by Amanda Fleet
She held his gaze for a moment, weighing his words. ‘Don’t cook for me if you’d rather not.’
‘Actually, I’d like to cook for you.’ He tilted his head, his eyes soft, relieved to see her relax.
‘Won’t that damage the case?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m hoping not. I’m hoping I can pass it all to Watson. And you certainly wouldn’t ever have dinner with him, trust me!’
‘Sure?’
‘No. But I need company and you look like you could benefit from some too. Give me an hour?’
She nodded.
***
An hour later, she was gazing open-mouthed at the abstract in his hall while he took her jacket.
‘He’s a fantastic painter. I love his work. Expensive taste, though.’ She arched a brow.
‘Not when I bought it. Caught him on the rise.’
‘Nice skill to have. Wish I did.’
‘Ah. So do I.’
She caught his eye. ‘So not you, but…?’
‘An ex.’
He didn’t elaborate and she didn’t ask.
He hung her jacket on one of the hooks and ushered her through to the lounge-kitchen-diner, waving for her to sit down.
She glanced around. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘What?’ He looked around him to see what had provoked her response.
‘If you have a cleaning lady, can I get her details?’
He blushed. ‘Er, no. No cleaning lady. Just me.’
‘I’m scared to sit down in case I crease the cushions.’
She thrust a bottle of wine into his hands. LB left her standing looking at his books while he fetched her a glass of wine. She thanked him as he handed it to her.
‘What can I cook you?’
‘Anything as long as it doesn’t take too long. I get crabby when my glucose levels are low. Cheers.’
She touched her glass to his and sipped the cool white wine.
‘Santé. Blanc de poulet avec des abricots, des pignons et des herbes fraîches?’
She laughed. ‘Sounds marvellous even if I haven’t a scoobies what it is.’
‘It’s very tasty and won’t take long.’
‘Here, I’ll help.’ She moved towards the kitchen with him.
‘No!’ he said before finding some composure. ‘No. No one else comes into my kitchen. You can sit there and talk to me while I cook, though.’
He indicated a stool next to the breakfast bar on the lounge side of the divide and she slid on to it, placing her glass on the worktop before her. LB caught her smiling into her glass as he put on a large, navy blue, canvas apron.
‘I’m a messy cook.’
‘I don’t believe that for a moment. I do believe your shirt cost more than I sometimes earn in a week, though.’
He acknowledged the point with a shrug and started to rummage through the pull-out larder at the side of the cooker, then set to work, stuffing two chicken breasts with herbs and apricots.
‘Do you always have food like that in?’ Summer asked.
‘Yes. I really hate bad cooking. I would rather go hungry than eat something out of a packet.’
He scrubbed a dozen new potatoes, dropped them in a pan of water then peeled and sliced a couple of carrots which he tossed into a bamboo steamer.
‘Okay. Done for the moment.’
He walked round the breakfast bar and perched on a stool by her side. ‘How’s your head?’
‘Clearing. Can we talk about today before dinner and then just relax? Or is there too much to talk about?’
‘We can try.’ He sipped his wine. ‘The interviews with Kate and Paul Hampton weren’t very enlightening. Both of them were evasive and difficult but that alone doesn’t make them guilty… You know I can’t tell you any details, don’t you?’
‘Yeah. I know. Did you call the number of the woman who left the last message?’
‘Yes. Helen Wright.’
‘Helen Wright…’ Summer’s brow creased. ‘Helen Wright…’
‘Wright Interiors?’
‘Oh my God. You’re kidding me?’
‘Why? Who is she?’
‘She’s an extremely fine interior designer. She and I shared a feature in the Sunday papers last year—Scottish artists to watch out for or something like that.’
‘Well, she said that she’d been Patrick’s girlfriend until a few weeks ago. She didn’t know he was missing. What’s she like?’
‘I’ve never met her. We were just in the same article. Different interviews.’
‘Well, I’m meeting her tomorrow morning. See what she says. She might know more about the loans for a start.’
‘What was the message again?’
Summer slid off her stool to retrieve her phone from her bag while LB put the potatoes on to boil. He turned as she played the two messages again.
‘She would have helped him and she’s sorry for what she did… Helped him financially?’ She looked up at LB.
‘Maybe. I wonder what she did?’
‘Told the press?’ hazarded Summer. ‘About him and Kate?’
‘Maybe. It’s not worth guessing tonight. We can just ask her tomorrow.’
‘We? Am I joining you?’
‘She’s an interior designer. I can’t help it if you happen to be in there choosing cushions or something when I drop round to see her.’
He took a long drink of his wine, his eyes catching hers over the rim of the glass. She grinned. He waved at the sofa.
‘We might as well sit down. Other than checking the vegetables there really isn’t anything for me to do in the kitchen. If you can forgive me getting up now and again?’
‘I can forgive you almost anything if what’s cooking tastes even half as good as it smells!’
He smiled appreciatively as he tugged the apron off. She followed him to the sofa and sat down. LB moved the side table, placing it carefully in front of them and then retrieved his pot of pencils from the windowsill and his attaché case from the hall. Summer sat quietly while he shuffled through his notes and scratched the back of his head with a pencil, composing his thoughts.
‘In the car, you were telling me about the trafficking of Malawian children—go through it again?’
Summer wriggled back into the corner of the sofa and leafed through her own file of notes. LB jotted while she spoke, glancing curiously at the papers she’d put on the sofa next to her—a scribbled set of numbers and a timeline. He nodded through the update, recalling what she’d said in the car. When she finished, he leaned back, rubbing his eyes.
‘How can this be linked to the break-in? The only things missing are the letters. Could they be to do with this?’
Summer stared into her glass, swirling her wine. ‘I doubt it. What do you reckon?’
‘Mmm. I doubt it too. Hang on. I just need to check dinner.’
‘Who’s Bruce Macdonald?’ she asked as he reached the kitchen.
LB grimaced but didn’t answer and returned quickly to scoop his notes up and away from her sight. She repeated her question. He turned to her, tired.
‘No one you need to know about.’
‘But he’s linked to the Hamptons?’
LB rested his chin in his hand, leaning on his knees. ‘What are these numbers?’ He nodded at the sheets lying on the sofa between them.
She stared at him. His patience hardened into determination. She pulled the sheet of figures towards her.
‘I’ve no idea. They’re a printout of Patrick’s financial spreadsheets but they don’t seem to add up. The other numbers were on a piece of paper by the phone.’
LB took the papers from her and read over the numbers, glancing from sheet to sheet.
‘Maths not one of your strong points?’ He smirked at her.
‘No. I’m absolutely shit at numbers. Ask my accountant. Why? What have you spotted?’
He held the two pieces of paper up. ‘These’—he indicated the scribbles from the side of the phone—‘are what make these’—h
e shook the other sheets—‘add up. It’s the money needed to make the other figures balance.’
He handed her the papers, pointing to where the figures fitted in and then laughed at the expression on her face as she scowled at them. If he was right, the figures on the scrap of paper she’d found indicated that Patrick was currently several thousand pounds short. LB eyed her carefully.
‘Did Patrick ever tell you why he stole from you?’
‘He never admitted to the police that he did, which is why the case against him was dropped. No firm evidence and his word against mine.’
‘Was he involved with a loan shark then?’
She shrugged. ‘If he was, he never said.’ Her gaze dropped to her glass. ‘Jesus, if he’s missing because of money, I could have helped him…’ Her voice cracked.
LB leaned over and placed his hand over hers, half expecting her to pull away. She stared at his hand and then up into his face, but didn’t move.
‘But he hasn’t gone missing because of money—whoever he owes money to didn’t know he was missing or they wouldn’t have called again.’ He coiled his fingers closer around hers, squeezing gently until she smiled weakly.
