4.15pm. Wednesday, 8th November
From a fast-food café along the Strand, Honor perched on a stool in the window sipping tea and watching the doors of Coutts for an hour before she made her move. As far as she could see, she was the only watcher. She knew the risks, but she was being careful and she was out of money. The charity shop and the single ticket to London took every penny she’d stolen from the pub till. She felt bad as she slid behind the bar and rang in No Sale, stuffing the brown notes into her pockets. But not bad enough to walk away without the money. As soon as she had some cash of her own, she’d send it back with interest and a note of apology.
She was fast becoming a criminal. It was all North’s fault – he was a terrible influence.
At least she paid the old dear in Cancer Research for the brown plastic handbag and the tartan case as well as the ugliest pair of shoes she could find. She hadn’t paid for the skirt or anorak just stuffed them into the case along with the notebook. When the little old lady found the donkey jacket hanging without a price tag, Honor thought she’d understand. In an alley round the back of the shops, she’d rolled up the legs of her jeans and stepped into the skirt, pulled on the anorak and the shoes, discarding the rubber boots in a wheelie bin. In a public convenience she’d plastered down her hair with water, and used the testers in Superdrug to do their worst. When she admired her handiwork in the mirrors, plain, dumpy and twenty years older – even she was astonished at the transformation. After that, it was all in the walk and the attitude. Rounding her shoulders. Pigeon-toed. Trodden down. Her name was Monica Jean she decided, she liked cats and read the Daily Express from cover to cover. She wasn’t worth looking at twice.
In the train toilet, she rolled down the jeans and washed off Monica Jean’s face. The crimplene skirt, anorak and the been-around handbag went back in the tartan case, which went back on the rack above someone else’s seat. When she disembarked at King’s Cross, only the notebook dangled from her fingers in its plastic bag. A student coming home to visit family, she decided. Casual. Happy to be back in The Smoke.
This moment though was risky. Three months ago JP set up an account in her name and insisted on putting fifty grand in. She had gone beserk with him, but he’d ignored her protests. Spend it or give it away to charity, I don’t care. We’re going to be married and what’s mine is yours. She never touched a penny. Swore she never would. She’d pay JP every penny back when this was over. Did the Board know about the account? And were they watching the bank?
She took a breath, pushed back her shoulders, head down, crossing the road on the diagonal as if heading for Trafalgar Square before veering sharply right and into the doorway.
It was all pin-striped efficiency in Coutts, and afternoon tea in exquisitely thin porcelain cups. She wanted £10,000 “walking around money” – JP insisted. “Pre-wedding expenses.” At the mention of the tycoon’s name, the obsequious account manager couldn’t sign over the money fast enough.
And later, walking up the Strand close to the buildings, not trusting herself yet to claim the middle of the pavement, convincing herself that North was a grown-up. He could look after himself. It wasn’t as if he was her friend. He was a stranger with a late-blooming conscience. She had one friend in the world.
Peggy.
Thinking of Peggy. Wanting her like a drug. Not thinking of North. He was someone from a bad dream and she’d woken up.
She planned it all out. Bring JP into line and get him to leverage his contacts in the judiciary and police. Go public and make as much noise in the media as humanly possible. JP had the best PR in the business so it wouldn’t be hard. The faked suicide attempt was a smokescreen for these animals to operate behind. It would fall to dust if enough light was shone on it and she would deny it till she was believed. Poor dead Hugh was proof of conspiracy if anyone needed it. His corpse was undeniable. He was a City banker – what was his body doing hundreds of miles away in the sea?
Honor glanced into a shop window. The reflection of the busy street behind her, tourists and office workers passing this way and that, black cabs and red buses. She’d done it. Slipped back into London city without anyone realising. How long did she have in the open? Not long without protection.
Her eyes moved from the hustle bustle behind to her own face, to the usually perfectly blow-dried hair hanging limp and greasy. Her face might be clean but the strain of 36 hours was showing. The manager at Coutts was too well-trained to pass comment, but she caught the widening of his eyes at the state she was in. Another rich eccentric – is that what he thought? She paused, looking past the glass at the cloth dummy in the tailored French navy suit and the raspberry-pink silk shirt. Court shoes. A rip-off Birkin bag just big enough for the notebook.
Convention dictated that she needed to look the part. She’d operated on that principle her entire life. Look like a grown-up. Look like a talented lawyer. Look like an MP going places. Look like a whole person unscathed by her shipwreck of a childhood. In her experience people took you at your own estimation. She was back and she was about to look like trouble for whoever and whatever was going on. They had no idea who they were dealing with.
The Savoy Hotel was used to wealthy people who didn’t follow rules. Honor Jones may not have carried luggage, but she did have shopping bags and, most important of all, Honor Jones had a great many bundles of cash. It took seven minutes before she also had the keys to Room 107.