Chapter Seven

Valerie Stanhope was a tall woman in her early forties with dark hair streaked through with a vibrant red, a forthright manner and a severe expression. Her eyes behind a pair of rimless Gucci glasses were bottle green and she darted her gaze to and from her phone, iPad, folder full of papers and across the coffee table at Rick in a way that suggested she was constantly absorbing and processing every detail. She quizzed him about his alibi, his actions on arriving home and finding the blood and what he knew of the victim in a way that made him think she already had all the facts but wanted to make sure he had them too.

She was with him for almost three hours, at the end of which, with an almost jarring shift in her manner, she told him not to worry, that it was all in hand and that this would all be cleared up soon.

His rational mind told him he should be reassured, but he wasn’t.

Ella came over the moment she’d left, and Rick then spent another exhausting hour going over it all again.

“When do the police want to speak to you again?” she asked as she pushed away her plate of half-eaten jerk chicken stew.

“Tomorrow morning. First thing.”

“And the lawyer will be there?”

Rick nodded, pouring out another beer for them both, willing it to poke holes in his still-raging hangover and settle his fluttering nerves. “She said she’s going to do all the talking from now on, so I don’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing. Kim thinks it’s just to eliminate me from the enquiry anyway.”

Ella’s worn expression brightened a fraction. “Spoken to Kim about it, huh?”

Heat rushed into his face, but he just gave his sister a bleak look over the top of her beer glass.

“What? He’s nice. Real nice. And, well…” She waggled her eyebrows.

“Yes, he’s fit.”

She snorted.

“Okay. Really fit.”

“So?” Ella prodded, leaning forward with the first smile she’d worn all evening.

“So what?”

“How’s it going? You seemed to be getting on well yesterday. And, well, the doorman said you didn't come for your new keys until this morning.”

Rick smiled despite himself. “Yeah, we had a good time. But—”

“But…?”

Rick chased his doubts, flinty and prickly and gaining traction now that he’d spent the day back in the real world. “Everything’s so complicated right now,” Rick admitted, with real regret. “Just trying to figure out how much change I can handle at once.” He stared at his plate for a long moment then his phone started to buzz. Ella grinned when Kim’s name flashed on the screen.

“Complicated doesn’t seem to bother him,” she said.

“No,” Rick said, staring at the screen but not answering the incoming call. “But perhaps it should.”

“Bollocks should it,” Ella said, scraping the leftovers into a bowl. “You owe it to yourself to at least see where it goes.”

“It’s just—”

“Just what?”

Rick pinched the bridge of his nose, remembering the kisses that felt odd, the something shifting in the bright blue of Kim’s eyes when he was caught off-guard…the nagging feeling that he was falling too far, too fast and that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. “It just seems too good to be true.”

Ella’s face softened. “I’ll let you in on a secret, bruv,” she said, putting the bowl in the fridge. “Something I learned the hard way. Sometimes ‘too good to be true’ is just finding something that will make you happy but being too scared to let it.”

Rick shook his head and finished the beer. A text flashed on his screen.

 

Hey. How’s it going?

 

“Ring him back,” Ella said. “You don’t have to deny yourself something good just cos life’s messy right now. And let’s face it, when is life ever not messy?”

“There’s money-problems, career-worries messy…then there’s murder-in-your-flat messy.”

Ella’s only response was a rueful look.

Rick picked up the phone, his chest tight. He wanted to hear Kim’s voice. He wanted to hear him tell him that everything was going to be okay, because if Kim said it, he’d be able to believe it.

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Aren’t we going to see Mum?”

“You’ve got time for a phone call first. Go on. I’ll get my coat.”

The front door clicked closed behind her, and he rang Kim back. He was cool, calm, sympathetic. He asked questions and listened to everything Rick said. He told him it sounded like Stanhope knew what she was doing. Something eased in Rick’s chest. When he hung up, as predicted, he felt better and manage to stop himself over-analysing why.

 

* * * *

 

“You know what you should do?” Ella said as they rode the escalator down to Canning Town station.

“What’s that?” Rick said, a little warily.

“You should take Kim to that wedding.”

