‘My sources say, yes, but as of right now, no one knows where she is.’
Cristy’s mind was already reeling back to the time whenshe, as a thirty-year-old TV reporter, had stood outside 42 Randall Lane, reporting on the tragic and mysterious events that had happened inside the house. ‘Where are you now?’ she asked Connor.
‘On my way back from Devon. I can drop off Jodi and the baby and go on to the office to start pulling up old files.’
‘Great, and try to get more background on the release. Is she on temporary licence, or parole? Has she confessed? I should be on an early train back tomorrow. Let me know if you hear anything meanwhile.’
After ringing off, Cristy sat with the case for a while, selecting different parts of it from her memory, each one firing up as much eagerness as it did apprehension about going there again. It had to be done; there was no doubt about that. It was a mystery – an aberration almost – that still cried out for answers, which made it a perfect investigation for her crack team of podcasters: a brand-new series forHindsight.
She just hoped that, this time around, it wouldn’t mess with her head the way it had back then, but she was a different person now, older, wiser and very definitely not pregnant.
At last, the cab turned into the exclusive, cobbled enclave of Soho’s Ham Yard, where a uniformed doorman was outside the hotel, ready to greet her.
After paying the driver, she followed the doorman into the hotel’s uniquely styled lobby and slipped him a ten-pound note. Too much, probably, but who knew in an establishment like this? It was so high-end it might actually not be enough.
‘Hi, I’m Ellie.’ A petite, smartly dressed hostess smiled as she came to greet her. ‘Welcome to the Ham Yard Hotel. Are you staying with us?’
‘I am,’ Cristy replied, looking around at the hugely excessive but beautifully artful flower displays, the arrestingly funky art on the walls and a curious bank of fast-moving clocks. ‘The booking should be in the name of David Gaudion. He’ll be coming later. I have a meeting at eleven with—’
‘Cristy! You’re here!’
At the sound of the voice she remembered so well, Cristy broke into a delighted laugh as her old mentor appeared from an open door at the other end of reception. His arms were open ready to greet her, and she all but ran into them. He was large in just about every way: tall, wide, loud and effortlessly charming, and being swallowed into his embrace had the feeling of coming home.
‘You look fantastic,’ he told her, holding her back to study her face. ‘More beautiful than ever, I see.’ His fleshy, crinkled face broke into a happy grin as he chuckled delightedly. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he told her. ‘You need to be in town more often. Dinah would love it.’
‘How is your lovely wife?’ Cristy smiled, enjoying his arm around her as he led her into the room he’d come from. It was clearly a library given its high, book-lined walls and the cosy nest of sofas and armchairs grouped around a grand fireplace and coffee table. ‘It seems so long since I last saw her.’
‘She’s on great form and I know she’d love to see you. Now, let me introduce you …’
Two grey-suited men got to their feet.
‘Carl Finsberg, my CFO,’ Kinsley told her, as the shorter and older of the two came to shake her hand. ‘You guys might remember one another?’
‘Of course we do,’ Cristy replied, pulling Carl into a hug. ‘How are you? And how’s James?’
‘We finally got married,’ Carl told her, pushing his glasses further up his nose. ‘And he’s great. Wanted me to send his love.’
‘And this,’ Kinsley said, steering her to the other man, whom she recognized instantly in spite of never having met him in her life, ‘is Vikram Rathour.’
‘Not to be confused,’ Rathour said, reaching for her hand, his dark eyes suffused with irony, ‘with the famous cricketer. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cristy.’ Cristy knew he’d beenborn and raised in the sub-Continent and had later relocated his growing empire to the US, it would account for why he sounded more American than Indian.
‘I’m afraid I’ve never heard of the cricketer,’ she told him, ‘but of course I know who you are, and it’s a pleasure to meet you too.’
What on earth was he doing here? Why did Kinsley want her to meetVikram Rathour, one of the world’s leading businessmen? Just wait ’til she told David – and Connor. It was going to blow their minds. It occurred to her as she settled into one of the elegant cream-and-coral upholstered sofas that there might be something Kinsley and Rathour wanted her and Connor to look into. That would be pretty mind-blowing in itself, given the stature of both men – also insane even to think it, when Kinsley alone had an army of people at his disposal to carry out all his investigative needs.
‘Will you have coffee?’ Kinsley asked, lifting a large silver pot ready to pour.
‘Black, thanks,’ she said, and settled her handbag between her feet, wondering if she should take out her laptop and mobile phone to join the others on the table.
‘How was your journey here?’ Rathour enquired politely, folding one long leg over the other as he relaxed back in an armchair with his cup and saucer. ