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"You just can't help yourself, can you, Cullen?" Grimstead sneered. "Came back to rob the place, did you?"
I wasn't in the mood. "Bugger off."
He was about to blast me when Tank appeared. "Hello, Sergeant."
"Inspector!"
Tank just grinned. Then, plonking down his toolbox and examining the door, "Excellent boot work, Trigger. I installed this when Rachel moved in. That's one-inch oak with a mortice deadlock."
"It's good work. The door is intact."
"You fucked the frame, though."
"Better a bit of damage than two dead girls. One is bad enough."
"Yeah, you saved her life." Tank didn't miss a beat. "It's shocking how unsafe Ringmere is."
Grimstead vibrated with fury. He loathed being ignored and now he was double-damned, as he refused to acknowledge we were playing him. As I owed him, I put in the metaphorical boot, remarking to Tank, "Local policing isn't up to the job. I've promised DeVere I'd look into it."
Grimstead's eyes bulged, and his hands clenched. From the heavy breathing, his heart was getting an unaccustomed workout. Another minute and we'd be calling emergency services. Or maybe not. I might just watch and smile a lot.
Tank was warm in his praise. "It's a good job you're back, Trigger. We'll all sleep better, knowing you're on the job." Unscrewing a hinge, he chatted on. "Hold the door steady, would you, Sergeant?"
The subtle needling proved the final straw. Grimstead shoved us both aside and stomped down the stairs.
Holding the door for Tank, I reflected that the plod had taken my announcement without protest. Nor had he tried to arrest me for so-called attempted burglary. As he never misses an opportunity to harass, there was only one answer: he already knew about my arrangement with the mayor.
Tank did too. "Great job working with DeVere. Alex is delighted."
The hinge came free, dropping the door into my hands. I set it aside carefully. "I'm not back."
"Yeah, yeah." Tank rolled his eyes, dug in his pocket, and handed me a thumb drive. "You'll need this."
As Tank cut along the caulking and got out a pry bar to remove the old trim, I fingered the thumb drive. It would all be there: the Cullen files on DeVere and everyone connected with him. Everything, from the colour of his skids to where he hid his dirty magazines, was mine for the taking. But at what price?
Tank cut away the final bit of trim. Setting it down, he cocked his head. "Oh, come on, Trigger. It's a gift, not a fucking trap."
Helping him shift the old doorframe gave me an excuse to look away. "I know that. Thanks."
"I'm not saying we won't strain every nerve to get you back." Tank hammered his point home. "But you helping DeVere helps us, whether or not you're officially in."
Because I was a Cullen. My pride at my heritage and reputation warred with my determination to walk my own road. "Thanks, cousin."
He whacked me on the back. "Great. Now show some gratitude and help me bring up the new door."
Working together as we had a million times before helped. We loaded in the new adhesive, settled in the new trim, and then fitted the bars and locks. It's a tricky two-man job where one places and fits the locks while the other holds the door in place.
Just as I was thinking this was good times, my sneaky cousin took complete advantage.
"We miss you," Tank said softly. "Our basic security is in excellent shape but the tricky stuff is beyond me."
The door weighed a tonne. "We're legal, you don't need me."
"Come on, you know that's not true. We've told you about the AWOL high roller because he's big money but there's more."
"Tank-"
"In the three years you were gone, two of our bar staff, one chef and one concierge, were skimming," Tank admitted.
"But you caught them."
"By accident. After they robbed us blind for months." Tank leaned in. "And one escort blackmailed the punters, while another cloned their credit cards."
"Shit." I couldn't help myself. "How the hell did that happen?"
"Because I'm not you!"
I didn't want to go there. "With over a thousand staff on the payroll in the hotel and casino alone, never mind the extras, there's always going to be trouble."
"I'm an ace locksmith and I can crack any safe, but I don't have your talent for sniffing out trouble." Tank was dead serious. "We need you."
My hands burned. I should have worn gloves. "I'm not that man anymore. I can't be." Then, without meaning to, "After that Sinclair business, I almost topped myself. If I go back, it will end me."
Tank slid the bolts into place, tightened the hinges, and magically, the weight lifted away. "I get it," he said quietly.
I rubbed my hands, wishing I'd kept my trap shut.
"The girl who stole credit cards?" Tank had his back to me, his eyes firmly on the floor as he picked up shreds of trim. "When she wouldn't tell me where she kept her stash, I beat her."