“Don’t be daft.”

“I’m not being daft,” his sister insisted. “What better way to at least put that side of things to bed? Excuse the pun.”

Rick didn’t return her smile. “Bringing a guy as my date to Cecily Swanson’s wedding will put nothing to bed but my career.”

“You don’t know that.”

Rick remembered his last conversation with Cecily and sighed. “I do know that.”

“Well, I know I’ve said it before, but maybe there’s more to life than this career.” Rick set his jaw, but she continued before he could respond. “I’m just saying… The new apartments, being in the black, not worrying about money—that’s all great, bruv. Really, really great. Don’t think I’m not grateful. Of course I am—more than I can ever show you. But missing out on Valentine’s Day with the first promising relationship you’ve had in years? You have to at least ask yourself if it’s worth it.”

Rick opened his mouth to retort but the Tube train rushing into the station cut off his chance. By the time they’d found seats in the crowded carriage, the heat had left him, leaving a cold certainty behind.

“I’m going to pay the next two months’ fees today,” he said softly. “And that’s just off my advance. Maybe the job isn’t what’s most important. But being able to look after each other is.”

Ella pursed her lips but her face was now serious, showing that she agreed, even if she didn’t want to.

Their mother managed a smile for them when they were shown to her chair in the corner of the vast, lime-green living space of the care home. The room reeked of potpourri and disinfectant and was too brightly lit. A couple of residents nodded at the card table, a forgotten game of gin rummy between them. Another three were sat staring at large TV in the corner, tuned to some holiday programme with the volume turned low. Rick managed a smile of his own for his mother, even though his stomach hardened to see how much she seemed to have aged, even in the last few weeks.

One of the carers brought a vase for the roses he’d brought, and their mother ran a shaking hand over their silken petals with a dreamy smile on her face.

“A special hybrid my boss’ wife grows,” Rick said softly. “They’re supposed to last longer than normal ones. They smell stronger too.”

The old woman blinked slowly at the arrangement and didn’t answer.

Ella talked brightly, telling her about Rick’s big-shot job, the menu at the cafe, about how excited she was to show her around their new apartments, even though they both knew she would never see them. She stared at her daughter like she was trying to remember why she was important.

Ella held back her tears until after they’d left. Rick paid the fees at the desk, made sure the admin team had their new addresses then put his arm round his sister. They trudged back towards the station in tearful silence.

The hangover and previous late night finally overcame the potent mix of emotion and allowed him to fall asleep sometime after midnight. The faint smell of Kim that still lingered in his bedsheets didn’t hurt, either.

 

* * * *

 

He felt like he hadn’t slept at all when he climbed, equal parts drained and wired, into the passenger seat of Valerie Stanhope’s BMW at eight-thirty a.m. the following morning.

Being back in the police interview room made his entire body tense, but Stanhope was as good as her word, answered all Nayar’s questions herself and repeated, with increasing severity, the lack of anything but circumstantial evidence against him. The detective watched Rick closely, even when Stanhope was talking. Then they went through the forensics, highlighting the fact that Rick’s DNA was on the knife and the victim’s clothing.

“It was my client’s flat, detective,” Stanhope replied levelly. “And my client’s knife. It would be more incriminating if his DNA were absent.”

“In which case,” Nayar said, equally levelly, turning papers in the file on the table with deliberate care. “I just have one more question.”

“Which is?”

Nayar frowned for a long moment at a piece of paper she’d selected from the file. DC Walsh glanced at it and his thin face shifted. Nayar carefully laid the paper in front of Rick. He was able to read Witness Statement—Renee Mercier, Cotton Street Wines before Stanhope snatched it away and skimmed it, her face showing nothing.

“Ms Mercier has no recollection of Mr Bennett calling in to her shop on the night of the murder as he stated,” Nayar said. “She has also given us the surveillance footage from the night in question. Mr Bennett never appears.”

“That’s impossible—”

“Mr Bennett,” Stanhope cut him off and passed the paper back. “Sorry, Detective. Ms Mercier is mistaken.”

“And the camera footage?”

