Amy coughed. “I have a terrible sore throat, and a headache. I was up three times in the night with vomiting and diarrhoea.”
Parveen, on the other end of the line, was silent.
“And I’ve got dreadful stomach cramps,” Amy continued.
“You’d better stay at home then,” Parveen said eventually. “Don’t forget to complete a sick form when you’re back. And email me when you feel up to doing some work at home. I’ve got six reports for you to write.”
“Quite finished?” Ross said icily when she ended the call. “When you throw a sickie, it’s advisable to limit your symptoms to one or two, so you can ring the changes. What are you going to tell her next time – that you’ve broken your arm?”
“Are you ready to walk to Euston?” Amy asked, changing the subject.
“I’m ready to walk to the cab rank round the corner,” Ross said, gesturing to their overnight bags.
They left her flat. He had insisted on meeting her there, and after a few remarks about the size of the flat, had conducted a cursory search of Kat’s room. Amy suspected it was so he could finger the silk and lace underwear folded in one of the wine crates. As she anticipated, he’d found nothing she hadn’t already under the knifeman’s baleful gaze.
Ross bought first class rail tickets at Euston. Standard class was clearly beneath his dignity. As well as the extra space, there was the welcome and wholly unexpected bonus of a free breakfast on the train. Ross ordered a full English, then began reading the Financial Times. His pink broadsheet divided the table like a wall between them.
“Do you have to read that?” Amy asked, as she tucked into her croissants and coffee.
Ross peered over the edge of his newspaper. “You’re right,” he said. “I could be doing this online.” He retrieved an iPad from his bag and started tapping away at it, occasionally stopping to sip coffee. The cooked breakfast arrived and he ate it with relish. “I’ll work this off later,” he explained. “I’ve booked a hotel with a gym.”
“Separate rooms, I hope?” Amy said.
Ross spluttered into his coffee. “Certainly. You shouldn’t need to ask. And before I hear your next question, I’ve booked for one night only. It won’t take long to find the aunt, meet Kat, make sure she’s got her passport with her and whisk her away to Thailand.”
He was so arrogant, Amy longed to slap him. Resisting temptation, she decided instead to give him a dose of his own medicine. Fishing a paperback from her handbag, she inserted earphones and began listening to Beyoncé.
Ross finished his breakfast quickly and returned to his iPad. The train had just left Birmingham International station when he nudged her.
“What?” Amy had started to doze off. She had a sleep deficit to make good.
Ross was looking pleased with himself again. “I’ve just been playing online poker. I won back the cost of our train fares and hotel.”
“How?”
“It’s all about maths,” Ross explained, adding cuttingly, “Kat would understand.”
“Well done,” Amy said grudgingly. “Remind me never to play poker against anyone, especially not an actuary, and most of all, not you.”
Birmingham New Street was the next stop, a warren of white tunnels, silvery escalators and sliding doors. “For crying out loud,” Ross grumbled as they stood on the escalator.
“What’s the problem?” Amy was puzzled.
“Nobody’s moving.” Although in London, there would have been two lines of people, those on the left racing past the stationary passengers on the right, here everyone stood still.
“It’s not the Tube, Ross,” Amy said, suppressing a grin.
Still impatient, Ross insisted they took a taxi from the station.
“Are you sure?” the driver asked when Ross barked the name of their hotel. “It isn’t far.”
“Just drive there,” Ross said, in his usual imperious manner.
The driver looked sympathetically at Amy, and shrugged. Three minutes later, he delivered them to the Malmaison hotel, a few hundred metres away from the station.
“We could have walked,” Amy muttered.
Ross ignored her. He strode into the polished wood lobby as if he owned the hotel. A discussion followed about the readiness of the rooms, concluding with Ross thanking the reception staff for their upgrade.
Amy’s mounting irritation was quelled by the luxurious hotel. They were allocated adjacent suites. Amy’s, a vision in caramel and cream, was large enough to swallow her London flat whole, with room for the tiny gym besides. The Malmaison itself boasted both a gym and spa. Ross told her curtly that she could try them later. Once he’d dropped his bags, he was impatient to take a cab to Harborne.
