Zander walked around to open my door, something I couldn’t recall a man ever doing before, then motioned to the left.
“Elevator or stairs?”
“Stairs.”
I’d been stuck in an elevator once. What a miserable three hours that had been. The intercom didn’t work, the lights went out, and I couldn’t even sit down because some filthy scrote had peed on the floor.
When Zander opened the door at the top, I expected to see a hallway full of doors, because that was how every other apartment building I’d been in worked, but instead, I found myself in an art museum. An air-conditioned palace. Everything was white—the walls, the floor, the side table, the couch along one wall—except for a huge multicoloured chandelier made from blown glass and a painting of a woman who’d been put together all wrong. I looked around in case there was a pickled shark too, but thankfully no.
“What is this place?” I whispered.
“Emmy’s home. Hmm, is that…” Zander stepped closer to the painting.
“A Picasso?” Alaric’s voice came from behind us. “Yes. Bradley rearranged the art collection.”
“I heard a rumour they had one, but… It’s impressive. Surprised they’ve put it on display like this.”
“Art’s made to be enjoyed, not hidden away in vaults.”
“Alaric. It’s been a long time.”
“Zander.” The men shook hands. “Life treating you well?”
“Not bad. I got married.”
“Congratulations. Your sister okay?”
“Define ‘okay.’ She’s dating a rock star, and I’m not sure whether to go all big brother or welcome him to the family.”
“Travis Thorne? I thought the girl in the gossip columns looked familiar. Wasn’t his band involved in some sort of murder investigation?”
“All resolved now, thankfully. I guess as rock stars go, he’s not such a bad guy.”
His sister was dating Travis Thorne? Most of the time, I listened to the electronic shit Howie played in the club, but I’d still heard of Travis freaking Thorne. The guy wasn’t just a rock star, he was a rock god.
A buzzer sounded, and a screen lit up beside what I assumed was the front door. The picture was surprisingly clear, and my mouth watered when I saw the outline of a pizza delivery bag in the caller’s hands.
“The rest of dinner’s here,” Alaric said. “Good to see you again, buddy.”
Zander vanished back down the stairs, and Alaric left me alone in the hallway while he went to fetch the pizza. Alone with a freaking Picasso. I was surprised he trusted me not to steal it after the vehicle incident. Incidents. Did he know I’d borrowed the van this afternoon? I figured I’d find out soon enough. If he decided to kick me out, hopefully I’d manage to snarf down most of dinner first.
When Alaric returned with not one but three pizzas plus a trio of sides, he herded me towards the back of the house. I was basically lost by the time we reached a kitchen bigger than the former pub I lived in. Emmy stood on the far side with a steaming dish in her hands. She cooked as well?
I tried to look at her nose without being obvious. It didn’t seem to be any more swollen than earlier, but I spotted an ice pack on the marble island in the middle of the room.
“Eat in here?” she asked. “I can’t be arsed to carry stuff to the dining room and all the way back again.”
The kitchen table seated twelve. There was a dining room as well? Oh, who was I kidding? Of course there was a dining room.
“Fine by me,” Alaric said.
Was I supposed to chime in too? “I’m just here for the pizza.”
“You’re clearly not, since you showed up at the office before we ordered it.” Emmy set the dish down on a leather mat, and the delicious aroma of cheese drifted in my direction. “And I’m curious—why were you so keen to leave this afternoon that you stole a van, yet you came back?”
“Because I thought I’d better follow the dude with the painting, and I wasn’t sure I’d have enough cash for a taxi.”
“Why didn’t you call Alaric?”
“Because my stupid phone broke.” I slapped it onto the table just in case she didn’t believe me, and another crack appeared in what was left of the screen. “And I couldn’t see him inside. Look, it was either borrow the van or lose the guy. Spare me the lecture on morality, okay?”
Emmy held up her hands. “No lecture from me.”
“What dude with the painting?” Alaric asked.
“Some American guy. At least, I think he had the painting.” I paused to grab a slice of pizza. There was no Hawaiian, but in the gourmet chow stakes, peppers, sweetcorn, tomatoes, olives, and extra cheese came a close second. “He stopped for a cigarette, then drove to the airport. I did what you said—stayed well back and didn’t crowd him—and I’m pretty sure he didn’t spot me.”
“Why do you think he had the painting? You saw the box?”
“No, I smelled it. His suitcase whiffed of the body spray that exploded in Bethany’s car. I guess he could just have liked eau de candy floss, but it would’ve been quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”
“What do I think? I think I want to kiss your feet. Did you see which terminal the man went to?”
“No, because some arsehole blocked the van in and I couldn’t follow. But the dude got picked up from outside the car hire place by a big black BMW with ‘VIP Service’ on the door. Guess he’s rich.”
“You’re not wrong there,” Emmy said. “The VIP lounges are hidden away in Terminal Five, and they’re bloody expensive.” But I bet she’d been in them. “If you don’t know they’re there, you won’t find them. The entrance is just a plain white door in a nondescript corridor. Getting the client list won’t be easy, but we can try.”
“Might be easier to go for the rental agency,” Alaric said. “Did he return a car?”
“Yup.” I channelled Zander, then took another bite of pizza.
“Which company did he use? Maybe we can find a name.”
“London Luxe, and his name’s Stéphane Hegler.”
Oh, how satisfying. Alaric’s mouth dropped open, and even Emmy looked gobsmacked.
Finally he asked, “How do you know that?”
I put my slice of pizza down long enough to root through my handbag and slid the crumpled rental agreement in their direction.
“Because of this. But I guess he might’ve used a fake passport. Money can buy you anything, right?”
Sometimes even taste. I wanted to hate Emmy’s home, but if I’d had about a zillion pounds to spare, I’d have picked out furniture just like hers.
“How did you get this?”
“Waited until Hegler left, then went up to the counter and pretended I’d left my jacket in a rental car the week before.” The idiot behind the desk didn’t even question why I’d bothered to visit the office rather than phoning like a normal person. Probably because he was too busy staring at my tits. Pervert. “When the guy on duty buggered off to check the lost-property box, I swiped the paperwork and left. And yes, I kept my head down so my face isn’t on camera.”