“I thought you didn’t need to know?”
“That was before I knew you were connected to the biggest fucking story to hit British politics since the Profumo Affair! Jesus, Arden, that Birmingham MP got caught trying to flee the country after the photos of her dogging got leaked!”
“We don’t have time to give him the whole story!” Simon snapped. “It’s already gone five o’clock. Look.” He held up his phone. “Do you recognise this man?”
He had Riz’s photo on his screen.
“Yes, that’s Riz Patel. The chap who was murdered.”
“Did you ever meet him, or did he come to your office?”
“No, I only saw him on TV.”
“Right.” He pressed buttons frantically. “What about this woman?” He held up Marina Holt’s photo. Ollie shook his head.
Suzy Rabbit? A head shake.
Errol Mottley? A head shake.
“What about this man?” he said, holding up another photo.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“Peter Holt. Marina’s husband.”
“Isn’t he in prison?”
“It’s worth a shot. That letter could be old.”
I held it up. “It’s dated last month.”
Simon slammed his fist down on the table, and both Ollie and I jumped. “I meant, fuck, that the person could have had an appointment with Ollie months and months ago – years ago – and they only asked the letter to be sent now.”
There was a long silence. Simon crossed the room and stood by the window, his hands resting on the panes of glass, his head bowed. I didn’t dare move a muscle. Ollie shifted the paper out of the way of the water that had spilt from his glass when Simon banged the table. I could hear Simon breathing heavily from the window. Counting backwards from one hundred, maybe, so he didn’t kill both of us.
“In two days,” Simon said after the silence had dragged on for longer than any of us were comfortable with, “Suzy Rabbit is going to get elected to Parliament, and I need to know she was not part of this. I cannot let that happen. I will not have a murderer sitting in the House of Commons.”
Spies. Deep down, they’re patriots, really.
Ollie gave a large exhale. He grabbed his phone. “Janet, me again. Look, massive favour. I need a list of every client and matter I’ve handled since joining chambers couriered over to my place. Yes, I know it’s five thirty.Look, I— yes, I know, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t super important. Yes, thank you, yes, grab whoever you can, promise everyone in the office a bottle of their favourite tipple on me if they help you. Thank you.”
He hung up. “So, who wants a takeaway?”
Reader, if anyone ever says, “Hey, you know what’d be fun?”, the answer they are not looking for is: “Digging through your ex-boyfriend’s near-ten-year-long list of clients spanning almost the length of his career, and cross-referencing every name and address searching for people who may or may not have been plotting to kill someone.”
At midnight, we took a break.
I moved the rice in my bowl of chicken korma around. Simon was on the sofa swigging a beer, while Ollie and I sat on the floor around the coffee table, munching on the last dregs of our curries.
“This isn’t as good as normal.” I let the rice fall off my fork.
“Yeah,” Ollie said. “Spice Palace closed last year. I’m trying, slowly but surely, all the other Indian places nearby. This is from Punjabi Dreams.”
I pulled a face. “With the terrible neon elephant in the window next to the Nigerian weave shop? God.”
“I know. But they’re better than Taj Ma-hungry. Their jalfrezi and I were not the best of friends.”
“How many more boxes do we have?” Simon asked. It was the first time he’d spoken in an hour or so.