Used to long commutes between central London and its suburbs, Amy was pleasantly surprised when the taxi drew to a halt after ten minutes. Treasures turned out to be a gift shop sandwiched between a hairdresser and an estate agent.
“I think you should buy something,” Amy hissed as they entered the shop, concerned that Ross’ rudeness might close the only line of enquiry they had. “To get them on our side.”
“All right,” he agreed. “Choose some jewellery for Kat. You know what she likes.”
There was a glittery selection of earrings inside a glass display cabinet. Amy selected long silver spirals and took them to the till. “My friend will pay,” she said.
The woman at the till, a bleached blonde perhaps ten years older, laughed. “That’s what boyfriends are for, isn’t it?”
Amy squeezed Ross’ forearm, hoping he’d play along. “Oh yes,” she said. “By the way, we came here because we thought someone called Lizzie worked here. My flatmate in London wanted us to give regards.”
“What a coincidence,” the saleswoman said. “Two gentlemen came looking for Liz Clements only an hour ago. They were from London too. You could tell from the accent.”
Were the plant lover and knifeman working together? Amy sneaked a glance at Ross.
His face was a picture. “I wonder who...”
“I’ve no idea,” she deadpanned.
“I told them she’d be in at five,” the blonde declared. “She’s our cleaner. I suppose they’ll be back then. They said they were going to the pub.”
It was barely noon. They had several hours to wait and the prospect of an overcrowded meeting after that. “I wish we could see her now,” Amy said. “We’ll have to go back to London soon. It would be such a shame to miss her.”
It was Ross who clinched it. Rearranging his features into a boyish grin, he appealed, “Do you think we could have her address, please? I thought she’d be here now. Five is too late for us.” He patted Amy’s hand. “Why don’t you find some earrings for yourself, dear?”
Amy saw the blonde’s face soften. They came away with an address: a tower block, which they were assured was easy to find, in a backstreet a stone’s throw from the shops.
“Thanks for the earrings,” Amy said, as they left Treasures. “Dear.” She fingered her ears, where his purchase dangled; tribal-inspired turquoise stones hanging from silver chains.
At last, Ross was happy to walk. The suburban streets were a cheerful mix of red brick villas and grander, detached houses, each different from the last. It was a setting in which the obviously council-owned towers looked wholly out of place. Lizzie’s block was the nearest of four; all soaring white structures, reflecting blue skies in a grid of windows.
Amy punched Lizzie’s number into the door buzzer. “We’ve been sent by Linda Sweetman from Treasures,” she explained.
Lizzie buzzed them in. “Linda phoned ahead,” she said. “I’m on the ninth floor. Should I switch on my kettle?”
The apartment’s bright red door had its own bell too. It was opened so swiftly they were sure Lizzie had been waiting behind it. She was plump, short and middle-aged. Her hair, snow-white and bobbed, was a plain foil to a heavily made-up face. Her pink lipsticked mouth broke into a smile as she opened the door. “Why’s Linda sending me visitors, then?” she asked.
“We had to see you,” Amy said earnestly. “We’re friends of Kat, your niece, and we think she may be in trouble.”
“Kat, in trouble?” Lizzie sounded concerned. “Come in and sit down.” She led them into a living room with huge picture windows overlooking the patchwork of the city below. Rather than a red brick sprawl, most of it was green: trees, parks and gardens, with hills beyond. Lizzie’s furniture looked old and battered, but homely. Bright crocheted throws covered the seats; prints of foreign seaside towns lined the walls.
Tea was already in the be-cosied pot. Lizzie poured the amber liquid into mismatched mugs, adding milk straight from a bottle. “Kat isn’t exactly my niece,” she said. “But I look on her like a daughter. What’s wrong?”
“We don’t know,” Ross said. “She vanished four days ago.”
Amy nodded. The alleged theft and sham marriages were probably the cause of the disappearance. She couldn’t tell Lizzie in front of Ross, though, or even mention the knifeman.
“What are the police doing?” Lizzie asked.