“Technology isn’t foolproof,” his lawyer said, her face set. Rick tried desperately to keep his own blank while his insides threatened to return his breakfast. “Humans even less so. Maybe the camera malfunctioned. Maybe the owner lost the footage or forgot to turn her cameras on that night and was too embarrassed to admit it.”

“Unlikely, wouldn’t you say?”

“Unlikely? Yes. Impossible? Hardly.”

“Still, you have to admit it doesn’t look good.”

“I was there,” Rick said. “Ask Cecily Swanson. She arranged—”

“Mr Bennett,” Stanhope cut in again, voice even sharper. Rick reined himself in, clenching his jaw tight to stop the anger and confusion spilling out. “Now, DI Nayar,” Stanhope continued, leaning her elbows on the table, “we’ve answered all your questions and my client has given you his statement for the second time. Unless you have any real evidence against him, which you can’t have or you would have arrested him, I suggest he be allowed to leave and not be subjected to any further badgering.”

Nayar’s jaw worked, and she gathered her papers with a heavy expression. Stanhope, taking that for an answer, stood. Rick did the same, a little unsteadily.

“Just one thing before you go, Mr Bennett,” Nayar added as they reached the door. Stanhope strode away but Rick paused, uncertain. Nayar’s face had softened. “I’m guessing your lawyer isn’t allowing you to consider the option of pleading guilty. But in cases like this, it’s usually the best way to go.”

“But I’m not guilty.”

“It is still normal practice for your lawyer to lay out all the options for you. Ms Stanhope hasn’t, has she? Perhaps you should ask yourself why.”

“Mr Bennett,” his lawyer called from down the corridor and he hurried after her, palms damp, head aching worse than before.

The lawyer spent the drive to Harbour Tower telling him not to worry.

“But why is that shop owner lying?” Rick said. “What possible reason—?”

“The woman doesn’t remember or wasn’t on top of her security measures, and it’s come back to bite her. She’s lying so she doesn’t get into trouble.”

“But—”

“Mr Bennett,” Stanhope said firmly, pulling up outside the office building, “trust me on this. They’ve got nothing. It’s all going to be fine.”

He tried his best not to think about all the wary looks that followed him to his office or about the fact that his phone didn’t ring and no one came by all day. Fortunately, his emails, continuance forms and the amount of research data still waiting to be worked through were plentiful. Plentiful enough so he could tell himself it was his workload and not a reluctance to return home that kept him at his desk well past his usual finish time.

Darkness had fallen and the admin pool was almost empty by the time Cecily appeared. She came round the desk, drew him to his feet and pulled him into a hug. Rick stiffened then made himself put his arms round her.

“I’m so sorry, Rick,” she murmured in his ear, then stepped away and appeared to gather herself. “I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry.”

“Of course I do. Naturally, this is all just some horrible coincidence. But the fact that we’re the only link between that man and you means you—”

“Cecily, it’s fine,” he said, trying to sound like he believed it. “The police will find out it was nothing to do with me or Swanson and Gerrard.”

“Oh I know that,” she said, managing a ghost of her former brilliant smile. “Valerie filled us in. She’s confident this will all be over soon. I’m just so sorry it happened at all.”

Rick managed a smile. “Me too.”

Cecily kissed him on the cheek, surrounding him briefly with the overly sweet, floral smells of roses and jasmine.

“You’re a survivor, Rick,” she said, her hands on his elbows. “And so am I. We’ll get through this together. Now go home. I need you in early tomorrow. The merger’s in less than two weeks. We’ve got a lot to get done before then. Oh,” she turned at the door, “do you know who you’re bringing to the wedding yet?”

Rick prayed his hesitation wasn’t obvious. “Ella. My sister.”

Cecily smiled. “Perfect. I’ll put her name on the list. Good night, Rick.”

 

* * * *

 

The run up to Valentine’s Day was unlike anything Rick had ever known. The majority of the time was swallowed by long hours buried in paperwork and mounting deadlines, running between endless streams of meetings, pushing his abilities and energy levels to their limit. Constantly battling with a grim layer of worry as the murder investigation continued did not help improve his mood. The merger was due the day before the wedding, and everyone in his department was running round with a kind of manic energy. Tempers were frayed. The faint sense of mistrust the other JAs had exuded towards him from the beginning had become more distinct, like they were now finding it much harder to play nice.