What can you say? "She shouldn't have done it. She knew the risks."
"I warned her," Tank still wouldn't look at me. "But she laughed in my face. I had to do it. I hit her."
That was my fault. Pressuring people is tricky, but very often you can do it without whacking them. Tank didn't have my skills, and I'd not thought to teach him. After the war with the Bridgeton Mob was over, my focus had been on leaving.
"Alex doesn't get it," Tank sighed. "He says it's part of the learning curve."
My private thought was that our cousin knew but didn't care. Alex was always focused on the money. He did whatever it took, with no guilt whatsoever. But there was no point in saying so.
"He wants you back," Tank warned. "He reckons that between the pub, the Razors and the family, it's just a matter of time."
"Does he?"
Tank grinned suddenly. "Soft soap, huh? Well, cousin, my money's on you."
"Thanks."
But after finishing the job, I wondered if I'd bitten off more than I could chew. With Menzies out of the picture and Mandy's state-of-the-art spy system, it was unlikely to be impulse killing arising from a casual blackmail scheme gone pear-shaped. I had the feeling that I was up to my neck in unknown trouble.
Habit kept me from talking. We tested the door, tidied up and then joined Quentin for a last call pint. But the second I locked up, I fired up my laptop and checked out the thumb drive.
Just a glance confirmed Tank's assertion that intel wasn't his strong suit. There were lists of names, aliases and home addresses, copies of past credit checks, lists of business associates and corporate contracts, loan payment histories, and copies of property and asset ownership, but that was it. No mention of vulnerabilities, drug habits, bribes given and taken, mistresses, or even family associations.
Tank's approach was fine for figuring out who qualified for casino credit, but it was of no use to me. DeVere, Donovan and Rachel had super thin files while there was zero on Mandy and DeVere's wife. Tank focused solely on Cullen business associates and clients; again, fine for business, but not how I had done the job.
I needed information. Luckily, I knew exactly where and how to start.
The next morning, I was up bright and early. Brown trousers, a brown shirt, and black trainers gave me the right look. I topped it off by clipping my old work ID to my pocket and a brown cap.
A quick stop at the supermarket netted me a magazine, envelope, clipboard, and gift card. Fifteen minutes later, I was in Nelson Place, checking out DeVere's home. Happily, the roomy Queen Anne two story home was set in a large garden shielded with a thick hedge. Privacy would be my friend.
I parked out of sight of the large windows and busied myself moving some empty boxes in the back of the van. With the all-brown gear, curtain twitchers would mistake me for a courier. My shirt and cap lacked logos, but that didn't matter. If you act the part and look vaguely right, the brain fills in the missing bits.
At this time of day, DeVere would be out. Spying in the windows, I spotted a woman standing on a chair, dusting the top of a picture frame. I recognised the glam blonde straight away: Lara DeVere.
Strolling up, I rang the doorbell and then knocked imperiously.
"Hold your horses!" She was hot, flustered and still holding a duster. "What's the rush?"
"Good morning. Express Services delivery." Thrusting the clipboard under her nose distracted her from noticing my badge authorised me to enter the construction site in Bagdad. "Sign here."
"I'm not expecting any deliveries." Then she clocked the address. "Oh, it's for Lucian."
"It's from Country Politics." I handed over the gift card. "This came with it. It's good for twenty-four hours."
She looked at it doubtfully. "Why are they giving out supermarket credits?"
"Beats me. Maybe it's an economic boost programme?"
She shrugged and pocketed it. "Whatever will they think of next?"
"I gave mine to the missus and told her to go redeem it straight away. I mean, fifty quid is nothing to sneeze at." I gave her my best grin. "Could you sign?"
"Of course." She took the pen and clipboard. "Oh, your pen's out of ink!"
"Just my luck."
My groan appealed to her helpful instincts. "No worries, I've got one in the kitchen."
Taping the lock was the work of a moment. By the time she returned, I had cased the hall. No visible cameras, and the fuse box was next to the coat rack. "Thanks, love. Have a good one."
I marched off, drove around the block and parked fifty metres away, pulling up discreetly behind a mature oak. As I expected, she exited a mere twenty minutes later, shopping bag in hand. As she pulled the front door shut behind her, I waited with bated breath, but she didn't check if it had locked.
