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A blush crept up Summer’s neck and into her cheeks. It was ridiculous to hate inanimate objects, but ever since Tommy Lyon told her Michael’s bike had been a gift from his lover, she had loathed the thing as vehemently as if it had been a person.
“Well,” the manager said smoothly, “we don’t sell very many bikes, to be frank with you. I’d probably remember the sale, if you told me the name of the purchaser.”
“That’s the thing. I know my friend’s name, obviously. I have his certificate of ownership here. But I don’t know who actually paid for the bike.”
She handed the registration document to the manager. It took a few moments for Michael’s name to register.
“De Vere. Not the De Vere? The home secretary’s boy?”
“That’s right.”
Summer waited for the sympathetic platitudes. Instead she was met by a hostile glare.
“How did you get this?” All the manager’s former friendliness was gone. “Are you a journalist? Because if you’re sniffing around for a scandal, you won’t find it here. All our merchandise is checked and double-checked, understand?”
“As a matter of fact, I am a journalist,” Summer said a
ngrily. She resented the way people in Britain put journalists on a par with pedophiles and murderers. As if they didn’t all buy newspapers or watch television. “But as it happens, I’m not here in a professional capacity. I’m Michael De Vere’s girlfriend. And I’m not looking for scandal, just information. There may have been a fault with the Panigale.”
“Not when it left here there wasn’t.”
“Would you have a record of who paid for the bike?” Summer asked wearily. “That’s all I want to know.”
The manager relented a little. If she really was the De Vere boy’s girlfriend, she’d been through a tough time. “I don’t know. We might have. Follow me.”
Summer accompanied him through the marble atrium into a poky office at the side of the building. Here a much less glamorous secretary in a Next polyester suit tapped away at a computer.
“What was the date of the purchase?” the manager asked.
Summer told him, “It would have been some time between July first and July twentieth of last year.”
He turned to his secretary. “Karen, would you check those dates for me? Looking for a Panigale Ducati motorcycle.”
After some more tapping and a few seconds’ wait, the secretary said brightly, “Yup. Here we are. July twelfth. Paid for in full, by wire transfer.”
Summer asked hopefully, “Is there a name?”
More tapping. “Nope. ’Fraid not. No name. Just an account number, and a SWIFT code. Citibank Zurich.”
The disappointment felt like a punch to the stomach.
“Thank you for your help anyway.”
The manager handed Michael’s documents back to Summer, looking a little sheepish. “Sorry about before,” he mumbled. “I got the wrong end of the stick.”
“That’s all right.”
Summer left the office and had almost reached her car when the secretary came running out after her.
“Miss. Miss!” she panted. “Was it red, the bike? A ‘boy racer’ sort of thing?”
Summer nodded. “That’s right.”
“I remember it,” the secretary said triumphantly. “I remember the buyer ’n all. It was a woman. She came to collect it herself.”
“Can you describe her?”
The secretary thought about it. “She was American. Dark hair. Quite pretty.”
