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He finishes chewing and swallows, heading for the door. ‘Yes, are you actually going to do some work today?’
I scowl at his back as I follow him to his office, taking a seat opposite his desk. ‘Have you heard from the police?’
He falters as he lowers to his chair. ‘No.’
I deflate. There’s nothing like a bit of urgency. ‘Well, I suppose I should be grateful it wasn’t worse.’
Becker removes his glasses and starts cleaning the lenses with the bottom of his T-shirt. ‘I’ve made arrangements for a locksmith to fit some extra security.’
‘Oh,’ I murmur. That’s very good of him. ‘Like what?’
‘Better window locks, for a start.’ He gives me an accusing look, like it’s my fault the window locks aren’t up to scratch. Replacing his glasses, he then takes a pen and starts making a few notes on a pad. ‘Now, let’s get on with this list of things to do,’ he says, all businesslike, getting up and wandering over to the replica of the Shepherd Gate Clock, looking up at the hands. ‘I need the Cashwell file so I can go over it before my meeting next week.’
I cross one leg over the other, and with a lack of a mobile to make notes on, I grab a pad and rest it on my knee, starting to scribble.
‘Have the Constable ready in the viewing room at two fifteen on Thursday. Lord Demontford wants it.’ He reaches up to the clock face and glides his finger across the thick black rim. ‘This needs cleaning. Make arrangements.’
My hand works quickly, writing down his instructions. ‘Oh,’ I say, something coming to me. ‘Paula called.’
‘She did?’
‘Yes, asked how you got on at Countryscape. She sounded surprised when I told her I went with you.’
‘I bet.’ He laughs under his breath. ‘She’ll love that.’
‘Why?’
‘Stepping stones, not leaps,’ he says to himself, drifting off somewhere.
‘What?’
‘I refused to take her. She’s a keen historian. Loves all things Italian and old.’
‘Who is she?’
‘My therapist.’
I go rigid in my chair. ‘Your therapist?’ I’m shocked, for two reasons. One, I’ve unwittingly chatted with her on the phone a few times, and one of those times Becker had me answer the call. He basically set that conversation up. What was the purpose? So she could try to figure me out? Do her research? I feel violated again, and, again, not in a delicious way. The second reason I’m sitting here all quiet is because Becker just told me himself that he’s in therapy, and I don’t know how to react. Yes, I knew, but he doesn’t know that. ‘What are you in therapy for?’
A tired look is pointed at me. ‘Really, princess?’
‘Well, I don’t know what else to say,’ I exclaim, exasperated.
‘We say nothing. That’s why I’m in therapy. To talk.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘Waste of fucking time, anyway.’
Oh? So that’s why he made an emergency call to her the other day, is it? I can’t help wonder what I might say to Paula next time I happen to take her call. Ask her what the verdict is on Becker and me? Does she have an opinion? I inwardly laugh. Of course she does. But she’s not likely to tell me. God, what I’d do to be a fly on the wall during one of their sessions.
‘Oh.’ Becker turns to face me, and I quickly wipe away any traces of my curious mind spinning. ‘Call Sotheby’s. There’s whispers of a few Picasso pieces coming to market.’
‘Sure, I’ll get . . .’ I fade off. ‘Crap.’
‘What?’
‘My new phone is being delivered today, and I’m not there.’
Wandering across to his desk, Becker pulls a drawer open. ‘Hunt saves the day.’ He slides an iPhone across the table. ‘I’ve had your new SIM programmed with your details, so you still have the same number and all your contacts from when you last backed up your phone.’
I stare at it for a few moments, a bit taken aback. ‘You replaced my phone?’
‘Yes.’ His answer is quick and dismissive, but I still don’t receive an apology for him smashing my old one to pieces. ‘It’s all set and ready to go.’
‘How?’ I ask, looking up at him. ‘You’d need my password to transfer all the data.’
‘I have my ways.’
‘Percy,’ I breathe. ‘He hacked my account.’
‘Accessed.’
‘He hacked, Becker. Unlawfully.’ He really is a whizz kid. For the love of God. I pick up the phone on a sigh and scroll through. I haven’t called my mum for a few days. I need to do that. But, again, he hacked my damn account?
‘Who’s David?’
My thumb pauses on the screen at the mention of my ex-boyfriend, and I look up at Becker, finding an apprehensive face. ‘You went through my phone, too?’ I ask, horrified. Oh my God. The texts? Can he see the text messages?
‘He sounds sorry.’
