“You’ve seen paperwork?” Ludo asked. “You’ve got copies?”
“Goodness yes,” Leaf said.
“Where’d you get them?” I asked. Leaf said nothing. He pointed at Karma, who was smiling and blushing in equal measure.
“I dabble on the dark web,” she said.
I looked at Ludo. His eyes had turned a piercing ice blue. He nodded. We both knew what we had. A massive story—if the evidence stacked up.
Through the sound system came a posh voice I took to be Jonty Boche, welcoming guests to the fundraiser and reminding everyone to pop their business cards into the bowl on the bar for a chance to win “the rat-d’or prize.” The formal part of the event was kicking off. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and handed it to Karma.
“Can we get your number?” I asked.
* * *
After the speeches, several free glasses of champagne, and a good hour of patient small talk with random guests, there was still no sign of Ludo’s parents anywhere. Had I got off scot-free? We escaped to what we thought was a suitably private and darkened corner. Massive tactical error. Meeting Hugo and Beverley Barker-Boche would have been intimidating even in the ideal circumstances. Meeting them when you’ve got their son pressed against the wall of a nightclub, one hand up his shirt and your tongue down his throat, was, let’s just say, not the classiest first impression I had ever made. Hugo cleared his throat. I looked up, saw the editor of one of the nation’s most respected daily newspapers, and stopped groping his son. I jumped back. Ludo shoved his glasses back on. We straightened ourselves and stood upright like we were two of the von Trapp children, ready for inspection. OK, problematic analogy, but that’s the gist.
“Friend of yours?” Hugo asked. Ludo fiddled fruitlessly with the long curls of his fringe, trying to mash them into place behind his ear.
“Are you going to introduce us, sweetheart?” Beverley said, playing good cop to Hugo’s bad cop. Ludo seemed stunned into silence. I didn’t know what to say.
“Hello, Sunny,” Hugo said. “Sunny Miller, this is my wife, Beverley. The mother of the young man whose entire face you’ve just had inside your mouth. Beverley, this is Sunny Miller of theBulletinand, most recently, our son’s tonsils. Sunny’s currently enjoying five minutes of notoriety for standing outside Downing Street during this week’s reshuffle and shouting ‘The PM changes your briefs more often than you do’ at old Tubby Kerslake.”
I swallowed a laugh. I still found it hilarious.
“That was you!” Beverley shrieked. “I say! Well done.”
“Deeply unfair. Tubby is a first-rate chap,” Hugo said, his face stern. “Known him since school.”
Of course he had.
“Second-rate minister, though, you have to admit,” Beverley said. Hugo’s face did not admit any such thing. I put out my hand and shook Beverley’s and Hugo’s in turn.
“Good to see you, Hugo,” I said. “Lovely to meet you, Mrs Boche.”
“Barker-Boche,” Hugo corrected.
“Call me Beverley, please.” She was still playing the good cop. Maybe she was just a genuinely nice person? From her demeanour, you’d never guess she produced a TV show that attracted six million viewers each Monday night and had brought down entire governments with its investigations. Beverley wielded her power more subtly than her husband. At least in a nightclub scenario.
“Sorry about that,” I said, pointing my thumb over my shoulder towards the scene of the kissing crime. “I’m… from the Midlands.”
Beverley laughed a full-throated laugh, and I was relieved my joke had landed. Mums always love me. She leant in conspiratorially.
“Well, I’m from Hampshire, and unless things have changed in the last thirty years, we snog in nightclubs down there too. Only don’t tell my mother.”
Hugo seemed less impressed.
“Nothing to say for yourself, Ludo?”
Ludo said nothing for himself.
“So, how long hasthis”—Hugo waggled a finger back and forth between us—“been going on?”
I wasn’t sure whether Hugo just didn’t like me or whether he was also worried I’d compromise his son, that perhaps I was just getting close to him to try to steal leads on stories. It was precisely why journos shouldn’t date other journos. I could smell the sense of professional competition on him. I didn’t know how to reply. Why was Ludo not speaking? Had he been cryogenically frozen in situ?
“I bet it was Shetland,” Beverley said. “Ludo came back from that trip a completely different young man from the one who went up there. Didn’t I say to you, Hugo, I said I think Ludo’s met someone special.”
Hugo grunted.
