“How much is it?” I said, sliding unavoidably into a Leicester accent. It came out likeowmuchisit. The answer was £10,000. Daylight robbery. I didn’t have any budget, let alone ten grand. This was the price we paid for not involving our bosses in our investigations. That said, unless it involved photos of exposed celebrity boobs, theBulletinwasn’t dropping ten big ones on a few documents. We’d have to do without the dark web and its dossier.
“How do you reckon these documents got online anyway?” I asked.
“Could be any manner of ways,” Karma explained. “A security breach, perhaps. Hackers. Or there could even be a mole in the business. A whistle-blower. Someone who doesn’t like what the company is doing and wants to tell the world but without risking their position or getting caught.”
The source of any piece of information is as important as the information itself. What we had here was a nugget. But if history had taught us anything, it was that discovering one little piece of gold is all you need to start a gold rush. These documents were a marker, an indicator. Now Ludo and I needed to keep digging to see what other nuggets we could uncover in the hope that it led to a rich seam of pure gold.
“By the way, Sunny.” Leaf suddenly reappeared behind Karma and peered into the screen over the top of his reading glasses. “Do you know someone called Torsten Beaumont-Flattery?”
I said I did and asked why.
“He’s coming to pay us a visit. He won the door prize on Saturday night. Know anything about him?”
“Aside from the fact he’s built like a rugby player who ate three other rugby players?”
Where should I even begin?
Chapter41
Ludo
In honour of the coronation, the Union flag bunting was up, we’d cracked out the Pimm’s horrifically early in the season, and a “greatest British hits of all time” playlist was cranking out of the speakers at a genteel-neighbourhood-appropriate volume. It was one of those beautiful May evenings, and Mummy had the folding doors onto the patio wide open. “Letting the outside in and the inside out” was how the architect had sold the idea to my parents before the big renovation a few years ago. Unfortunately, it also gave the local mosquitos the kind of free range that domesticated chickens can only dream of, and I was being eaten alive.
“Where are the citronella candles, Mummy?” She was hooking a string of fairy lights along the fence, which I appreciated because it’s always nice to not be the gayest thing at a party.
“Ask your father!”
Father was in the kitchen, his usual weekend haunt, marinating something dead. I didn’t really want to disturb him, mostly because it meant I’d have to talk to him, which, today of all days, was a danger to my mental health. Tonight was the first time Sunny would be spending any real amount of time with my family. It was also the first time he’d be meeting Uncle Ben, who was out of both the wheelchair and the hospital now but still weak. I really wanted it to go well.
I turned to Jonty, who was struggling to light the firepit.
“Bet you’re now regretting all those misspent afternoons skiving off Boy Scouts to go hang out with girls down by the canal,” I said.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ludovic. That was a marvellous investment. I got to touch Laura Pettigrew’s breasts.”
“Oh, yes! Heavy Pettigrew,” I recalled. “Didn’t she marry an earl or something?”
“He’s a viscount,” Jonty snapped. I scratched at my arm, irritating a mozzie bite.
“Only a viscount? How the mighty breasts have fallen. Do you know where the citronella candles are?”
“Cupboard under the stairs?”
The doorbell rang, the buzz amplified through the home security system. Our guests had started to arrive.
“Can someone get that?” Father called out. “I’m in the marinade.”
“Need me to hold your head under?” I said, sotto voce. Jonty snorted.
The doorbell rang again. The originally planned dinner party had grown into an actual party, with a horde of guests. But I thought the likelihood of the person at the door being either Sunny or Uncle Ben was high, so I volunteered to answer it. I dashed through the house, tripping on the hall runner and falling hard on my hip and elbow. The doorbell rang again. I picked myself up and inspected the damage in the hall mirror. There’d at least be a bruised elbow in the morning. I straightened my glasses and my hair, tucked my shirt back in to make sure I looked presentable, and opened the door. It was King George VII. Well, it was Sunny, his freckled visage hidden behind a King George mask.
“Hello, lowly subject,” he said.
“My liege.” I bowed.
Sunny removed the ridiculous mask to reveal a cheeky grin. His coppery hair was either still wet from the shower or freshly gelled. Weekend Sunny waswaymore scally boy than workaday Sunny, and golly, it was unbearably sexy. He was wearing essentially the same outfit as he’d worn to the fundraiser—a white shirt, black skinny jeans, and trainers—but he had added a light-blue hoodie, which was unzipped to the waist. He was holding a four-pack of ciders. He looked like an ASOS model. He looked as hot as hell. He opened his mouth to speak.
“You look?—”