This time I walked up with a toolkit in hand and wearing a red cap. I rang the bell, waited half a minute, and pushed the door open. If anyone were watching, and the hedge made that unlikely, they'd see a plumber being admitted.
Cap pulled well down, I walked in and killed the electricity. No alarms went off, no blinking lights and after a quick scan, no signs of CCTV. I wasn't too worried. Only crooks have state-of-the-art systems; ordinary people don't expect to be targeted.
Bypassing the lounge, kitchen and dining room, I went straight upstairs to a bedroom turned into a home office. I took snapshots of the room and went to work. DeVere had a PC, a filing cabinet and a wall decorated with photos.
Pictures tell a thousand words, and these were informative. Most were the regular family, school team and wedding shots intended to impress Zoom audiences with DeVere's warm humanity.
The rest were humblebrags: the man with the current PM, the Chancellor, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and several shots at exclusive dos with him in a tux. Two were framed in ornate ormolu. I recognised Buckingham Palace in one and the Sports and Social Club inside the houses of Parliament in another.
Most computers are password protected, so I didn't bother trying to start it up. I simply unscrewed the casing and connected my laptop. Ten seconds later, I dropped a Trojan into his system. The second he turned the machine on, I would be inside, copying his files and logging every keystroke from recording his bank password to the email that arrived.
Putting the casing back together, I planned the rest of my information raid. DeVere would have files on every player in town, but it was unlikely he'd hide the most sensitive stuff on his PC. It's not just hackers that pose a threat; unless you're super careful, a casual error may have a total outsider looking at your files. Just ask Hunter Biden.
The filing cabinet was bog-standard from administration central. I might have opened the lock with a nail file, but I did it properly and used my picks.
Most of the paperwork focussed on fundraising, campaign issues and party communications. My eye fell on a big folder labelled Splash City Water Park Development. I remembered the gossip in the pub about a new hotel. Alex had been keen, too. From the letters, DeVere was in touch with the executive board.
A signed agreement, marked confidential, proved informative. As mayor, DeVere would cream off a percentage. Not surprising. But when I looked at the annotated numbers, I blinked. Suddenly, DeVere's focus on development made sense. This was big business.
I took pictures of the lot and then had a quick dekko at his share certificates, bank statements and property documents. DeVere was rich. As expected, the house was in his wife's name, and they had separate, as well as joint bank accounts. It was a common ploy; likely arranged by a tax consultant.
Examining the office, I dismissed the idea of a secret safe; the floor and walls were too thin. It wouldn't be at the bank where a warrant might find it. Then my eye fell on the royal photo: the ornate frame and central position made it stand out.
The envelope was tacked onto the back. I opened it carefully, shaking out the memory card. I hesitated, considering the risks. If it were me, that sucker would be loaded with a virus, so that anyone who tried it on with me would have their system fucked.
But reckoning DeVere was arrogant, and more likely to think his hiding place a sure thing, I pushed it into my phone. It loaded instantly, and it was gold. I expected to see Nathan Menzies in a compromising position, but this blew my wildest dreams out the water.
In the first dozen photos, Menzies was taking wads of cash. From Masher, from Alex, and from blokes I recognised as Turkish, Russian and Bulgarian mafiosi from London. When caught, anyone might scream deep fake but screenshots of an account in the Cayman Islands provided incontrovertible proof.
Menzies wasn't dirty. He was a sewer. DeVere owned the bloke's soul. Except that none of this was common knowledge. With this information, DeVere's rage snapped into context: he had intended to use this to scupper his rival.
The plan was obvious. Revealing Menzies was on the take would make DeVere look like the golden boy. But instead of killing his competition and coming up smelling of roses, the volunteer had blasted into action, destroying Menzies but tarring DeVere.
Shuffling through the gallery, I found pictures of Menzies with various women, too. Looking closely, the quality varied. With my hands-on experience of blackmail, the conclusion was blinding. The grainy images came from security cameras. They had been harvested from tapes or from livestreams. The rest were taken by a pro with a good camera. DeVere employed a hacker and a private eye.
The old rival wasn't the only star on DeVere's shit list. I was admiring a photo of Alex tucking a large envelope into a councillor's hand when my phone rang. Unknown number.
"Trigger? Donovan here." He was breezy. "I thought we'd talk and set up for regular progress reports."
Over my dead body. "No."
He bridled. "I'm Lucian's right-hand man. Talking to me is like talking to him."