‘Answer me honestly,’ said LB softly. ‘Have you got anything to do with Patrick’s disappearance?’
‘No! Jesus, Ben!’
She tried to snatch her hand away, but he kept hold of it, gripping it firmly.
‘Then you’re not to blame.’ His voice was soothing. ‘Whatever is behind him disappearing, it’s not your fault. If it’s because he was blackmailing someone to get him out of this financial mess, you’re not responsible for either the mess or his choices. If it’s because he’s discovered a child-trafficking ring, you did not lead him to discover it, nor are you one of the people behind it. He asked you for help and you are doing everything in your power to find him.’
‘And he might still be dead in a ditch.’
LB watched tears glisten her cheeks and drew her hands towards him to try and comfort her, but she stood abruptly.
‘Could I use your bathroom, please?’
‘Of course. Door at the end of the hallway.’
She scurried out. Shaking his head, LB picked up her notes, leafing through them. He pulled out the timeline she’d been working on that morning, scanning over it, half his attention on Summer. She seemed like she was only just holding it together this evening. Had the break-in really shaken her? He picked up a pencil, adding in a few notes to the timeline about Helen Wright. He’d just finished them when Summer returned, her eyes slightly red and the edges of her hair wet. LB guessed she’d been splashing cold water on her face.
‘You okay?’
She nodded briskly and returned to the corner of the sofa. ‘What have you added?’ She pointed to the sheet in his hand.
‘Just a note about Helen Wright. This is good work. You could make a cop yet.’
She grimaced. ‘God. I’d rather be hanged, drawn and quartered first!’
Her ferocity surprised him. ‘Are we that bad?’
She ran her thumbnail under the nails of her other fingers as she looked at him. He wondered how well she would cushion whatever was coming.
‘You’re either sitting in an office, or dealing with bad people, or sitting in an office and dealing with bad people. I think I’m better off with the clouds and the hills for company.’
‘That really all?’
‘Let’s just say I wouldn’t choose a cop as a friend.’
‘Including me?’
She looked away, biting her lower lip, but didn’t answer. He shrugged, pulling a fresh sheet of paper towards him. Time to change the subject.
‘What should I ask Ms Wright tomorrow? What do you know about her?’
‘Nothing, really. I don’t know how she knows Patrick. Obviously she fell for his charm and presumably the baby’s his, but since she said they weren’t together, I’m guessing they either broke up before she found out she was pregnant, which to my mind isn’t very likely, or he knows she’s pregnant and isn’t supportive.’
He rubbed his chin. ‘Why don’t you think they broke up before?’
‘Well, the first scan would be at twelve weeks and from the messages she left for Patrick, that was yesterday. She described her and Patrick as breaking up a few weeks ago, not a few months ago so I think she told him when she found out she was pregnant, and then they broke up. But I suppose you could ask her about that. Also, as Patrick had a load of abortion clinic leaflets, my guess is that he was trying to persuade her into having a termination. He’s not ready for fatherhood!’
‘Nor monogamy as Helen and Kate would have overlapped significantly.’ LB tapped the end of the pencil against the sheaf of papers.
‘Maybe another reason why they broke up.’
‘The more I hear about this man, the less surprised I am that he’s disappeared. He’s a bastard,’ muttered LB.
‘He’s just different to you,’ said Summer, her words crisp. ‘He doesn’t fit your narrow image of decency. And while I agree that his love life is less than conventional and he’s possibly treated Helen very badly if he tried to talk her out of keeping her baby, he certainly never pretended to me that he was in it for the long haul and I doubt he did with Kate or Helen either. I imagine their expectations of him were similar to yours, but he isn’t like that. That doesn’t make him a bastard. It just makes him different.’
LB flinched at her outburst, eyes wide. ‘He’s a thief.’
‘He was possibly desperate.’
‘And a liar and a cheat,’ LB added.
‘There’s more to him than his sex life,’ snapped Summer. ‘If you knew how hard he works for Samala and how deeply affected he is by the plight of the kids… He might not be a saint, but he sure as hell isn’t the devil either.’
