| |
I’M THE TYPE of person that tends to throw myself into things. Having a job, any job, made me feel useful and it would be too easy to forget why I was at the manor. Didn’t help that Lady Sophie Haye was . . . well, you ever meet a woman who has this magnetism around her? The kind that makes her feel untouchable yet it’s so beyond sexy, you want to try and reach her?
Yeah, that was Sophie Haye. Arrested for murder or not, the woman was gorgeous: Olive skin, tanned like she’d been somewhere far warmer than Warwickshire, charcoal eyes, and stark white hair even when she couldn’t have been more than her mid-forties. It was silky white, and as I navigated my duties as head of security, I caught myself staring. She walked like a dancer. You know the strut-come-prowl? And when she strode down a corridor, boy, did she demand attention.
She never so much as made eye contact with anyone. She was beyond aloof, snarled when someone hovered near and it was easy to see why my former colleagues were set on building a case against her. It took five minutes in a room with her to know that she could slice someone and not think twice. Felt like being in a room with a predator . . . they looked cute sometimes but they only did it so it would save them chasing you.
I’d been in position over the weekend so it had been quiet and that gave me the chance to get my bearings.
Hayefield Manor was a huge estate which made Buckingham Palace look small. The huge palace-sized manor sat at the top of the estate with about ten miles of moors behind it to the north. To the east was the forest which covered a three mile expanse give or take; the south had a Wembley-sized conference centre converted from agricultural buildings, a huge stable that had its own fields and arenas, then there were whole villages of craft factories and workshops; The west held the guardhouse, the garage—which could house a showroom—and admin buildings.
All together that was nearly fifteen square miles of estate that somehow I was supposed to keep secure. I’d been given an electrical 4x4 version of a golf buggy to get around to make sure I didn’t get the prosthesis soaked.
On the Monday lunchtime, the rain had made way for some early Spring sunshine and I stood in front of the Manor, trying to look like I was patrolling when really I was dozing while enjoying the beautiful sunken lawn, the willow-come-blossom tree thing and the lake behind it. Some view.
“Oi, I told you, you can’t just walk in here,” one of the security guards yelled, half into his radio, and half loud enough I could hear him from the gatehouse. “Stop.”
I squinted at the driveway. Someone was striding along the gravel at speed, walking stick flicking out like they were on a hike.
“I said, stop!” The security guard hurried after them, radio out.
“Why, what are you going to do?” an older lady’s voice sounded, then the figure on the driveway turned and swiped her stick. “Yell at me the entire way?”
The guard threw his hands in the air. “Morgan, she’s not stopping.”
The figure turned and strode on toward the house. Clearly my security team were unbeatable.
I rolled my eyes and strolled down to meet the elderly “intruder.” She was average height, slender, long grey hair swept back over one shoulder. Clearly a violent criminal breaking in to burgle the place.
“May I help you?” I asked, barring her route to the manor. We’d had quite a few reporters trying to sneak their way in but she didn’t look like she would sit and write articles.
“No, you may not. Get out of my way.” The lady glared at me. She had a long cashmere coat, country attire of knee length skirt and blouse.
I dodged the swiping stick and shook my head. “I can’t do that. May I ask who you’re fencing my staff to see?”
The lady stopped, then her eyes crinkled up like she was trying not to smile. “No.”
My grandmother had been as polite and patient. “Well . . . if you tell me . . . I can check if Lady Sophie would like your company and you won’t need to fence her.”
The lady bellowed out a laugh. “Oh, I need to fence her alright. She’s too much like her uncle.”
She flicked her stick at my leg.
I dodged.
The stick scraped along the ground and I caught it with my right hand. “Which means you must be Lady Raquel.”
The lady laughed again, this time croaky. “Good guess.”
Not a guess. I’d studied the list of people allowed to visit without an appointment. It was sparser than Trin’s messages lately. She hadn’t even remembered that it had been my birthday. I wasn’t bitter. Much.
The list had who was allowed, what they did, their relationship to Lady Sophie and the terrible descriptions a houseman called Frank had provided. He’d written that Lady Raquel was bent over, sneered all the time, had a moustache, and had white hair not grey.
Good thing Frank wasn’t a detective.
“I’ll escort you to Lady Sophie, ma’am. Can you bear my company?” Mrs Clarke, or Edwina as everyone called her, had told me that Raquel was someone who Sophie would confide in. She’d also said that Raquel was cantankerous, manipulative, extremely powerful and adored by Sophie. She had been in residence over at Oakfield Manor, a smaller estate, ten miles away, but her stepchildren had ousted her when she became a widow.
Bit like my stepdad had done to me when he’d got his feet under my mother’s table. What can I say, bitter worked for me.
“Don’t even think of such nonsense.” Lady Raquel strode up the drive, her stick flicked out with every second stride, her bowed legs pumped, her frown riveted in place. “I can find my own way.”
“Yes, but it makes me look useful.” I hurried to catch up with her. “I’m Morgan, head of security.”
“Morgan? You Welsh?” Raquel squinted at me. “I never trust Welsh people. Never trust anyone who can make words with no vowels in them.” She wagged her stick through the air. “Unnatural.”
“Yes, I’m Welsh . . . but I’m from the south so I don’t speak Welsh.” I was used to being teased by Trin. When we met, she’d thought my accent had been funny. She had a Geordie accent so she was a fine one to talk. “Morgan is my first name.”
