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He almost ignored it, the call of the fresh set of clothes and shave being strong, but found he couldn’t and, when he glanced at the identity of his caller, he was glad he hadn’t.
Franco was not only his personal lawyer, he was one of the few people who were privy to the true story of his father’s suicide. Of course, the scandal had been big at the time, and was out there in the public arena since yesterday’s news. But only a handful of people knew the truth, and Franco was one of them.
He trusted the younger man implicitly and his forensic mind had been invaluable in following the trail of destroyed lives and unravelling the multiple identities of Tor and finally tracking him down.
‘Franco...?’
‘Are you watching this?’
‘Watching what?’
‘The latest victim of your revenge... How did it go yesterday? Well, looks like she is involved, or at least the police think so—they’re interviewing all the charity trustees. You must be feeling very happy right now. Oh, hell, but this is not a pretty sight. I could almost feel sorry for her.’
‘Her who...?’ He knew he just wanted to be wrong.
‘Anna Randall. Looks like you were right and sheisguilty, but nothing I found suggested... I know her name is on the board of trustees but she has never attended a meeting and—’
Soren, alert now, his voice urgent, his shower forgotten, cut across his friend. ‘What channel?’
‘Are you kidding? All of them.’
‘Right, stay on the line. I might be needing you.’ Soren turned to the images on his laptop screen and unmuted the live feed broadcast.
‘These scenes we’re watching are of the granddaughter of the disgraced philanthropist Henry Randall, outside the building owned by her grandfather, who is being escorted to the police station, where she is helping with enquiries. People are asking, Tania, how deep does this scandal go? I understand that the sources you have spoken to are denying any government involvement...?’
Soren pressed ‘mute’ andwatched the images on his screen of the modern-day witch trial.
What had Franco said?Happy?
Anna, a slim, upright figure dwarfed by the two uniformed figures that flanked her protectively—though not protectively enough to stop her being jostled to the point where she was swamped enough to disappear from view completely at intervals. While the rent-a-mob media crowd—clearly there had been some tip-off—pushed in, firing their inane aggressive questions as they extended their microphones, waving them into her face as she walked, her chin high, displaying the sort of dignified calm under fire that few could have achieved.
Her head didn’t go down, she continued to look straight ahead. It was a masterclass in dignity and as he watched her face, the pallor pronounced against the dark chestnut of her hair, he felt his admiration collide with a surge of emotion that he refused to recognise as protectiveness.
Soren swore. This was what he had wanted.
But it so wasn’t. He wanted revenge, he wanted justice, but this was not justice and Anna Randall was not his target. Tor should have been standing there, his head bowed in disgrace, not his granddaughter, and even if she was not an innocent, if she was involved at some level, she did not deserve this.
He blanked the screen because, mocked the voice in his head,You can’t see it so it’s not happening—andyoumade it happen.
Innocent or not. Hell, that woman had guts!
He came to a decision.
‘Franco, I need you to do something for me...’ Soren detailed his requests, his friend and personal lawyer listened.
‘So we’re helping her? She isn’t the enemy?’
An image of Anna Randall flashed into his head...her dark chestnut hair a cloud around her face. She was a woman who disturbed him on more than one level.
‘She’s a total pain.’
‘All right... I see,’ said Franco, who didn’t. ‘OK, give me... I’ll get back to you in...just actually don’t hang up.’
A few hours previously Anna’s only experience of the press was putting an advert in the local paper to ask if anyone had lost a cat, or could give a good home to the six kittens it had given birth to under her bed.
Her only experience of the police was...well, actually, she didn’t have any. Not even a parking ticket. She looked round the anonymous magnolia room, the two chairs on the opposite side of the table, the closed blind on the small high window all adding to the sense of claustrophobia. The only sound was of her knee spasmodically hitting the table; even with both hands pressed to it she couldn’t stop the nervous jerking tic.
This was all insane—the police wanted to know how much she knew.
