel for the Ford Focus she rented when she showed up at the Luton Airport car rental counter the next morning, although she suspected she’d still be automatically starting to get in via the passenger-side door by the time she returned it. After circling the airport twice for practice driving on the “wrong” side of both the car and the road, she followed signs toward Northampton.
Last night, poring over a road atlas she picked up at a news dealer’s on the way home, she’d found a Dibden, Dibdin Village, and Dibden Village. She remembered only seeing “Dibden” or “Dibdin” when Aleksei had run into detour signs en route from the house to the clinic that one day. Dibden Village turned out to be the only one within two hours of London, in the area between Leicester and Northampton. How she might find the house or clinic, she didn’t know, but even if she passed her time driving in circles for nothing, it was a crisp, clear August day and she had nothing to lose.
Dibden Village turned out to be a quaint hamlet of brick and ochre stone buildings, but nothing Anna saw within a ten-mile radius looked familiar. Back in the village, she ate a pub lunch, then, while returning to the lot where she’d parked, she crossed the street for a closer look at a jacket in a boutique window. It was nothing special, but what she saw two doors along in the window of an estate agent’s office was. On a small easel stood a photo of the stately pile she sought, a placard at the side bearing directions to the house, the decorous murmur, “Price on request,” and the added note that today’s afternoon open house was from two to four.
As she sped out of the parking lot, Anna was close enough to an oncoming Range Rover to see the frightened face of the woman behind the wheel. That woman was, of course, driving on the left side of the road. Anna swerved to where she belonged, then slowed down, determined to solve the Mystery of the Mansion while still in one piece.
Soon, the surroundings became familiar. Small details she’d forgotten—an antique mailbox here, a brightly colored shed there—now stood out. Even without the estate agency sign, she would have turned left into the long drive. She was home.
When he came to the door, the real estate agent offered a disdainful glance, dismissing Anna as yet another looky-loo. Well, screw him.
“Hello, my name’s Lisa Harcourt Jones. I’d like to see the house.” Putting on her best Long Island lockjaw drawl, she delivered something between a request and an order.
He made no move to invite her in. “Something this large?”
“Not for me. For my employer.” Now it was her turn to smile patronizingly. “Silicon Valley? Software? He’s looking for a place in the English countryside. Exactly like this, I believe.”
She had his interest now, and the door and smile opened wider. “Please.”
Paul Timmons supplied his name like a coin doled out to a beggar, as if he were an old codger with a stick up his ass rather than someone under forty. As he steered her through the ground floor, he pointed out a feature she’d never noticed: a sliding pass-through disguised as bookcases. “Lord Haddon had it installed in the 1920s to turn two rooms into one large salon for entertaining.”
“Lord Haddon?”
His look implied puzzlement at her ignorance. “The family built this dwelling at the end of the nineteenth century as a residence for the soon-to-be fifth Lord Haddon and his bride. The fourth lord and his lady remained at Haddon Hall, and this was christened Haddon House. Your employer plans to live in England?”
“I believe he wishes to spend more time here.” God, we’re vying to out-pompous each other now. “His wife is British.”
“And he’s in computers?”
“We reserve ‘in computers’ for people who sell them.” She chuckled condescendingly. “I’m afraid I’m not authorized to tell you which at this point. What I can say is that he’d like to buy something he’d consider ‘top drawer.’”
He smirked. “Well, a lord’s house would fit the bill. Let me show you the rest.”
By the time they’d reached the upstairs hallway, she and Paul were frigidly chummy enough for her to ask casually, “Who’s selling and why?”
“Our client is the town of Dibden Village. The sixth lord left it to the council, which can no longer afford either to pay the upkeep or to donate it to the National Trust and lose the income. They want a private buyer rather than an institution, so the rooms would remain intact. And there’s no question of selling to a commercial concern.” He pronounced the words commercial concern as if he were saying “toxic waste dump.”
She had thought she was past surprise, but it turned out she wasn’t. “It’s owned by the council?”
He nodded.
“Strange. Because a friend told me about the house. She visited here a few months ago.”