Even his first real payday didn’t do much to alleviate things, though it did allow him to furnish his flat, prepay more care home fees and clear the last payday loans lingering from his years after dropping out of uni.

Despite his lack of a celebratory mood, Rick ordered a chauffeured car to take him, Ella and their mother to one of her favourite open gardens for the afternoon the Sunday before the wedding. He was rewarded by a flicker of recognition in the back of their mother’s faded eyes, but by the time they were dropping her back at the home, she was fractious and anxious and the in-house doctor advised they leave it a while before trying to take her out anywhere again.

The only thing that made it all bearable was the few precious hours he was able to snatch with Kim. Seeing him usually meant missing out on what little sleep he had time for, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Out of bed, Kim was inquisitive, reassuring, listened intently to everything Rick said—consequential or not—and generated a feeling of stability that Rick was able to hold onto, even in the most tumultuous or arduous progress meetings.

And in bed, well… Rick was far from virginal, but never before had someone seemed to match his needs so perfectly. Rick wasn’t fussy when it came to sex. Anything that involved another willing body generally satisfied him. But, naturally, he was a giver, and Kim didn’t seem to be able to get enough of taking. It became tough to go anywhere public. They seemed unable to spend more than an hour together before the ice blue of Kim’s eyes would darken, his tone would lower and his smile would become suggestive. And Rick was never able to resist. Public toilets, alleys, even once behind some bushes in Regent’s Park—Kim never seemed to be able to wait to get him home, and Rick was powerless to resist.

He also took full advantage of Rick’s newly kitted-out kitchen, whipping delicious and varied curries, salads, tagines, anything, even if they only had half an hour to spare. Thai, Indian, Moroccan, Mediterranean… He could do it all and always added extra spice just for Rick.

Kim liked to talk as he cooked. He laughed, told stories about his travelling, about university, about ex-boyfriends and his ‘hippy’ parents, who he was close to but regularly exasperated by. He didn’t ask as many questions and allowed Rick to ask his own. In those moments, Rick felt like he was getting a glimpse behind the curtain. Why the curtain was there at all he didn’t let himself ask. He also didn’t ask why Kim never invited him over to his place.

Rick only managed two hours of sleep the night before the merger. He was in his office by five a.m., going over the contract, merger terms and appendices, even though he now knew it all by heart. He stumbled, as he always did, at the brief paragraph dealing with the subsidiaries. He pursed his lips, checked to make sure he was still alone then unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and withdrew the envelope.

He read the summary papers again, uncertainty snaking up his spine. He gazed at the pages of the contract laid out on his desk, all seventy-seven of them, the blocks of text broken only by the spaces for signatures that would be filled later that day. His jaw tightened. He thought of his new flat, the home he’d been able to give his sister and the care he could now easily afford for their mother. He thought of the lawyer and the support the company continued to give him as the murder investigation continued.

He thought of the light in Kim’s eyes and the deep uncertainty he was harbouring over what would happen to that light if Kim ever found out the truth—found out that he’d lied to get where he was, found out that as much as he knew he belonged in this office, others would not agree.

If he cast doubt over this merger, being fired would be the least of his worries.

He returned the envelope to its hiding place then locked the drawer.

By the time the representatives from EBR, a veritable phalanx of middle-aged, balding men with expressions ranging from expectant to resigned arrived, Rick was virtually dead on his feet, adrenaline and caffeine the only things keeping him upright. He was allowed a seat at the back of the conference room. Lloyd and Cecily Swanson were at the head of the table with the heads of EBR at the other end. The seventeen seats between them were taken up with lawyers, accountants and a few token shareholders.

The two sides droned and feinted at each other, verbal strikes and parries, retreats and advances, even though everyone knew that, by this point, it was all for show. A hush fell when the papers were signed. There was a breathless moment when Lloyd Swanson presented his hand to Terence Egerton, head of EBR, who waited just the right amount of time to make a show of being in control. But then he straightened his back, shook the offered hand and, finally, smiled. Swanson grinned in response and called for champagne.

