“Give me her number.”
“Don’t have it.”
“Jane at reception will give it to you.”
“Yeah, all right.”
While he waited, Simon thought how little he knew about Lucy. He’d found her at the bar of the Dorchester hotel. Not quite a pro, but getting ready to test the waters. Beneath the makeup and the overconfidence, she appeared a frightened, desperate girl nearing the end of her rope. He bought her a pint and she spilled her story. Broken home, dad left the country, mom remarried, the new husband hit on Lucy. When she told the husband to fuck off, he lied and said she’d come on to him. Her mother took the husband’s side and that was that. Lucy was on her own at the age of fifteen. For a year she moved from one friend’s to another. School became an afterthought. She worked at entry-level jobs at fast-food joints, hotels, and restaurants. As she grew older and she filled out into a curvy, attractive woman, she began working as a hostess or server at bars and clubs, even though she was years underage. She started to drink and do drugs. Men approached her to “work” for them. She turned them down, but it was getting harder to pass up the money. She’d finally decided to say yes when she met Simon.
He saw enough of himself in her to give a damn. He set her up in a flat, gave her a job that taught her a trade, and made her promise never to touch drugs again. That had been eighteen months ago.
Harry Mason came back on the line and gave Simon her number. “When are you back?”
“Next week. Anything you can’t handle, give me a call.”
“Won’t be necessary.” Mason hung up.
Lucy Brown didn’t answer her phone and her mailbox was full. Simon didn’t like the vibe he was getting. He sent a text requesting that she call him immediately. Ten minutes later his phone hadn’t rung. He wondered if he’d erred in giving her such a large check for her help the other night. There were a lot of ways a twenty-three-year-old girl could go off the rails in London, especially a girl with a dark history like Lucy’s.
Have faith, he told himself. There are plenty of reasons why she might not be answering. He made a mental note to try later in the afternoon.
Lunch arrived. Simon took a bite of the sandwich, then started looking at the contents of Delacroix’s phone. He began with text messages, scrolling through the names of those with whom Delacroix had communicated over the last few days. The first ten were hotel staff, as indicated by the subjects they discussed. The eleventh name was someone named Pascal, who appeared to be his bookie. A perusal of the texts showed that Delacroix was a gambler and owed Pascal over ten thousand euros. Real money.
The twelfth name was “Prince AA.”
Simon counted over fifty texts. The first exchange began upon the prince’s arrival in Paris.
Prince AA: Landed. Confirm pick up.
Delacroix: Cars at airport. Terminal 1.
…and ended minutes before the prince left the hotel.
Prince AA: Coming down. Have cash ready.
Delacroix: Done.
In between was everything from A to Z.
Simon found nothing that indicated Delacroix’s involvement in the robbery—no mention, for example, that it was he who had suggested that the prince alter his route—but plenty of background to hint at the close relationship between the two men. It was evident that Prince Abdul Aziz trusted Delacroix absolutely.
The phone rang. He checked the screen. “Hello there, young lady,” Simon answered pleasantly. “How are things?”
“Fine,” said Lucy Brown.
“Just called the shop. Harry said you were MIA.”
“MIA…what’s that?”
“Missing in action. You sick?”
“You checking up on me?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Fuck off, then. I can take care of myself.”
“You sound like you’re fighting a pretty good hangover.”
