the center island in the kitchen. Gurney had made coffee. “Here’s what I think, officer,” offered Bennett, with a face commendably devoid of expression. “Whoever did this believes that Mr. Drake was somehow responsible for last night’s fire, and they killed our friend in retribution.”
Phillips shook his head at the insult to his intelligence, not even bothering to respond. “Wait there,” he said. A uniform had appeared in the doorway and Phillips walked over to him, keeping an eye on the quartet at the kitchen island who in turn watched him as he bent to hear his officer’s news and then returned and retook his place at the island. “Somebody claiming to be a neighbor reported men with guns, which is why we sent the armed response. Which of your neighbors has a Russian accent, Mr. Drake?”
“Well, I’m quite sure I don’t know all my neighbors, lad,” said Drake. “You’ll have to do a door-to-door, would be my recommendation.”
“Well, yes, we might well have to do that,” said Phillips, leaning forward and putting his elbows on the countertop. “But you know what I think? I think that if we did do a door-to-door, then it would turn up the fact that none of your neighbors have Russian accents.”
“Right, I’m getting sick of this. You.” He pointed a finger at Shelley. “I want a word with you alone.”
“Hey,” said Drake, rising at the same time as Shelley, indignant. “This is my house.”
“This is my crime scene,” said DI Phillips, “and I want a word with a witness. You would have no vested interest in interfering with that, would you, sir? I mean, I’m not misjudging you, am I?”
Reluctantly, Drake sat down. Shelley followed Phillips out of the kitchen and into the entrance hall.
“Chechen Mafia,” said Detective Inspector Phillips simply. “Wait.” He held up a finger. “Don’t give me any bullshit. Because I’m the one who tells Claridge what he tells you, do you understand?”
“You can ask Claridge,” said Shelley. “He called me only an hour ago.”
“That’s the first you heard of Chechen Mafia.”
“Yes,” said Shelley.
“Doesn’t mean to say you’re in the clear for last night,” said Phillips. “Perhaps you’re just a bunch of fuckwits who decided to take on the Mafia by mistake. A bunch of fuckwits who hit the wrong building. Are you? Are you those fuckwits?”
Shelley looked past his shoulder and into the kitchen, where Bennett, Gurney, and Drake still sat, unable to hear what was going on but watching all the same.
Are we? thought Shelley. Are we really that stupid?
He looked at Gurney. Bennett. Drake.
Are we really that stupid?
He wondered how Lucy was getting on.
CHAPTER 39
SO, THAT WAS Lucy Shelley, thought Susie Drake, motionless on the changing room’s polished-ash bench in the wake of the other woman’s departure. The famous Lucy Shelley.
And then, with a shudder of something that was partly regret and partly desire, she remembered the kiss, a thank-you-for-your-help-today kiss that had become something greater—when, for the briefest moment, David almost hadn’t pulled away.
“I’m sorry,” he’d said at the same time as she was saying the same thing. They’d both reddened. Both surprised and yet not surprised that their sort-of flirtation had been allowed to flower despite the stable base of her rock-solid marriage and his forthcoming one.
And that had been it. One time only.
Still, though. She’d thought about it. She’d lain awake at night thinking about it, thanking God that neither Emma nor Guy, or anybody else for that matter, had blundered into the kitchen and seen them. Thanking God that it had not developed.
Thinking about it developing.
How did he feel? She’d never asked him. They had never discussed the kiss; they’d pretended it never happened. It didn’t matter, though, because although nothing was said, the knowledge still existed between them. It was just . . . there.
Then had come the kidnapping attempt, and he’d announced he was leaving.
She’d been to see him. “I lost concentration,” he told her. He held her gaze and they both knew what he meant, and why. They both knew that his position with the family had been compromised.
“You saved our lives,” she told him, just as she knew Emma had.
“I was lucky,” he replied. “But in my job, you don’t rely on luck. It’s about planning and forethought. Anticipation. That’s what I lost. I’ve been distracted.”
“What about if I don’t want you to go?” she heard herself say.
“It’s better that I go,” he insisted. “It’s better all round if I go.”
She hated herself for what she said next: “Even if it means letting