It was done.

Rick, head pounding, eyes gritty, mouth sour, stared round the room, wondering why he didn’t feel as exuberant as everyone else.

“Congratulations, Rick,” Cecily Swanson said, offering him a glass. He managed some sort of reply, which won a broad smile and took the glass but was wound too tightly to drink. Harry Gerrard-Hanson glared at them from across the room. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said then rejoined her father and fiancé.

He slipped away as soon as it was acceptable to do so, his remaining strength leaving him in floods and made for home, unable to think about anything else but getting to his flat, closing the door on the outside world and dropping into bed.

 

* * * *

 

The next thing Rick was aware of, he was waking on Saturday, February fourteenth, with a deep, unexplained sense of foreboding. His new, mid-blue Hugo Boss suit hung from the wardrobe door. Ella was downstairs making their breakfast. Everything was as it should be, but Rick couldn’t shake the dread that kept him pinned to the bed.

He forced himself to rise. He showered. He ate Ella’s very fine scrambled eggs and butter bread. He withstood her assurances that he should just try and enjoy the day. He dressed, not admitting to himself that he’d chosen the suit because the colour reminded him of Kim’s eyes, and knotted his dove-grey tie in front of the bathroom mirror. He stepped back and examined his reflection. The suit was tailored to his height and long limbs. The pale colours set off his dark skin and hair. He allowed himself a smile. Money might not be everything but, in that moment, he admitted that even on the worst of days it could make you feel good about yourself. Very good.

He was heading out the door when Kim FaceTimed him. He, of course, was eye-achingly beautiful just in his plain polo shirt, with his hair mussed just so and his lopsided smile bright and warm. Still, Rick didn’t mind being told how amazing he looked or watching the desire fill his boyfriend’s eyes.

Boyfriend?

The thought shocked him.

“You’ll be fine,” the younger man said, perhaps misinterpreting Rick’s expression. “It’s just a wedding, babe.”

“Cecily Swanson’s wedding,” Rick replied, finally giving voice to the fear, “that I still haven’t figured out why I’m invited to.”

“Relax. I’m sure she just wants to get into your pants in the vestry.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“Besides, no vestry. It’s not a church wedding.”

Kim shrugged. “Well, I’m sure she’ll think of something.”

Rick wondered if his expression had hardened a fraction. “And what am I supposed to do if she does?”

“You could try telling her the truth.”

Rick gave him a look, which was returned with an impatient sigh.

“Fine, maybe not. Look. I’m only kidding around. I’m sure she will be far too busy to even think of you…at least today. Just sit through what you have to and leave the minute it’s polite to do so. Piece of cake. Oh, speaking of which, see if you can swipe some, will you? The chef that made the wedding cake was reviewed in Vanity Fair last month, and I want to see if they’re up to the hype.”

“Why? Are you planning to order a wedding cake sometime soon?” Rick chuckled, then froze, realising what he’d said.

Kim blinked but then he grinned. “I think this wedding is enough to be dealing with for the time being, don’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah okay,” Rick said, relieved but also surprised by a twist of disappointment. “But I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

“That’s a done deal. I’ll bring steak.”

Rick allowed himself to spend the two-hour car ride to Hartsford Hall daydreaming about steak, red wine and Kim, aroused and willing, dragging him to bed after dinner…maybe before too. The pleasant thoughts were so diverting that it was only as he was handing Ella out of the chauffeured Jaguar in front of the towering Jacobean facade of the wedding venue that he fully took in his sister’s appearance.

Her curved figure was clothed in figure-hugging silk the colour of a stormy sky, setting off her cocoa skin. She’d brushed her hair out into its natural ebony cloud, pinned on one side with a sliver butterfly he recognised as their mother’s. Silver and crystal sparkled at her neck, wrists and in her ears. She’d painted her lips a dusky pinky and swept some grey shadow over her eyelids. She stared at the colonnaded entrance of the hall, already crowded with exquisitely dressed people, even though, to Rick, she outshone them all.

“You look amazing.”

She blinked and her strained expression eased. “You think?”

“Hell yeah,” he said. “You look incredible, seriously.”

Warmth flushed her cheeks. “Yeah, well, when you gave me that ridiculous amount of money for a dress, I knew this was important to you. So I’ll play long, Ricky. For now.”

He squeezed her hand, smiling to mask the thrumming of his nerves. “Thank you. Shall we?” He crooked his elbow. She smiled a more genuine smile, took his arm and they went inside.

Ella did a credible impression of not being overwhelmed by the glittering splendour of Hartsford Hall. It put even The Savoy to shame. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead. Rococo and neoclassical paintings crowded the walls. The floors were either polished marble or spotless, monogrammed carpet. Waiting staff in stiff-collared shirts and bow ties drifted among the mingling guests with trays of champagne. Mindless chatter and the scent of Chanel mingled in the air with the soft music from the string quartet on the gallery over the cavernous entrance hall. Every gilded alcove contained a priceless china vase stuffed with a veritable forest of Sacred Heart roses. Their rich, raucous smell was almost overpowering, even in the airy vastness of the wood-panelled banqueting hall where the ceremony was to take place.

An usher in white tailcoat led them to their seats in the middle row of scarlet velvet-cushioned chairs.

“So this is your life now?” Ella said, staring at the women in priceless gowns, their diamonds glinting in the winter sunlight pouring through the bank of tall windows, and men in tailored dinner suits and designer ties, all smiling, nodding and laughing with each other like they’d never had to worry about anything in their lives.

“No,” Rick murmured, crossing his legs and keeping his gaze ahead. Harry Gerrard-Hanson was stood on the rose-crowded platform at the front of the room, his round face red over his tight collar, bantering with his fleet of well-fed, well-dressed groomsmen with the air of one who had started on the champagne early. “No, this is no one’s life, really. It’s just a show.”

The music built to a flourish and died as the last guests filtered into the hall. The musicians filed in and took their places on the platform. The air was buzzing with excited chatter. Gerrard-Hanson surveyed the room like someone contemplating a recently conquered battlefield.

The last stragglers were just taking their seats when Valerie Stanhope appeared at his elbow. “Mr Bennett,” she said, smiling thinly. Rick blinked, something cold slithering through his chest. He stood to hide his reaction.

“Ms Stanhope. Nice to see you again. You look wonderful today.”

“Thank you,” she said flatly, straightening the fold of her couture gown. “I’m sorry to bring this up now, Mr Bennett, but we need to talk.”

Rick went cold. “What about?”

“There’s been a development.”

He sensed Ella tense beside him Rick took a moment to find his voice. “What sort of development?”

“We can’t talk here,” Stanhope, glancing over her shoulder at the musicians striking up the first notes of the Wedding March. “Meet me in the West Anteroom after the speeches.”

“Can’t we meet sooner? After the ceremony?”

She shook her head. “I’m on the head table. I can’t slip away. Meet me after they’re done. I’ll explain everything.”

She eased her way to her seat near the front. Rick sat, his veins filling with ice water. Ella took his hand.

Rick didn’t take in much of the ceremony. He was too busy trying to keep control of the nest of snakes that had hatched in his belly. Even when Cecily Swanson floated down the aisle in yards of silk and lace, her lips blood-red, mahogany hair studded with diamonds under a floor-length veil, he barely registered her presence.

The registrar made her ponderous way through the vows and the exchange of rings. Rick was together enough to take in that both Cecily and Harry played their parts wonderfully. Even with the flashing cameras and air of pageantry, Rick was sure that if he didn’t know any better, he would be certain they were deeply and irretrievably in love. If the applause when they were pronounced husband and wife was anything to go by, the rest of the gathering had clearly enjoyed the show too.

“Rick,” Cecily’s expression and voice were warm, maybe too warm, as he reached her in the welcome line for the crystal-and-silver stuffed ballroom for the wedding breakfast, “so wonderful to see you.”

“Congratulations,” he said, generating passable sincerity from somewhere. She leant forward and kissed his cheek, sighing against his skin and lingering just a little too long.

