the job.”
“But what if I don’t want you to go?” she asked. Her eyes were wet with tears.
“I’m sorry, Emma.”
She came to him, beckoned him to bend, which he did, and received a kiss on the cheek for his efforts. “Then thank you,” she said, and a wave of emotion threatened to engulf him, a strange mixture of gratitude and guilt.
A couple of hours later he was gone, and the next time he saw Emma Drake was in a photograph at her funeral.
CHAPTER 14
DAYS PASSED AFTER Shelley’s stand-off with Bennett in front of the house in which he’d once been like one of the family. Shelley called the house again to be told the Drakes were unavailable. He left messages but the calls went unreturned. He called Susie’s mobile and left messages, but she didn’t answer.
He tried Gerald Mowles, the security consultant who’d hooked him up with the gig all those years ago. Gerald was warm and friendly and they chewed the fat for a while until Shelley started asking questions about the Drakes.
“I can’t tell you anything, I’m afraid,” he told Shelley, drawing a curtain across the conversation.
“Why is that?”
“Because it would be a breach of client confidentiality.”
“So the Drakes are clients?” Shelley said.
“If I were to tell you that, it would be a breach of client confidentiality.”
“So the Drakes are clients, but you didn’t refer them to me?”
“My job is to match clients with the appropriate operator depending on the service required,” Mowles said.
“So whatever service Guy wants, you knew I wouldn’t touch?”
“If I were to tell you that, it would be a breach of client confidentiality.”
And so on.
In the end Susie rang him, a hurried conversation: “I’m so grateful and touched by your concern, David, but you must stop calling.”
“Concern. Exactly. You know that’s what it is, don’t you? I’m worried that you’re getting into something you’ll regret. Is it Guy, Susie? Is he driving this?”
She paused and he could sense that she wanted to tell him something, just as she had at the funeral. “I can’t,” she said at last, and the phone went dead.
He tried to ring her back. There was no answer.
CHAPTER 15
“I DON’T THINK I understand, Sergei,” said Dmitry. Canyons formed in his brow. “You told me that everything was sorted. You said to me, ‘She’s just a junkie, Dmitry. The police will not investigate.’ You told me this and I believed you.”
Dmitry glared at Sergei, who held his gaze, aware that his conduct and performance were being appraised.
“The inquiries are not being made by the police, Dmitry. If they were, they would get nothing.”
“Then who?” snapped the boss. “Who is making these inquiries?”
“It appears that the girl’s father is rich. Very rich. Perhaps he has bought people to make these inquiries on his behalf.”
Dmitry reached for the spectacles that hung on a cord around his neck. “Name? What was the girl’s name?”
“The name she gave us was an alias . . .”
Dmitry shook his head in frustration. “What was her real name?”
The air crackled. “It turns out her real name was Emma Drake, and she was the daughter of a man named Guy Drake.”
Dmitry held up a finger instructing Sergei to wait, then replaced his glasses and turned his attention to the screens before him.
After some minutes of peering and tapping, Dmitry once again removed his spectacles, and sat back with a low whistle. “Wow. Rich guy.”
Sergei nodded. He looked at his boss, seeing gears shift.
“This changes things,” said Dmitry.
“Should we close the studio, Dmitry?” proposed Sergei.
Dmitry looked at him sharply, both knowing that “the studio” was an idea beloved of Alexander in Grozny, who would not take kindly to its closure. Alexander liked things to run smoothly. As Dmitry often said, his least favorite word was “complication.”
“Are you really suggesting we close the studio, Sergei?” asked Dmitry carefully.
“I’m saying we should take such measures into consideration, Dmitry.”
“Could they connect it to the dead girl?”
“If they do, nobody will talk. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Good,” said Dmitry, “then let’s keep business as usual. Perhaps this rich microchip man will realize no amount of asking questions can bring his junkie daughter back. What do you think?”
Sergei thought that a father’s grief might not recede quite so easily, but said nothing. Instead he bid Dmitry farewell, turned, and left the office.
On his way out he passed the doorway to the front room, where Grandfather sat watching television. For a moment he considered simply not paying his respects. After all, if the old man’s behavior the other day