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I DIDN’T HAVE the stomach to shop until the next morning but when I went to get into my car, Fiona stood in front of it.
“Yes?” I beamed at her. I couldn’t help it. She was willowy but in that runner way. Her blonde hair was darker than mine with bits of brown in it and she wore the thickest rim glasses ever made.
“I’m taking you to lunch.” She grabbed my hand and dragged me to the kerb and an old guy in a Bentley pulled up alongside.
“With your grandfather?” I mumbled, being shoved into the back.
She handed me case notes. “Read them. We’re meeting my aunt.”
“I’m not—”
“Read them, please. It’s important to me.” She gave me the puppy look. She always won when she gave me that look. I didn’t know how Bob got anything done. “Please.”
I sighed and flicked open the file. “I’ll take a look. I’m not promising anything.”
I read as they drove me to some posh country club made out of redbrick with Tudor-style beams on the top floors. The file didn’t make good reading or maybe my stomach was still recovering.
“If anyone can help, it’s you.” Fiona dragged me out of the car, and I looked down at my jeans, jumper, and battered old trainers.
“Um . . . Aren’t I missing a cravat?” I went to get back in the car.
She dragged me back around and shoved me at the club. “You’re still a detective inside . . . walk like one, will you?”
I sighed and followed her order—you ever get the feeling you stick out like a sore thumb? That was me as I nodded to the porter on the door. He scowled back like he wanted to eject me so I glanced over my shoulder but Fiona motioned “go on” to me from the car.
You ever get the feeling someone is eyeing you like you might steal the silverware? That was me as I scuttled past the receptionist and she held her phone to her ear like she was calling the police.
You ever get the feeling that someone is confusing you with another person? That was me as I took a seat in front of the only woman in the plush dining space. She looked about as friendly as the porter, receptionist, and like a severe version of my old maths teacher but with less nasal hair.
“Mrs Clarke?” I asked waiting for someone to grab me and drag me out. “Fiona’s aunt?”
“Yes.” Her gaze lingered over my black eye. Mrs Clarke was in her early sixties, Caucasian, brown mid-length hair, slight, glasses with round rims, and sat like she had a book perched on her head.
“It was my birthday,” I mumbled like that helped. “I drank too much and fell.”
“Do you drink too much often?” She wrinkled up her nose. She wore a Burberry country jacket with a blouse underneath and a big pearl necklace.
“No.” I shrugged—sorry to break the police detective cliché here but I never drank. I was one of those boring “healthy eaters” who drank probiotics. Birthdays when alone because your fiancé stood you up were an exception. Besides, I wasn’t banking on Fiona “the job centre” Edwards.
“Good.” Mrs Clarke nodded to the waiter who begrudgingly handed me a menu. “You’re probably wondering what is so important.”
“Fiona gave me a rough idea.” I shot a glare at the waiter. “What kind of a place doesn’t mark the menu with allergen advice or don’t rich people have allergies?”
Mrs Clarke flexed her fingers at the waiter who handed a second menu over like he wanted to slap me with it.
“As I said,” Mrs Clarke continued as I snatched the menu, “I work at Hayefield Manor for Lady Sophie Haye. Have you heard of her?”
“Does it matter?” I glanced at the menu. I felt sick looking at it.
“No.” Mrs Clarke pursed her lips. “Lady Haye is the remaining member of a long proud lineage. She inherited the estate recently and it’s important we keep her out of trouble.”
I leaned back and threw the menu down. “You mean the fact she’s been arrested for murder?”
“So Fiona has explained . . . or you know of her?” Mrs Clarke furrowed her brow. “That is unfortunate.”
“It’s only unfortunate if she is the killer.” I crossed my legs then winced as my metal prosthesis whirred as I wiped it over my thigh. I hated the noise. “Is she?”
“Of course not.” Mrs Clarke placed her menu down. “I escorted Miss Salisbury to the gateway and I can promise you that Lady Haye was in her room.”
