36.

Massoud found the discreet drive for Audley Manor on the far edge of a golf course, sandwiched between dense copses of ash and beech.

As they wound their way along the tree-lined drive, the grey turrets of the house came into view and Alice checked her face in the visor. She should really have brought some more make-up, because after her earlier tears, she was washed out, but she’d have to do. Thanks to Massoud’s kind words and fortifying breakfast, she felt a lot better.

As the hall came into view, Alice thought of Hawthorn and its ‘money shot’, and her heart gave out a little pang. She longed to confide in Jasper about her predicament, but she knew he’d wade in to try to help — in all the wrong ways. Even with the best intentions, he’d undoubtedly make matters worse. But she wished she could warn him that she was in danger. Because what if this all went wrong? What would happen to Jasper and his boys if she got murdered? Somehow, the thought of them being upset was almost worse than the idea of being killed herself.

No. No. She wouldn’t even entertain the thought, she told herself. Massoud was right. She just had to focus on finding out what was going on.

‘OK, so remember the plan?’ Alice asked Massoud.

‘Yes.’

‘Ten minutes.’

‘I’ve got the timer on my phone.’

‘It doesn’t look like much is going on.’ There wasn’t a person in sight.

‘I spotted some cars around the back,’ Massoud said. ‘So someone’s home.’

‘Yes … right.’ It was all very well for Jinx to have made up an alter ego for Alice as Martina McKlusky — owner of Fizz Productions. She didn’t exactly look very fizzy today. But she’d got away with being Caroline Doulton. Was this really so different?

Just relax. You’ve got this,’ Massoud said.

Alice gave Massoud a wobbly smile as he let her out of the car.

‘Ma’am,’ he said, doffing his cap, his moustache crinkling with a smile. ‘Oh, hang on, don’t forget this,’ he said, handing her an executive laptop case from behind the seat.

Oh goody. A prop. Alice felt like an actor in the movies and TV shows she watched as she walked on her heeled boots across the gravel drive with her empty bag and up the handsome slope of sandstone steps, noticing they were all slightly worn in the middle. She thought of all the people who must have traversed these steps over the years, wondering if the cook here had ever owned a copy of Mrs Beeton’s book. She wouldn’t mind betting that he or she had. She thought of the dinner party menus for twelve her ancestor had painstakingly planned and presented. She’d always imagined she’d host a dinner party somewhere like this one day. And if she ever got through this, she promised herself now, that’s exactly what she’d do.

She pressed the round white china button in the middle of the moulded stone mount, hearing a bell ring inside, and a moment later, the large oak front door opened.

‘Can I help you?’ a woman in a navy suit asked in an accent Alice detected as Central European. Polish maybe. She was wearing glasses on a chain, and minimal make-up, and a little gold lozenge badge saying ‘Manager’, which Alice thought was rather tacky.

‘I was hoping to see someone about a booking. My secretary called ahead,’ Alice said. She nodded to the limousine, where Massoud stood with his arms professionally clasped behind his back. ‘I’m Martina McKlusky.’

The woman smiled and opened the door wider. ‘Of course, Miss McKlusky. I was expecting you. Please, do come in.’

Alice followed her into a large, bright hallway with a glassdomed ceiling. A marble staircase ran around the sides of the circular walls. She was sure she’d seen this impressive hallway before on TV. Knowing her taste, a body had probably been pushed down these stairs. But forget that, what about her own murder mystery? Why had Alex Messent marked next Saturday’s date on the brochure for here? Since her conversation with Gerda about the Rembrandt sale, Alice couldn’t help hoping that it might be for that. Otherwise why go to the length of hiding the brochure in that safe to begin with? But could she actually imagine it? Realistically? A bunch of ne’er-do-well art collectors tipping up here? The setting was certainly grand enough. Yes, she actually could imagine it.

‘What a lovely hall,’ she said. ‘And owned by the Harringtons, am I right?’

‘Yes.’ The woman smiled thinly. ‘Though, actually, it’s in the process of being sold,’ she added as a confidential aside.

‘I see.’ So perhaps old Dilly Harrington wasn’t quite so minted as she always seemed to be making out. Or maybe she had a Jasper in her family too. ‘But it is still available for hire?’ Alice asked.

‘Very much so. Do take a seat.’ The manager offered Alice a brown leather chair opposite her desk. ‘Here, have one of my cards.’

She slid one across her desk.

‘Thank you, Polga.’ Alice slipped the card into her pocket.