She stared at him, breathing hard.
‘I’m sorry. I keep forgetting he’s your friend. He wouldn’t be someone I would warm to from what I’ve heard about him, but you’re right, that doesn’t make him a bastard. I’m sorry.’
The fire in her eyes died slowly. ‘Actually, I’m trying to convince myself almost as much as I am you. His views on monogamy never bothered me, but the stealing did and if he was trying to talk Helen into an abortion, he would be a bit of a bastard in my eyes too. Although if he’s as hard up as we think, he wouldn’t be able to support her anyway until he’d cleared his debts.’
‘That fits. He speculates about some new project, maybe in late February or early March—’
‘No. Earlier than that. He stole from me in late January,’ cut in Summer.
LB looked at the timeline, his eyes narrowing as he marshalled his thoughts. ‘Okay. Patrick speculates about some new project in January, stealing from you to finance it. It’s not enough, leaving him with a cash flow problem.’ He tapped his finger on the spreadsheets. ‘Which he funds with a loan from someone less than reputable, let’s say. He’s been seeing Helen. Maybe he asks to borrow from her—she said she would have helped him but she couldn’t with the baby coming. Possibly that help was financial, although admittedly there’s no evidence to support that theory yet.’
Summer counted slowly on her fingers. LB raised his brows.
‘Twelve weeks ago takes us to the weekend I was at the bothy. Or the weekend after.’
He swallowed. However much she might claim she knew Patrick wasn’t big on monogamy, that had to hurt. Stole from her and screwed someone else in the same weekend? Some relationship.
‘Did you know?’
She shook her head.
He handed her the sheet of paper he was holding, wanting to distract her.
‘Here. Write down, “ask what the help was”. So, perhaps he falls behind on payments and gets a beating, though again, there’s no concrete link between the two. At about the same time as Helen Wright is discovering she’s pregnant, Patrick is sleeping with Kate Hampton too, and investigating a potential child-trafficking ring. The beating could be over any of these I
suppose. Does Helen have an over-protective brother or anything? Okay, write down, “when did she tell Patrick about the baby?” and “what was his reaction?”’
‘I can tell you what his reaction would have been. He’d run screaming to the hills! Even without any financial issues!’
LB laughed. ‘Write down, “when did Helen find out about Kate?” And “what was it that she did?” I feel that they’re linked.’
‘That would be one hell of a triple whammy. Finding out you’re pregnant, then learning that not only is the father not overjoyed about the prospect but he’s shagging someone else as well!’
‘And that he’s skint.’
She acknowledged the point, chewing her lip. ‘Do you think he was blackmailing Kate Hampton?’
LB stalled. ‘I can’t really comment either way on that.’
‘Really? What’s your feeling about it?’
He grinned at her. ‘My feeling is that I can’t really comment either way on that.’
‘Shall I take that as a yes, he was?’
‘Take it any way you like, but I couldn’t possibly comment.’
She smirked. ‘Okay. Who do you think beat him up?’
‘Too many options to speculate.’
He put the papers down and stretched his back, suddenly exhausted. Summer slipped her shoes off and tucked her feet up. The two sat in companionable silence for a moment, but gradually, Summer’s face fell.
‘Do you think we’ll ever find him? Alive?’ Her voice was fragile.
He looked across, composing his words carefully. ‘I don’t know. Until we find a body, there’s always hope.’
She swallowed. ‘And statistically?’
‘We haven’t found a body.’ He squeezed her hand to try and comfort her. ‘Come on. Talk to me while I make the sauce for dinner. It won’t take long.’
He kept hold of her hand, leading her back to the bar stool. He put the apron on again and set about finely chopping an onion. He tossed it into hot butter, stirring it with one hand while he leaned back to retrieve the bottle of wine next to her with the other. He smiled as he caught her eye.
‘You look ridiculous in that pinny,’ she said with forced brightness.