Raquel stopped and peered at me. “Why do you have a surname as a Christian name?” She narrowed her watery eyes. “Are your parents hippies?”
“Who knows what my dad is but my mother is a yummy mummy, that close enough?” And so you know, I was called Morgan because that’s where I came from, Glamorgan. Major leap in creativity there.
“Ah, you’re a bastard.” Said with pursed lips.
Lovely. How nice to be reminded. “Only when I have PMT. I have a first name as a surname too: Morgan Lloyd.”
“North Wales’ Lloyds?” Raquel put her stick in front of me, her eyes hard.
“No, I’m from the south.” I shook my head, making sure Raquel could see I was teasing. “I used vowels . . . see?”
Raquel blurted out her laugh. “Morgan Lloyd. What a ridiculous name.” She strode on ahead, flicking her stick out in front. “How is anyone to know you’re a beautiful woman with a name like that?”
“No one.” I steadied my breath. Considering Raquel was pushing eighty-four, if Frank was right about it, she was fast. “I can’t give everything away now, can I?”
Raquel chuckled and beat me to the courtyard. “No, half the fun is in the reveal.”
“Yeah, sure.” I dashed in front to hold open the main door.
“Must be criminals though.” Raquel’s tone was full of amusement. “Welsh people are always criminals.”
How I loved discrimination. “Then we match posh people who went and stole people’s land and made them work it.” I strode in front and opened the door to the office hallway.
Raquel laughed loud enough it echoed off the walls. “Quite!”
Frank was at his desk outside Sophie’s office. He spotted us, threw his sandwich in the drawer, and dived under the desk. He was so weird. You know those people who you really don’t want to have conversations with because they just confuse you? That was Frank: Late fifties maybe, bandy, ferret like but without the cute part, and confusing.
“Just don’t tell Edwina I said that or she’ll lecture me.” I winked at Raquel and tried to ignore Frank. He had hiccups.
“You are a complete buffoon.” Raquel walked to the desk and peered over it. “What a waste of a perfectly good sandwich.”
Frank hauled himself back onto his chair with a wince, pen in hand. “Dropped it. Oh, hello, Lady Raquel.”
Raquel looked to me.
I shrugged. I just worked there.
“Well, are you knocking on it or am I going to find Frank’s lack of penmanship fair game?” Raquel’s tone filled with a chuckle.
I ignored the butterflies in my stomach and knocked on the door. Just so you know, they weren’t because Sophie was highly attractive, I wasn’t specialised in undercover and the woman had a way of looking at you like she could make a hardened spy crumble.
“Enter.” Sophie sounded stern even through the thick wood.
I pushed open the door and braced myself. Sophie leaned over her desk, jacket slung over the back of the chair, her shirt like something out of the classics, her tight jeans hugging her very . . . shapely . . . backside.
Cue inward groan and chastisement. I know what you’re thinking, it wasn’t correct to stare, but trust me, anyone with eyes would stare . . . and I was staring. I dipped my gaze. “Lady Raquel is here to see you, ma’am.”
“Why are you making introductions?” Sophie’s voice held a hint of curiosity.
“Because, dear girl,” Raquel said as she bustled in. “Frank is a scone short of an afternoon tea.”
Sophie roared with laughter: an unabashed belly chuckle. It was hard not to join in. “You don’t need to tell me that.”
“Your security is pitiful, as always,” Raquel muttered. “This one is Welsh, don’t trust her.” The tone held dry humour.
Yes, thank you, tease the Welsh person.
“I’m watching her,” Sophie said, her tone warm and brisk all at once. “She has displeased you?”
“No, she has quite the reflexes, I didn’t even manage to make her hop.” Raquel took a seat in a wingback chair. “Her staff are much like Frank, imbeciles.”
Sophie let out a long sigh. “Morgan, see to it they don’t displease her again.”
I ignored more butterflies at the sound of my name. “Of course, ma’am. It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Raquel.”
“Utter waffle,” Raquel said with a chuckle. “Never trust anyone who waffles.”
Sophie beamed at Raquel. Yes, she doted on her, that was clear. They had a warmth between them that was almost like a mother and child. It would be a tough task to get Raquel to break any confidence . . . unless she thought Sophie needed the help . . . and she really did need the help.
Sophie’s eyes were more expressive when she talked to Raquel and her gaze was riveted to Raquel’s lips. I cocked my head. Sophie had something on her head above her ear. An implant? Was that what Fiona meant when she’d said different?
“That will be all, Morgan,” Sophie said and flicked her eyebrow even with her gaze still on Raquel.
Staring, right.
Sophie flicked her gaze over me and nodded, her lips twitching in a half-smile.
Right, move. I cleared my throat, turned, and scurried out, firing a, “Of course, ma’am,” behind me.
Frank looked up from extracting his sandwich from the desk drawer, shock glinting in his eyes. “Did she just laugh?”
“Did she? Not sure.” I sounded guilty for some reason so hurried back down the corridor.
I was going to run over witness statements with Edwina and a few other staff. I wanted to compile them to present to DI Wood when she showed. I needed an eyewitness sighting between three and five in the morning of the murder or at least some kind of proof Sophie hadn’t left the manor . . . should be fun.