“But she denied knowing Salisbury to the police.” I chewed on my chapped lips. The edges of the skin were sharp so I took the water jug in the centre of the table and poured a glass. “What were they supposed to think when Salisbury was with Lady Haye in her manor, where she was last seen, only hours before she was discovered shot on the edge of the local town?”
“Sophie wouldn’t deny anything. She would remain silent however.” Mrs Clarke gave me a smile, ish. Tight lipped didn’t really sum it up enough. “She is not going to help herself and I have volunteered my account to the police but they seem . . . unwilling to take it on board.”
“And if Lady Haye isn’t going to help the police, why is she going to bother with me?” I shook my head. Lady Sophie Haye was definitely old money, aristocratic, and by the quick rundown Fiona gave me, she was stuck-up and about as friendly as the waiter looking like he’d spit in my food.
“I want you to take on the role as the new head of security.” Mrs Clarke flicked her gaze over her menu. “Lady Haye is . . . difficult . . . but she . . .” She sighed. “I was told you are good at reaching unwilling witnesses.”
“Yeah, I was but I was also pretty tough on suspects.” Which Fiona knew. If she was asking me to get involved, she believed Sophie was innocent. “And if I found she was guilty, I’d hand that information over without hesitation.”
“Of course you would,” Mrs Clarke said like she didn’t believe me. “What I’d like is to know the truth. Would I hire you if I thought she was guilty?”
“Yes.”
Mrs Clarke blew out a breath. “Ms. Lloyd, if Lady Sophie is jailed, over a thousand years of heritage gets bulldozed and turned into a housing estate.” She held my gaze. “And if you do help, perhaps it will be a way to prove to your former colleagues that you are better than them, yes?”
Lovely. Remind me I was a bum. Mrs Clarke could be recruiter of the year with that one.
“I could solve a hundred cases, Mrs Clarke, and they wouldn’t care.” I waved it off. “But what your source didn’t tell you is that Detective Inspector Ruth Wood is the reason I have this.” I thunked the prothesis to the table. “And that is far more of a lure.”
Mrs Clarke raised her eyebrows.
“I saved her life. I saved her life and she didn’t so much as say thank you. I saved her life and lost my career . . . and she took my job without even blinking an eyelid.” I held Mrs Clarke’s gaze. “So, yeah, I’ll take your case because I love Fiona to pieces. I’ll investigate if there is enough evidence to suggest if Sophie Haye killed someone, then I’ll ram my findings up Wood’s nose with pleasure.” I got up and slammed my chair under. “But don’t think I’ll cover Sophie Haye or anyone else’s backside just because you flash a load of money at me.” I glared at the waiter. “I’ll eat somewhere more classy.”
The waiter narrowed his eyes.
Mrs Clarke smiled at me. “And the discretion?”
“Sure. I’ll pretend I’m a security guard. Not like I’ve got a life.” I glared at the waiter. “If Fiona told you about me, then you know this before I say it, don’t expect me to play nice.”
Mrs Clarke and the waiter exchanged a look then they both smiled.
“That’s exactly what we need,” Mrs Clarke said and pushed in her chair and nodded to the waiter who stuck his nose up at me and marched off. “I’d like you to start right away.”
“Why not?” I turned my phone off and followed Mrs Clarke out of the country club.
“You’ll help?” Fiona smiled as if she could ever think I wouldn’t step up when her childhood home was at risk.
“Yes . . . But I need to know just why Ruth jumped straight to a murder charge.” I got into the back of the Bentley as Edwina fussed over Fiona. “We’re missing something.”
Fiona handed me her phone. “Highly illegal for me to show you . . . but . . .”
I sighed. “Now you tell me?”
She shrugged.
I rubbed at my forehead. DI Ruth Wood was planning to charge Sophie Haye with murder because she had gunpowder residue on her hands and she hadn’t answered a single question. I was good, but this was going to be a big challenge.