There was a photo of Alex, in bed with a blonde I recognised as the casino's best dealer. In the next photo, the blonde was in bed with Posh. That might cause trouble one day. Alex was a generous bloke but he would not relish sharing a mistress.
Donovan was banging on. "You're busy? It need not be now. How about the end of today?"
"I said I'd do the job and I will, but I won't be micromanaged."
"Now wait a minute," he snarked. "We work as a team."
I flipped through a series of photos of Percy Basildon-French. The banker was still fond of a toot. And redheads. In one, he had Rachel on his lap. The photo only showed her bare back, but I recognised the hair. It explained why the banker had given her the heads-up on the money laundering accusation. Also, she had a terrific arse.
"This is not what we bargained for," Donovan ranted.
"I'll return the fee."
I wasn't in the mood to argue, so I hung up. If I were lucky, I'd be out of it. But chance would be a fine thing. DeVere had tried other avenues, and I was his last hope.
The phone rang a second later. When I ignored it, Donovan texted.
I insist you call.
We must consult.
I can help you.
And finally. You're a stubborn bastard and if you end up in jail again, don't expect me to bail you out.
The money was good and he couldn't push me about. I sent him a thumbs up.
That settled, I waited while the backup loaded. DeVere had excellent files, much better than Tank. Watching the upload, I didn't recognise all the faces, but there were photos of Alex handing cash to Gus Bignall, the previous mayor, Grimstead beating the hell out of a prisoner in a cell, the blonde duty sergeant snorting an enormous line of coke, and the local vicar in bed with two brunettes.
As I tucked the treasure away, my spirits lifted. Now I had all the leverage I needed. Used carefully, it would update me, showing me every secret in Ringmere. If anyone gave me trouble, thinking I was vulnerable because I was no longer working with the family, I had enough leverage to pulverise them-or to get the local power structure to do it for me.
Told you I'm not a good man. But I am a survivor.
I had half a mind to poke through the bedrooms, just to see if there were diaries or insightful bills, but time pressed on. By now, Lara DeVere would have spent the voucher; I couldn't rely on her stopping off for coffee or dawdling for a chat with a friend.
I copied all the memory card files, put it back behind the frame, compared the office to the snapshot to ensure everything was in place, and took a peek out of the window. All clear. But downstairs, checking through the spyhole in the front door, I almost had a heart attack: Lara DeVere was striding up the drive, loaded down with shopping.
Thank God I had the foresight to switch off the electricity. I rocketed out the back door and slid around the corner of the house.
Lara walked in and exclaimed at the electricity tripping. Seconds later, the hall lights flickered on. A villain would be suspicious, but Lara DeVere was a housewife; she went right through to the kitchen to check the freezer. There was no call, no cry.
I counted to five, calculating she'd turn to unpacking her shopping, and ambled down the drive. My heart was going like the clappers, but I made myself move calmly, acting like a tradesman leaving after finishing a job. For verisimilitude, I held a supermarket receipt in my hand and frowned at it.
Nobody stopped me. Thanks to the luxurious hedges, nobody even saw me. I slid into the van, pulled out, and quietly got the hell away from there.
Going through DeVere's files had been an eye-opener. He was definitely different from previous mayors. If only he'd had a smidgeon more talent and drive, he might have been a Cullen. Slowly, all the pieces were shifting.
The blackmail was not a simple blackmail scheme aimed at shaking down a small-town mayor. That first demand for a payoff had been a feint, a first move to test DeVere's mettle. The Splash City Water Park development was key to the whole matter. Those zeroes flashed back into mind. It was major-league money.
I might have gone home and dug through the photos or waited for DeVere to start up his PC, but I had another source waiting to be tapped. Turning onto Ringmere's main road, I made for the hospital.
"Max!" Rachel was sitting on the edge of the bed, knickers dangling off one foot as she fished for them with her good hand. She grinned ruefully. "I'm having trouble with my ankle warmers."
Her neck was black and blue, her wrist in plaster and from the careful way she moved, she hurt all over. But the joke and cheeky beam were classic Rachel. "Sit back, love, and let me help you."
"My bra is on the chair there, but I can't find my jeans or my top."
And that's when we realised she had undies and nothing else.
Rachel, bless her, was oblivious. "I wonder if the nurse has them?"
I did not remind her she'd been drenched in Mandy's blood. Her gear would be in forensics, being cut up and tested. "They're busy. Let's just buy you a tracksuit or dress."
