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“Because Robert Harvey isn’t just rich, detective, he’s a billionaire, and that’s a whole lot of reasons to ruin his Christmas.”
As I glance down at the photograph, I wonder about the personality behind the man staring rather superciliously into the camera and shrug mentally as I consider my mission. My thoughts turn to my instructions and Detective Inspector Ranauld says gravely, “You start today. Report to the staff entrance at Harvey’s. The instructions are in the folder. If I were you, I’d grab a coffee and study the file because I have arranged your induction in one hour’s time.”
His phone rings, causing him to say curtly, “I have faith in you, Jessica. If anyone can discover what’s going on inside Harvey’s, you can.”
As I head out of my superior officer’s office, it’s with a great deal of self-importance as I wander towards my desk. A few pairs of curious eyes turn in my direction, but I catch none of them. I am close with no one for a very good reason. I don’t have time to forge friendships and get dragged down in office politics. They are my colleagues who stopped trying to include me in their alcohol induced circle months ago and I’m guessing none of them are that interested in what went on in the office, anyway.
CHAPTER1
JESSICA
The woman staring at me with a worried frown makes me wonder what she’s hiding. As instructed, I read the file and discovered that Robert Harvey is much like me. A man after my own heart and not somebody with a wide circle of friends. His entire life appears to be work and more work and I admire him for that.
Clearing her throat, the woman who introduced herself as Hazel Armstrong says with a slight quiver to her voice,
“Um, well, if you’ve finished, I’ll show you to your locker.”
She stands and as I rise to follow her, she casts a strange look in my direction, and I wonder if I’ve found my man already. Then again, I have been known to intimidate people with the arrogance I wear like a second skin. She is probably wondering why an obviously successful woman like me was hired for mere shop work, and I can’t blame her. I would come to the same conclusion and so I smile superciliously and say somewhat sharply, “How long have you worked here, Miss Armstrong?”
“Oh, it’s Mrs and um, seven years.”
I make a mental note that she’s married, which means I’ll need to research her husband as well and I say conversationally, “What does your husband do for a living?”
“He’s a taxi driver for Cabtex.”
My ears prick up because it has been well documented that particular company doesn’t reward its staff well and I wonder if they are struggling.
“Do you live in London, Mrs Armstrong?”
“Cheam.”
“I see.”
If she thinks my questions are strange, she doesn’t show it and just scurries beside me like a dog on the end of its master’s lead.
We pass through corridors into an older part of the store, and I note the rather crumbling walls and lack of paint, which is the antithesis of the rest of the smartly styled store. In fact, Harvey’s is radiating wealth due to its marble floors and fashionable styling. It appears that Mr Harvey likes the finer things in life and hasn’t held back on making this store a prestigious place to shop in.
She pushes open a huge fire door and says, slightly breathlessly, “Here we are. You should find everything you need in the locker.”
“Like what?”
I’m a little confused, and she says brightly, “If the, um, uniform doesn’t fit, you know where to find me. Once you’ve changed, head to the fourth floor and ask for Dusty Bennett. He’s the department manager and will show you the ropes.”
I am mildly interested in what this position will involve and whatever it is, Detective Ranauld obviously feels this is the best possible start to my investigation and I nod, mentally dismissing Mrs Armstrong already.
“Thank you.”
She seems grateful to leave and as I swing open the door to the locker provided, I blink in disbelief at the layers of tulle and sequins winking back at me.
Reaching out, I grab hold of the material and draw out what appears to be a fairy costume.
“Mrs Armstrong!” I call out, but the silence tells me she’s out of earshot, so I race to the door and shout at her retreating figure as she almost sprints down the corridor.
“Mrs Armstrong!” I call louder and only the slamming fire door tells me she never heard or has decided to ignore me.
“What’s up, love?”
A kind voice comes from behind and I see a man pushing a floor cleaner towards me.