‘So, Miss McKlusky. How can we help?’

‘As my secretary might have told you, I work in events management. With international clients.’ Alice was surprised by how fluent and convincing she sounded – even to herself. She’d never considered acting as anything other than a rather childish career, but after her experience at the Messents’, she was starting to appreciate the skill of inhabiting someone else, and the odd thrill of confidence and inner recklessness it instilled.

‘I see.’

‘And some of my clients are looking to hold an acquisitions meeting somewhere out of the city. Audley came highly recommended.’

‘I’m so pleased. Our clientele do help us spread the word.’

‘I’m afraid it’s rather short notice, but the meeting is next Saturday.’

Polga laughed as if Alice were joking. Then frowned, recovering, realising she was not. ‘I’m so sorry, but as you can imagine, we’re booked up months, sometimes years in advance. No, I’m afraid next Saturday is not possible.’

‘I appreciate that, but I have the authority to make it worth your while to move the booking. Money isn’t an object,’ Alice said, with the kind of ‘I dare you to defy me’ smile she’d often seen rich people use.

Polga looked momentarily tempted, but then shook her head.

‘I’m afraid that’s out of the question. Audley is booked for a very special client that day and the preceding days for a thorough security check.’

A security check, eh? Very promising. Exactly the kind of precaution you’d probably have to take if you were conducting an illegal sale. ‘Oh, I see.’ Alice feigned deep disappointment. ‘And there’s really nothing you can do?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Polga said, before adding in a whisper, ‘We’ve been told there’ll be a lot of VIP guests. From abroad. So much so that even the owners have been asked to stay away and none of our own regular staff will be here on site, although I shall be on call from my rooms in the gatehouse, just in case.’

That clinched it for Alice. This really did have to be the sale, didn’t it? Either that or Alex Messent had some other secretive event on his calendar.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a piercing alarm outside. Alice just about managed to hide her smile as Polga looked up sharply.

‘Goodness, what’s that? Can you excuse me one moment?’ she said, as the racket continued. ‘I’m not sure what’s going on out there …’

What was going on, Alice already knew, was that Massoud had set off his car alarm around the corner, just as they’d agreed. With Polga now rushing out, he’d bought Alice a few minutes to nosey around.

When planning this, she’d imagined, at best, being able to get a good look at a calendar or some such on the wall like she used back at the office, or at worst, a laptop or desktop computer, but it was even easier than that. Behind Polga’s open laptop was the old-fashioned desk diary she’d been consulting. Sure enough, next Saturday was booked. But not in Alex Messent’s name. Alice felt her heart plummet. But only for a second. Because then she saw that the name written down here was ‘A. da Silva’. Of course. Alexandre da Silva. The same name on Alex’s Brazilian passport in the safe.

She heard footsteps clack quickly towards her across the hall tiles. She pushed the diary aside and then the laptop, but if she tried scrambling out from behind the desk, she knew she’d be caught. Instead, she stood up languidly, leaning on the desk. Blimey, what the heck was she going to say she was doing here when Polga walked in?

But it wasn’t Polga. Instead, she found herself confronted by a tall, wide-shouldered woman with jet-black hair.

‘Yes?’ said the woman, by way of introduction, baring a set of wide white teeth.

My God, Alice thought. It was only Dilly Harrington herself.

‘I, er …’

‘Speak up, woman.’ Dilly glared down her nose at her.

Alice felt her entire resolve turn to water. It was just like she was sixteen all over again. ‘I, er—’

‘God, you really can’t get the staff these days, can you?’ Dilly muttered under her breath. ‘Where’s Polga?’ she demanded out loud. ‘Your man-a-ger,’ she enunciated terribly slowly, clearly assuming that Alice’s English wasn’t quite up to scratch.

‘Outside,’ Alice said, finally recovering the ability to speak.

‘Right, when she’s back, tell her that her boss is back from France early with a bad dose of the runs and you and she are to go and fetch and unpack my bags.’

‘Yes,’ Alice said. ‘Ma’am.’

Dilly’s beady black eyes suddenly narrowed. ‘Do I know you from somewhere?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Alice said.

‘No, I can’t imagine how I would.’

And with that Dilly Harrington stormed back out, swishing her black ponytail just as she always had.

For the second time in as many minutes, Alice had to hide her smile as she walked back round the desk. Being a nobody next to Dilly at school had felt awful, but it clearly had its advantages too.