The giftshop was well stocked, and before long, I was walking her out.
"Thanks for coming, Max." Rachel moved as if she were on stilts. Whatever they'd given her, she was feeling no pain. As I opened the van door for her, she held on to my hand and gazed into my eyes. "You'll try to shut me up, so I'll say this quickly: thank you for saving my life."
"Shut up, love."
The little hand gripped harder, and the chin lifted. "If you hadn't turned up, I'd be on a slab, right next to Mandy." She gulped away swift tears. "And whatever you said to Grimstead, thanks again."
"He came back?"
"He wanted me to sign a statement." Rachel's eyes narrowed. "I told him to take it up with my solicitor."
"What did he want you to say?"
"Don't know and don't care. He's always calling me names and when I was in ICU, he only came to yell. He doesn't care about me and he doesn't give a shit about Mandy. I'm never helping that bugger ever again."
That's typical. The plods always whine that the public won't pitch in, but they only have themselves to blame. "Quite right, love." I handed her into the van. "Do we need to stop off to buy anything? Milk? Bread? Meds?"
"I just want to go home."
She was pale as milk; I firmly shelved my questions about DeVere. She'd do better with a cup of tea first.
Walking her up the stairs was fine.
"You fixed the door!"
"Tank put it in. The trim's new too."
But she shivered when I let us into the flat. "They took away the rug."
"Forensics, love."
"It's probably best. Oh my, you tidied too!" She walked in, glancing quickly behind the sofa and into the bedrooms beyond. "Want a cuppa, Max?"
She made it sound casual, but I spotted the tense shoulders. "He's gone. You're safe here."
"Of course. I'm just being silly."
Aside from the contusions, she was wan. The first few days after an operation are always rough. The anaesthetic plays merry hell with your system and even a small wrist cast is difficult.
God knows what prompted me. "Pack a bag, love. You're staying with me."
"W-what?"
"It's only for a couple of days, just till you get yourself back together again." Yes, my brain was spinning its wheels as my mouth did the talking. "Tell me what you want packed. And call Tank and tell him to put in window security. He can wire the fire escape and install panic buttons as well."
She had to stand on tiptoe to kiss me. "Thank you so much!" She practically toppled over. "Hell, sorry."
"That's the drugs wearing off." I was doing the right thing. Rachel had nobody. And we'd been friends forever.
"Won't your mum mind?"
"I'm living above the pub."
"Oh, is there trouble again?"
"No. I just like my own space."
I had second thoughts the moment I invited her to stay, and third and fourth thoughts as I packed a bag for her, and drove her to the Lion and Unicorn. But the second she sank down onto my sofa, I knew I'd done the right thing.
"Thanks, Max. It may sound bonkers, but I wouldn't have slept a wink at home."
"Yeah, it gets to people."
"Right. It was the same after the robbery last year."
I'd cased plenty of places and disguised my work as a crime, so my head was right up. "What robbery?"
Rachel smiled. "Just a druggie, Max. He hit my place, and they caught him ten minutes later in front of the Spinnaker, trying to swap my undies for a fix."
A false alarm, then.
Rachel chatted on. "For weeks after, I kept thinking there was someone in the place. Redecorating did the trick. I'll have it done again." She clutched her phone. "I'll get them on it straight away."
Definitely a woman of action.
By the time I made up the bed with new sheets and got tea and sandwiches together, she was all done. "I asked for a rose motif. The clients will love it."
"You have regular makeovers?"
"Yes. It's just new bedding, sofa covers, curtains, and a couple of knickknacks. The designer is a personal shopper, and we've got a contract for three makeovers a year."
"A business expense?"
"Exactly. A fresh look keeps everyone interested. I do my hair differently every three months as well."
"You've got it all figured out."
"Thanks, Max. That means a lot." She looked around, smiling. "This place is fantastic. Love that panelling and the bay window. And the furniture is surreal." She touched the carved coffee table with awe. "This is antique?"
"It's Jacobean. They built things to last, and they liked them fancy. The sofa and chair were made for me."
Rachel grinned. "It's like the Tardis: simple on the outside and wildly different on the inside. It suits you, Max." I didn't know what to say but thankfully, Rachel picked up a sandwich. "This is delicious. I didn't realise I was hungry."
