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chapter 49
alex
‘Jesus H. Christ!’ Quinn Wilde cries, staggering backwards. ‘What the fuck! You’ve broken my nose!’
I have no sympathy. The woman jumped out at me from the shadows in the middle of south London at close to midnight. What did she think would happen?
Coolly, I pick up the Amazon box from the steps. ‘Fuck off, Quinn,’ I say, pushing open my front door.
‘You’re just going to leave me here?’
‘Looks that way.’
The woman tries to stem the bleeding with her good hand, but she’s struggling to keep her balance. ‘Would you just help me the fuck inside?’ she says.
Even under the best of circumstances, I’m not kindly disposed towards journalists, especially the bitch who eviscerated me on live television. But blood is pouring from her nose and I can’t leave her exsanguinating on the street.
I indicate curtly for her to come in. ‘Five minutes, then you’re gone.’
She shoves past me. I fasten the security bolt, take off my coat and join her in the kitchen where she’s sitting at my tiny breakfast table like she owns the place, her head tilted back. ‘I need ice! Come on!’
‘For God’s sake,’ I mutter, but I get her an ice pack from the freezer.
‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ she says, her single eye fixing me with a malign glare as she holds the ice to her face. ‘Do you try out your fucking ninja moves every time someone comes to the door?’
‘Give me a break. You shouldn’t have crept up on me.’
I take a bottle of single malt from the kitchen cabinet and pour myself a thick finger without asking if she’d like one. I knock a third of it back in a single gulp. ‘Why are you here?’
‘First off, I don’t want to hear any shit from you,’ she says. ‘I’m not your favourite person, I get that. And trust me, I don’t like you either.’
‘Good to know.’
She shifts in the kitchen chair, clearly in pain. I could ask her if she’d like to move to the sitting room, to more comfortable chairs, but I don’t.
‘I’ve been covering this story since the beginning,’ she says. ‘I don’t use official channels. There’s a kid who works for me, Danny. He’s a private investigator and brilliant at what he does. A lot better than the guy who’s been fleecing your Foundation for the past two years.’
‘Low bar,’ I say.
‘No shit, Alex.’
I shrug, but take another slug of my drink and let her finish.
‘Danny tracked Ian Dutton down to Dubai, where he’s been living since he skipped town.’ Her blue gaze suddenly sharpens. ‘But you knew that, didn’t you? Someone got to him before we did and I’ll bet you know something about that, too.’
‘Where’s this going, Quinn?’
‘Catherine Lord. Well, Catherine Harding, these days, of course.’
Nowshe has my attention.
In and of itself, the fact that Harriet’s childhood friend went to the same college as me and met the same football coach isn’t that remarkable. Six degrees of separation connect us all. It could just be coincidence that Cathy became friends with my best friend’s fiancée and ended up a bridesmaid at Marc’s wedding.
But two weeks ago, I saw Lottie on a train with a woman who was wearing the logo of the holiday home where Cathy grew up. That feels like one coincidence too many to me.
I take a second tumbler from the cupboard and pour Quinn a whisky. ‘OK. I’m listening,’ I say, holding it out to her.
She hesitates for a moment, and then takes it. ‘Ever wondered why Paul Harding married Catherine?’ she asks.
