The other number on speed dial was Aisling’s. There was no point in calling her. His eldest sister was hundreds of miles away across land and sea, tending to the farm.
Shite.
The bright lights of the big city dulled in his vision. What he’d give to be mucking out the cows right now.
The car slowed to a stop and Fletcher peered out of the window. It was like any other residential street. Well, any other street where the houses were worth well into the millions. The row of terraces he pulled up beside were Georgian town houses, and a gated entrance blocked off the private land from the rest of the neighbours. Diego wound down his window, pressed in a passcode on the keypad beside him, and they were granted access with the gates racketing open.
Fletcher should’ve been panicking. But somehow the sweeping entrance awash with greenery and brightly coloured just-flowering plants didn’t scream immediate danger. This was the suburbs. The rich, made-in-Chelsea suburbs. Nothing ever happened behind these picket fences.
Did it?
Tallulah Payne entered his head. Followed by the words uttered earlier by DI Grimsby. “You never get a call out in Chiswick...”
Double shite.
The passenger door opened and Diego gestured for him to get out. He did. He’d learned his lesson and was ready to cooperate. Fully. So he slid out from the back seat and stood. His height matching Diego’s, he met with the man’s churlish grin. But the smile fell from his lips when Fletcher’s pocket sprang into action, piercing a high-pitched ting and vibrating his leg.
Diego held out a hand. “Grazi.”
As Fletcher pulled the phone from his pocket, he gave a fleeting glance at the display before handing it across. Heston.
In a way Fletcher was relieved that he’d been concerned enough to at least call. Another part of him, the destructive part, wanted him to go to hell.
But Diego took all options away when he slammed a thumb on answer and breezily said into the phone, “Ciao, lover. Diego, here.” His camp trill made Fletcher’s eyes drift to a close. “Pietoso! Fletcher can’t come to the phone right now. He’s all tied up.” Diego winked, his voice husky enough to suggest the shackles weren’t all that unwelcome. “Ciao bello.” He clicked off the call and pocketed the phone before shoving Fletcher to walk up to the front door.
Diego pushed the bell and the ding dong echoed out to the main porch. Even though the two heavies were as silent as ever behind him, Fletcher could feel their overbearing presence. His throat dry, Fletcher swallowed with difficulty. He clenched his hands together in front of him to at least attempt to curtail much of his tremulous shaking. He had no idea who, or what, was behind that door. Or what was going to happen when it opened.
Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.
He wasn’t completely off the mark when Kris Sharpe filled the entranceway, dressed down in leisure wear and red face sweating as though he’d been working out.
Even more unnerving was that he smiled, then held out a welcoming hand.
“Fletcher. Welcome. Thank you for coming,” he said, the voice ingratiating as though he were in front of a camera.
Fletcher had to peer behind him to check there wasn’t a crew filming this bizarre meet and greet. In a way, that would make sense. Maybe Kris was presenting a new practical joke daytime TV show? But the ghostly pinpricks stabbing his spine told him otherwise.
Fletcher didn’t shake Kris’s hand. Instead, he asked, “What’s this about?”
Kris retracted his arm, sliding a towel from around his neck and swiped it over his face. “Apologies, Fletcher. I can imagine this has come as quite a surprise.”
“You could say that.” Fletcher flicked his gaze to Diego beside him. He responded with a sweetness and light smile.
“Come in, please.” Kris opened the door wider. “I do hope they weren’t too morose during your journey here. They can be a teensy bit grumpy on occasion.” He indicated to the three men standing guard. The three men who had manhandled him into the back of a vehicle, sped off and raised pistols into his face. Morose seemed an ill-chosen word.
Fletcher wasn’t going to step inside. If he had a choice, he’d remain on the doorstep in full view of the public. Which was limited, considering this was private land, but it still felt slightly better for him to be outside the confines of brick walls. But he was shoved in the back and that took his choice away. So he followed Kris into the startling decor of a millionaire’s house.
It was light, airy, rather unexpected for a terraced property. But these weren’t the standard two-up two-down of a council-run estate. This was expensive decor and fine craftsmanship. White walls, antique paintings, modern art, along with a few cabinets displaying the best of the best accolades in media trophies. Fletcher took it all in as he walked through on unsteady legs to a reception room, hazarding a guess it was one of many.
“Please, sit.” Kris sat on one cream leather sofa, pointing to one the other side of a glass coffee table on which various magazines were fanned out on display. Fletcher spotted the most recent copy of London Lights poking out of the shiny glossies.
Fletcher sat. Diego and his henchmen hovered by the exit, blocking his departure gate, as it were. He wasn’t fooled by the hospitality of the host. Not when it had taken three men to get him here. He’d remain vigilant for as long as he could breathe.
“Can I get you a drink?” Kris asked. “Tea, coffee? Or, wait, I do have a tin of the black stuff out the back.”
Fletcher narrowed his eyes. Stereotyping really pissed him off. Even if Guinness was his drink of choice, he refused. Politely.
“Fair enough.” Kris waved him off as a glass of ice water was handed to him by Diego. He took a large swig before wiping his mouth with the towel dangling from his neck. “Forgive me. I have limited time to work out. I was getting in a quick spin class before your arrival.” He motioned over to the conservatory. An exercise bike was propped up before a plasma screen that wasn’t acting as a simple clothes horse like his own.
“You could have just asked me to come.” Fletcher met Kris’s gaze once more. “You didn’t need the heavies.”
Kris glanced up to Diego and the other two men. “Oh, these guys? Sorry, yes, I can see why they might be intimidating. We’ve had to heighten our own personal security since…well, since, you know. It’s for your safety as well as my own.”
“My safety?” Fletcher wanted to laugh at the absurdity.
“Fletcher, who are you working for right now?”
“Excuse me?”
“Are you still maintaining you are a London Lights reporter? Or is that a cover for the real deal?”
Fletcher wriggled in the seat, squirming under the scrutiny. “I don’t—”
“Where is Jackson?”
“You forced me here to tell you where Jackson is?”
“No. I wanted you here to help you.”
“Help me?” Fletcher snorted. “Forgive me, Kris, for not feeling like this is an act of chivalrous aid.”
“If only I had done the same for Tallulah, I’m sure she would respond with the same churlishness. She, too, believed herself to be in no danger.”
Fletcher swallowed. And shut up.
“Jackson is unstable. He has been for quite some time and I can only blame myself, as his co-star and friend, that I didn’t notice the signs earlier nor do anything to help. That will forever sit with me.” He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and crossed himself. “I apologise for my behaviour when you visited me at work. I wasn’t expecting to be confronted. I reacted badly. I’ve had time to calm down and realise that I can make amends here. I can at least help you.”