After months of rice and okra stew in Iraq, I was savouring the cheese too. But as we ate, I sensed Rachel was chewing things over. I didn't push it. I flipped through my phone, checking out the Splash City Water Park development contract.
DeVere was expecting a giant pay-out, but I wasn't certain how he would swing it. I found it halfway down the first page, under location, rights, and fees. Now I knew exactly why the mayor had been targeted.
As I figured out the Why, Rachel had come to her own conclusions. "Grimstead backed off this morning because you're looking into it," she waved her sandwich at me. "But Mandy never worked for the Cullens. I haven't either, so who asked you?"
She was a smart girl. "DeVere."
Rachel gawped. "Lucian? But why? He's petrified of scandal. That's why the weasel dumped me. And he never does anything unless it helps him." The green eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute. The rat! He was boinking Mandy?"
"Spot on."
She pursed her lips. "He's such a hypocritical slut. He went on and on, moaning about how he was a happily married man."
"Lovely."
"I should never have gotten involved with him." Rachel picked up her tea. "I'm not surprised Mandy did," she confided. "I'm queen of hooking up with impossible men, especially when I've had three gins and am feeling lonely. Mandy was the same."
"Did she give you the picture frames? Or did the designer pick them?"
"Oh, they're Mandy's. Aren't they cute? She bought them online. Three for the price of two, and super discounted."
One was missing, and my guess was that it had been freestanding.
Rachel picked up a second sandwich. "We have, I mean had, a segment where clients pick out their favourite selfies of us, and we throw in photos they send us. Like puppies and beaches."
"They're secret cameras."
Rachel stared; her mouth wide open. "No! Omigod, Mandy bought them on eBay!"
"They are made in Russia and they're difficult to get. They're definitely not for sale on eBay."
"But she did. She told me all about it."
"Sorry, love. It just can't be."
Rachel blinked. "She lied? Wait, you think Mandy set up cameras on purpose? She blackmailed Lucian? I can't believe it."
I laid it out for her. "Only a handful of professionals use this gear. It's specialised, high tech, and even the police don't know it exists."
Rachel gave me an old-fashioned look. "You've used it."
"Yes."
Rachel bit her lip. "Mandy was no angel. She was ruthless about leveraging clients. But she never crossed the line." She set down her plate. "In our business, you need to be straight to make good money. Blackmail will kill your rep in a heartbeat. And as people always talk, you will be found out. Mandy would never risk her future. It's just not worth it."
It was practical, but I knew something Rachel did not. "DeVere plays hardball too. He has enough dirt on Ringmere to own it."
The sandwich and tea were forgotten. Rachel was riveted. "But why?"
"What can you tell me about the Splash City Water Park development?"
"Oh God, don't remind me," Rachel moaned. "It's for the good of Ringmere. It will boost income and employment. Blah-blah-blah. Lucian bangs on about it constantly."
"Did he mention that if it goes through, he stands to gain fifteen million quid?"
Another wide-eyed, open-mouthed gawp. "No. Blimey!"
"Quite."
Rachel hugged herself. "You think Mandy knew?"
"Would she sink her principles for a shot at a slice of fifteen mil?"
Rachel bit her lip. "Oh God, Max. I don't know." And with a burst of candour. "I don't know if I could resist!"
"I saw the two on the walls. Where was the third?"
"Bedside cabinet."
So he had removed one, but he'd not had time to take the others off the wall. I wasn't sure what that meant but it might be significant. I filed the fact away for later.
As for the rest, there was no doubt in my mind that Mandy had bought the cameras and set them up. But something didn't sit right. She was a fashion entrepreneur turned cam girl. None of that had her in a position to pick up hardcore spy gear on the dark web. Also, how had she discovered the details of the Splash City Water Park development? DeVere hadn't told Rachel, so he was unlikely to tell Mandy.
A very nasty suspicion entered my mind. I examined the map on my phone and checked out the agreement again. Yes, my fears were spot on. The development had narrowed down to two sites.
"But it's just another resort and hotel, isn't it?" Rachel said. "It's not like we don't already have those. There's the Majestic and the marina, and Pagan Cave has the funfair and dune racing. What's special about this one?"
"Because anyone who owns land near that development instantly makes a fortune."
"And Lucian decides where it goes?"
"Yes."
"So who stands to gain, then?" Rachel asked breathlessly. "Who's got a finger in the pie?"
I tucked away my phone. "That would be my cousin Alex."