“Hmmm, possible. It was rented to an acting school for a short time, I believe. Before that, a family had it. Australians,” he said acidly. “It had already been listed before the school took it, but we arranged an occasional showing through them. Perhaps your friend knew someone with the school.” His narrowed eyes indicated that bohemians were as unacceptable as those from Down Under.
They had arrived at Anna’s old bedroom. How naïve she’d been when she’d slept there! Had it really been just a month ago? “And corporate retreats? I thought she’d been to some kind of corporate retreat here.”
“Definitely not,” he said emphatically, with both an eye roll and a moue. “The will forbade renting or selling to commercial interests. Even the acting school was a stretch, but the council needed the income.” Back downstairs, he handed her a glossy color brochure for her nonexistent boss.
“Are you from around here?” she asked.
“Norfolk. My wife’s from here. But I can assure you, your employer would find Dibden idyllic.”
“Speaking of finding, I think my family’s former housekeeper lives nearby. A Mrs. McCallum?”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t know. The name’s familiar . . . Ah, yes, I know. The discount auto supply shop near the motorway. But it’s a chain, not local, so no help there, I’m afraid.”
He was familiar with no clinic nearby where the supposed family retainer might now be working, either. His farewell was almost warm as he asked her to contact him to arrange a showing for her employer.
As she swerved her steps from the passenger’s side of the car to the driver’s, she congratulated herself on having retained at least a modicum of her acting skills. The fool didn’t have a clue her boss didn’t exist, no more than she’d suspected that neither the BarPharm retreat story nor Mrs. McCallum was real.
She wondered how the actress who’d played the housekeeper felt about being named after a place selling cheap tires and wiper blades. Bloody annoyed, no doubt.
Chapter 15
She’d just climbed out of the shower Sunday when her phone rang. To her surprise, it was Marina Barton.
“Please join us for dinner Friday. My younger brother will visit for two nights on his way back to Moscow from New York. You are available?”
“Well, I—” Did she really want to sit through another dinner with the Bartons? Or would this be a chance to see their house?
“Good, you can come. My brother knows only that you are Tanya and work for Pierre. Dmitri is very entertaining. I think you will have a nice time,” she said in her stilted way. She wouldn’t get to see the house, since dinner was to be at The Ivy. No relation to the California Ivy, the London one was even more impressive, the number one showbiz restaurant in the world, and reputedly harder to get into than five-year-old jeans.
She walked the mile to the Chelsea café where she was meeting Rob, who was, not surprisingly, smoking out front a
nd looking very Eurocool and handsome. Too bad I’m not really his age, she thought as he held the door, or I’d be giving that Prague babe a run for her money. They ate waffles, drank cappuccino, and chatted until Rob said it was time for him to meet a friend at the gym.
She took the Tube to the East End and enjoyed her own company, mingling with the young and the carefree, window-shopping, stopping for a cider at a pub with tables outside. The mystery of Barton Pharmaceuticals nagged at her, but she pushed it away. For the moment, she wanted to enjoy pretending to be young again. She feared it might not be for much longer.
Later, after installing security apps and copying her files to her new laptop, Anna started a secret file, in which she put, in chronological order, everything that she’d learned or that had happened to her in relation to YOUNGER, hoping it would help her sort things out as well as create a record. It didn’t clear up anything, but it did astound her. How could she have been so malleable, so unquestioning? Why hadn’t she poked around Haddon House instead of just playing at being an acting student? And her coaches? Who the hell were they?
She chose the ones with unusual names first: Fleur and Leo-Nardo. Online, she switched to the untrackable VPN, then Googled “Fleur fashion blog” and stared in amazement at the ton of listings. Fleur was real! She clicked onto the link to Fleur’s Flares.
And then she sighed. Yes, Fleur was real. She was also chubby and fortyish. She moved on to “Leo-Nardo Deejay,” and, as she expected, no one could have mistaken the real thing for the Leo she’d known.
Imposters. No doubt they all were. Actors and actresses, who’d been told—what?—that she was an eccentric American pretending she was an actress in a charade her wealthy husband set up to humor her? A harmless nutcase? An MI6 agent learning to impersonate an actress?
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