FIFTY-FOUR

Elias grabbed his usual cup of morning filth from the coffee machine on his way up to his desk. He turned on his computer to check out the latest from Warne Farm, only to discover that his case file access had been revoked. He sat there seething. He had paperwork to catch up on, but he was too riled up for that. Besides, he’d promised Anna he’d protect her from León de Bruin, and his expenses would hardly help with that.

He still had internet access, at least. He used it to google de Bruin. There were pages of photographs of him, mostly with his wife. In fact, he soon realised, it was Samantha that the photographers were really after, thanks to her beauty, her wild youth and titled father.

It was instructive to see how de Bruin behaved around her. In the earliest shots, from the time of their marriage, he’d gazed upon her with besotted pride that turned to open jealousy whenever she talked to another man. More recently, however, he’d simply looked bored.

One such photograph at a society bash showed her with England’s latest rugby sensation, her eyes sparkling with laughter and her hand upon his wrist, while de Bruin hid his sneer behind a champagne flute. And Elias could see exactly why he’d given Anna the horror movie shivers.

She wouldn’t call him, though, whatever trouble she was in. She’d think she could handle it herself until it was too late. Even then, she’d go to Merchant first. This shouldn’t have got beneath his skin, and yet it did. He scrolled through more pictures of the de Bruins. At the races. On the red carpet. But he kept returning to that one with the rugby player at the society bash. It piqued him enough that he traced it back to its publication, from which he learned that it had been taken at Samantha’s parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary, just five weeks ago.

Wharton’s PA called. He let her go to voicemail. Wharton wanted him upstairs now. Similar summons arrived moments later by text and email. But he knew he’d only say something stupid and make matters worse, so he grabbed his jacket and headed out instead. Now what? He was determined to do what he could to protect Anna. But how? He could go see de Bruin himself, to let him know she was under his protection. But the man had had countless brushes with the law over the years, and still his tenants kept getting attacked and beaten.

He needed something more.

The tracker he’d used to catch his wife with Merchant was back at his bedsit. He went to fetch it now. It needed a new coin battery but then it worked fine. Planting it on de Bruin or in his house would be breaching all kinds of protocols, of course, and would be the end of his career if he were caught, but his prospects were rock bottom anyway, and he found he cared more about keeping Anna safe. If he could spook the man into a mistake, then listen in, it would be worth it.

De Bruin lived in a large, walled estate some twenty minutes south of Lincoln. Its heavy steel gate was topped by spikes, a pair of CCTV cameras and an intercom placed so awkwardly that Elias had to get out to reach its buzzer. From what he’d heard about the man, he’d very likely designed it that way, to put visitors at a disadvantage.

A woman with an aristocratic drawl answered and asked his business. He held his warrant card up for the camera and told her he wanted to speak to Mr de Bruin. She asked him why. He told her it was private. Five seconds passed. He heard the clunk of a lock and the gate trundled open. He drove along a freshly-laid tarmac drive through old woods to a stunning Tudor mansion of exposed timbers, herringbone brickwork and twisting chimneys. A gardener was cutting elegant patterns in the front lawns with a sit on mower. Another was pruning roses in the beds. And a man up a ladder was cleaning out gutters.

The front door opened before Elias even rang the bell. Lady Samantha de Bruin, every bit as lovely in the flesh as in her photographs, if not so obviously glamorous. Her hair was up in an imperfect bun, so that wisps of it fell forward over her cheek. She had a tiny diamond stud in her left nostril, a pair of plain gold hoop earrings, and her only makeup was some pale pink lipstick and a little eyeliner. Her tattered peach sweater was several sizes too large for her, so that it hung like a miniskirt around her thighs, and she’d pushed its sleeves up over her elbows as if about to do the washing up, though her various rings, bracelets and Cartier watch suggested otherwise. She had her daughter Melanie with her too, dressed as a fairy princess and with a silver wand in her hand that she tapped rather gingerly against Elias’s knee before stepping back with an apprehensive look, as if expecting him to turn into a toad. ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I was hoping to see your husband.’

‘He left after breakfast,’ she said.

Elias nodded. She could easily have told him that over the intercom, meaning she was curious about the purpose of his visit. Perhaps that explained why she’d brought her daughter with her, so that he wouldn’t say anything too shocking. Or perhaps she merely knew – better than he had – not to leave a young child alone and unsupervised. ‘Do you know where he went?’ he asked.

‘One of his properties, I’d imagine.’ She rested her left hand on her daughter’s crown and stroked her with her thumb, to reassure her that all was well. ‘He likes to give his tenants the personal touch.’

‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘So I’ve heard. Did he say when he’d be back?’

‘No.’

‘Do you have a number for him?’

‘I’m his wife. Of course I have a number for him.’

‘But you’re not going to give it to me.’

‘I can see why they made you detective, Detective. But if you’d care to leave me yours, and tell me what it’s about…’

He took a card from his wallet, handed it to her. ‘Perhaps you’ve been following events at Warne Farm,’ he said.

Her thumb froze on her daughter’s hair, drawing his attention back to her hand. With a jolt, he finally realised why that photograph from her parents’ anniversary bash had put its hook in him.

‘Warne Farm?’ she said. ‘What on earth could my husband have to do with that?’

He gave her a level look. No one could be married to de Bruin for as long as she had without getting to know the kind of man he was – however beautiful and blue-blooded they might be. ‘That’s what I’m hoping to establish, ma’am. Tell me, though. Did he take his black SUV this morning? The one with the tinted windows?’

Samantha de Bruin gazed coolly at him. ‘I think that’s enough, Detective,’ she said. ‘Have a wonderful morning.’

‘You too,’ he said. He winked at her daughter then returned to his car, forcing himself not to hurry, despite his eagerness for another look at that photograph. Despite, too, his growing anxiety that the real reason de Bruin had left so early that morning had been to get to the pound before Anna could collect her van.