“I’ll find you later,” she whispered in his ear then he was being urged along the line.

“Jesus Christ, Rick,” Ella murmured when they reached their table. “She couldn’t have made that more obvious if she’d mounted you right there.”

There wasn’t enough space left in Rick’s mind to add the worry about whether anyone else had noted his exchange with the new bride. Instead he sat and reached for one of the many bottles of wine chilling in silver coolers in the centre of the rose-strewn table.

He drank. He made small talk with the uninteresting, blank-faced people around the table. He ate little of the meal, hardly tasting any of the five courses. The only thing that penetrated his consciousness was the wedding cake—a rich, chocolate sponge heavy with brandy and candied citrus peel. But the taste combined with the reminder of Kim just compounded his anguish. Ella watched him without speaking, her face taut, but he didn’t know how to reassure her.

By the time the Master of Ceremonies tapped a spoon against a champagne glass to announce the beginning of the speeches, Rick was sweating into his new shirt and starting to realise that drinking so much wine without eating had probably been a mistake.

He rose, wiping his hands on a napkin.

“Where are you going?” Ella whispered.

“Bathroom.” He hurried from the glittering room and, somehow, after many twists and turns, found the gents, an ostentatious room resplendent in green marble with gold fixtures gleaming in the light from the high windows. He drank greedily from the tap then splashed his face. The mirror reflected the haunted look in his hazel eyes, the sallowness of his skin, his tie loosened from nervous tugging. He caught himself with his phone in his hand, about to ring Kim. What, exactly was he going to say?

He rubbed a hand over his face and took a deep breath. He could hear Kim’s voice in his head telling him he didn’t even know if there was anything to worry about yet. Sure, Stanhope had sounded ominous, but she always did. He took another breath, closed his eyes and let it out slowly. His thundering pulse eased but the tight muscles across his back and shoulders refused to loosen.

He left feeling little better than when he’d gone in, then proceeded to get thoroughly lost trying to relocate the ballroom. By the time he found his way back, the speeches were done and half the guests had filtered out through the open windows onto a terrace above the sloping lawns, drinking yet more champagne as the room was cleared for dancing. He searched for Ella but couldn’t see her. Neither could he see Stanhope.

He cursed and hurried back into the maze of corridors. He stopped a server to ask the way to the West Anteroom. The server pointed down another hall and Rick set off at a trot. He turned a corner, then another then finally found a door with a gold plaque identifying it as the one he was after. He glanced along the corridor but it was deserted and eerily quiet. He knocked. No answer. He took a breath and pushed the door open.

The room beyond was dark. He fumbled for a light switch but couldn’t find one. He stepped farther in. The air was heavy with the cloying scent of roses. And something else, something also sweet and familiar in a way that made his spine prickle.

“Ms Stanhope?” His voice fell dead in the close air. He took another step and stumbled on something hard lying on the floor. There was a small, dark object by his feet, almost invisible against the black tiles. He bent and picked it up, stepping back to the light to try to see what it was.

“Rick!”

He spun. Cecily Swanson—no, Cecily Gerrard-Hanson—stood outlined in the doorway, a vision in her long, white gown, her caramel skin glowing gold in the light from the corridor. Her eyes danced and her cheeks were flushed with champagne. “I’ve been looking all over for—”

She reached out and turned on the light. She stopped talking. Her gaze moved from Rick’s face to the object in his hand and all the colour drained from her cheeks. Rick stared at it, not quite able to make sense of what he was seeing. Suddenly the smell that was almost, but not quiet, smothered by the smell from the dozens of vases of roses crowding a table against the wall jarred his memory.

He turned, his muscles stiff. The tiles weren’t black. They were white. The pool of blood that darkened them had spread so far across the marble that he’d stepped right into it. The hem of Cecily’s gown had brushed against it, staining it red.

Harry Gerrard-Hanson lay sprawled at Rick’s feet, his mouth and eyes wide, the gaping wounds in his neck and chest ragged, long and deep enough to reveal bone.

It was only when Cecily screamed that he dropped the bloodied knife to the floor.