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We stride to the door, and it flies open before we can use the grand lion head knocker. Seb swerves quickly enough to avoid the wood hitting him in the face. After knowing what he and Rose got up to last night, I find myself disappointed that it doesn’t—even though I have no right to be jealous.
In the doorway, Spencer is wearing nothing but flannel pyjama bottoms, exposing his hairy chest and the start of a beer belly that’ll only grow with age. Partying catches up with everyone eventually. Black rings circle his eyes, and his dilated pupils dart around wildly from whatever drugs he’s taken. Paranoia has kicked in.
“Look who it is,” Spencer mocks, stepping aside to let us pass. “You finally showed up.”
His housekeeper approaches, carrying a silky robe. Spencer doesn’t thank her. He snatches it from the elderly woman’s fingers, making her squeak and scurry away.
Before we can speak, he launches into a tirade. “I thought I hired the best when I recruited you.” We won’t be getting an invitation to sample any whisky this time. “But another man is dead! This isn’t what I expected. For the money I’m paying, you should have found the party responsible by now.”
I grit my teeth, trying to stay professional despite wanting to tell him to stick his demands where the sun doesn’t shine. Spencer is an influential figure. If he’s unhappy with our services, it’ll affect our business if word gets around.
“We’re working on it,” Seb says. “We—”
Spencer shuts him down by waving his hands like he’s trying to shoo a bird out of the room.
“I want to talk to the organ grinder, not the monkey,” Spencer says, waggling his finger at Seb, “especially one who is playing at being a protector. Don’t think I don’t recognise you, Sebastian Montgomery. What would your family think if they knew what you’re doing?”
Seb comes from a privileged background and has more connections than anyone I know. His network is invaluable to the Dukes, and his anonymity is paramount.
I step in. “Do you remember our contract? You are bound to protect the Dukes’ identities.” I narrow my eyes venomously, and the colour drains from Spencer’s face, instantly sobering him up. “Do you want to know what would happen if you broke our contract?”
“Is that a threat?” Spencer demands, trying to sound brave when he’s nothing more than a stuttering schoolboy throwing a tantrum.
“I’m no one’s fucking monkey.” Seb cracks his knuckles to make a point. “I could destroy everything you’ve built with one phone call.”
“We’re the best at what we do,” I say smoothly. “You hired us to keep you alive, and, from what I can see, you’re still breathing.” Unfortunately. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and tell us more about Doyle Jackson?”
“Follow me,” Spencer mutters, inclining his head. He continues mumbling to himself as he staggers along the corridor, but none of his sentences makes sense. We follow his swaying figure into the parlour. The room’s sole purpose is to show off his wealth. Statues are positioned around the edge of the room like a ghastly museum, lights illuminate original paintings, and there are a few sofas for guests. Despite the decadence, the room is in disarray.
“I fired my cleaners,” Spencer says. “All I have left is my housekeeper. She’s been with me for years, but she’s not as good as she used to be.”
“No shit,” Seb mumbles, quiet enough so Spencer can’t hear.
Empty glasses, remnants of cocaine on the coffee table, and brimming ashtrays cover most surfaces. Half-eaten food precariously balances on expensive furniture and discarded cigarettes have burned holes in chair arms. Stacks of paper are everywhere, and we have to pick our way across the floor with caution. His drug addiction or hoarding will kill him before the killer at this rate.
“Are you ready to talk about your accountant now?” I ask, checking my watch. “What happened?”
“Doyle’s wife found his body. She was away for the weekend, and he was face down in their hot tub with flowers floating in the water when she returned.” Spencer kneels to rummage through a stack of files. “They’re doing a post-mortem. I know the coroner, and he’s going to report back to me.”
“He was last seen with a woman, correct?” I prompt. “Where was he last seen?”
“A restaurant not far from here,” Spencer says. “But the CCTV was broken that night. Some kind of technical fault.”
I exchange a look with Seb. Is he thinking what I am? This can’t be a coincidence. Whoever is killing Spencer’s men is exhibiting high levels of training, with experience and resources. That sounds like some other people we know…
“Ah-ha!” Spencer declares, pulling a file from a stack like a Jenga block and knocking the tower over. He thrusts the papers into my hands and grimaces. “Here are pictures from the scene.”
Seb peers over my shoulder as I open it to see a bloated face staring back.
Spencer leans over and points at the decking. “You’ll want to see that.”
I keep flicking through the photographs, and my stomach sinks like a lead balloon when I read the pink lipstick scrawl over the white bathroom floor:
With love, the K.C.
Pieces of the puzzle slot into place. We’re not hunting for two separate people. The Killers Club is behind it all. The sophistication, multiple descriptions of offenders, and why Bram was snatched from outside Spencer’s mansion all make sense.
“Everyone knew Doyle screwed around,” Spencer says. “He liked his women, and his wife didn’t care as long as the money was coming in. Does the note help?” He studies my face. “Do you know who we’re dealing with?”