“Not much,” Amy admitted. “They told me they’d look into it.”
“You want to find her then?” Lizzie asked.
“Of course,” Ross said. “I’ve got air tickets to Thailand for both of us.” He was clearly playing for sympathy.
“The penny’s dropped,” Lizzie said. “You’re her boyfriend. I thought the two of you...” she pointed to Amy and Ross.
“I’m just a friend,” Amy said. She was rapidly tiring of the inference, implicit in the assumptions of everyone they met, that Ross was attractive to women. A handsome face and bank balance simply couldn’t compensate for his repulsive personality. She marvelled at his ability to keep the latter hidden when it suited him. “Listen, do you have any idea where she is? You said you weren’t her aunt, but she must have family in the area?”
“No and no,” Lizzie replied. “Erik’s the only family she has in this country, if he’s still here, of course. Goodness knows where he might be. I doubt I’d even recognise him.”
“Erik?” Amy asked.
“Her brother,” Lizzie replied. “I can see from your blank faces, you really don’t know much about Kat do you?”
“I’m sure you can put that right,” Ross murmured.
Lizzie cackled. “Your pillow talk can’t be up to much, young man. All right, I’ll tell you what I can. Kat and Erik aren’t from Birmingham at all. They’re not even English, although they’ve got English passports now. Marty saw to it.”
“Marty?” Ross asked.
“I’ll come to that. Don’t worry; he’s not competition for you. Kat’s Russian. Her father sent the two children to boarding school in England. She speaks very properly, doesn’t she? Not like me!” Lizzie chuckled throatily. “They needed a local guardian, which is where Marty Bridges came in. He did a lot of business with their father – importing vodka. Everything was grand. Then the father fell out with his government.”
“What happened?” Amy wanted to know.
“They killed him. Not at first. He was in prison for a bit. They wanted him to sign some papers, but he refused. The children were stranded here.” She frowned. “The boy, Erik, managed all right. He was grown up by then, at university. Kat was at her lovely school, and they made her leave. No money for the fees, you see.” She gulped the remaining tea from her mug, and poured herself another. Despite adding a generous slug of milk, it remained dark as her teak dining chairs. Lizzie drank it regardless. “You with me so far?”
Amy nodded.
“Good. I know I’ve been round the Wrekin. Kat was sixteen, with nowhere to go. I felt sorry for her, so I took her in here. My husband had just died and I was glad of the company. She worked as a cleaner and in a shop to earn her keep, then she trained as a croupier. Like a flash, she was off to London.” She sniffed. “I wish she’d stayed here. I could tell from her letters it was a dangerous place. Not all of her friends were very nice. Present company excepted, I should say.”
“What friends?” Ross asked.
“There was a fellow called Jeb who used to help her out with money.” Lizzie glanced at Ross. His face was distinctly unamused.
“She was teaching Jeb maths,” Amy lied, to her own amazement. She had to divert Ross’ attention to a different topic. “How did you meet Kat?” she asked Lizzie.
“I was Marty’s housekeeper,” Lizzie said. “Not that I’d have anything to do with him now. Dirty old man.”
“What do you mean?” Ross’ voice was stern.
“Not in that way,” Lizzie said. “He remarried with indecent haste after his first wife died, that’s all. His new one’s a common, stuck-up bitch, if you’ll pardon my French. It wasn’t right, and I told him.”
“Would he know where Kat is?” Ross asked.
Lizzie shrugged. “You could ask him. He might help, but I don’t suppose he will if he can’t see anything in it for him. He’s hard as nails.” She added, “He lives on Wellington Road. I don’t know where his office is – I’ve never been there.”
“Thank you,” Ross said smarmily. “You really have been tremendously helpful.”
“You’re welcome,” Lizzie preened. “Come round any time if you want to know anything else. I hope you have a nice holiday with her. Send me a postcard.”
She waved cheerily as they exited into the lift lobby.
“Marty Bridges is our next port of call,” Ross said, with the optimistic tone of a man who felt he was making progress. “We should grab lunch first. There were a couple of promising pubs near Treasures. Let’s eat there.”