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“The tube is fine, but thanks for your concern.”
He pulls over and as I open the door and a gust of icy air hits me, I’m almost tempted to take him up on his offer but with a deep sigh instead, I say over my shoulder.
“Thanks for the ride. Enjoy the rest of your life.”
I’m met with silence and as I slam the door, I’m just grateful that I’ll soon be home and to hell with cost cutting. I’m cranking the heating up and sending the bill to Detective Inspector Ranauld.
CHAPTER3
ROBERT
The encounter stays with me for the entire journey home. It was unexpected, interesting, annoying and informative. To be honest, meeting one of my employees is unusual, especially one as far down the command chain as a Christmas temp with an attitude problem. Despite everything though, it was the first time in a very long time that I felt alive.
Perhaps it was because she didn’t know who I was. Her honesty was refreshing, if not unwelcome, and yet it changes nothing. I’m in business, and everything is done with the maximum profit level in mind. I am trying not to remember the way our conversation became a game to win points and I like to believe I won the most, but if I’m honest, it was probably a draw. However, sparring with the hired help is strangely addictive and I’m almost disappointed she didn’t take me up on my offer to complete her journey. Then again, it was probably for the best because it’s unlikely I will ever see her again, and what happened tonight will become a conversation over a dinner table one evening at one of the soulless parties I am forced to endure.
I try to relegate the encounter to the past and flood the car with the usual classical music that calms my weary spirit away from another day of problems, spreadsheets and people trying to become my new best friend. All except one, that is, and for some reason, my heart feels a little lighter than it did when I started this journey. I almost wear a smile on my face when I push through the door of my insanely large mansion in Kensington and fling my keys to the hall table with disdain.
As I rip the tie from my neck and shrug out of my jacket, I distance myself from my corporate identity to relax in my empty home and recharge my soul. Silence. Pure and unadulterated pleasure that calms my spirit and wraps me in comfort.
Solitude. Just what I like. Alone with the trappings of my wealth and shielded from a world that just wants to take all the time. Nobody is interested in the man in sweatpants and a tight t-shirt, watching football on the seventy-inch screen in his private sitting room, surrounded by takeout that was dispatched on the doorstep courtesy of Deliveroo. This is my life and I’m happy with it. My own company is more than good enough and always will be.
My spirits are high when I retreat to my study, knowing that my team remains at the top of the premier league for another week at least. As I pour myself a celebratory brandy, I take up my position behind my desk and reach for the post, kindly organised by my housekeeper, Mrs Grant. As I think of the elderly lady who has served me well over the years, I congratulate myself on an extremely satisfying appointment. We never meet. It’s always best that way and while I work during the day, she manages my home and ensures I have a stocked refrigerator and my affairs are organised.
Following a swig of brandy, I reach for the first letter and, using my silver letter opener I slice it open, relishing the crispness of the paper as I make a clean cut.
A cursory glance tells me it’s not important and I place it in my assistant’s tray to deal with tomorrow when I return to the office. My life runs like clockwork with every eventuality catered for and I deposit my personal post in Sylvia’s tray as I step past her desk in the early hours of the morning, knowing it will get the attention it deserves. Invitations are politely declined and birthdays acknowledged with a card and flowers or a generous bottle of wine.
I sift through the usual junk mail, cards from acquaintances and family, along with the usual bills, and then as my letter opener slices through the final envelope, my heart sinks.
Another one.
The cheap flimsy card with a robin on the front is different to the usual ones I receive and as I open it the stark letters of hate make my eyes bleed.
Men like you don’t deserve to see another Christmas. Enjoy this one, it will be your last.
If I feel anything, it’s anger at the person who believes they have the right to spoil my day and my fist balls as I imagine meeting whoever is sending them one day. I will show no mercy because the kind of person who sends a threat disguised as a greeting is the lowest form of life.
Sighing, I add it to a pile of similar cards and wonder why the police aren’t treating my complaint seriously. It’s been over a week since I first made it and I’ve heard nothing. If it wasn’t for the late hour, I would be straight on the phone to the local station because I am fast running out of patience with this. A man in my position can’t afford to be complacent when it comes to threats, and the fact I live alone is not a blessing in cases like this. The house feels eerie and the silence echoes around me like the demons circling because there is something deep inside me telling me I can’t afford to ignore these cards. One was easily dismissed, two was annoying. However, looking at the pile that is growing by the day, I expect there to be around twenty of them by now.
I push back my seat and head off to check the security is in place because the last thing I need is an intruder intent on a misguided vendetta to make me pay for their own hang ups.
As I check the windows, doors and empty rooms, of which I have many in this ten bedroomed mansion, in one of the most desirable addresses in London, I curse myself for not staying at the waterfront penthouse I usually reserve for any guests visiting town. If anything, that would be a safer option because, as its name suggests, it’s the topmost apartment with security that is so tight, they could store the crown jewels in there and give the Beefeaters the day off.
As I walk, I try to work out who could be doing this. I don’t know many people and I’m not sure I’ve caused anyone to hate me this much personally. The fact I’m a public figure always brings with it a closer scrutiny and I have known of many people in my position to hire a full-time security team because of stalkers and threats just like this. I’m almost considering it but the fact I hate people so much makes that option even worse than opening a threatening letter because then I would have to actually talk to someone. All I want to do is shut myself away and clear my mind of problems at the end of the day.
Once I am reassured that everything is normal, I head to my home gym and start my workout, trying to drive any fear from my mind and concentrate on keeping fit.
However, there is one conversation that just won’t go away and one image of a rather belligerent fairy scowling at me through my rear-view mirror that stays in my mind.
The image of her shapely legs crossing and uncrossing as she berated me, makes my interest grow and the way she rolled her eyes when I spoke makes me smile. For some reason the petite blonde who looked like candy floss with a centre of the sourest lemon, makes me laugh to myself as I picture her let loose on the tube, scowling at anyone who dared cast an amused look in her direction as she hurtled through the tunnels dressed like Tinkerbell. Such a surprising end to a mundane day and the fact I know where she’ll be tomorrow is making me consider breaking my own rule and heading down to reacquaint myself with the vitriolic bad fairy.
The harder I try to distance her from my thoughts, the closer she gets until I can think of nothing else. Even the card pales into the background over my desire to see the fairy again one more time. Perhaps it’s just to banish the image that is growing more fanciful by the minute. Remind myself how irritating people are to me most of the time.
As I shower and get ready for bed, I hope I wake up without this curious need to see her again and yet when I close my eyes, there she is standing behind them, glowering at me and looking as if she would rather be anywhere else.
CHAPTER4
JESSICA
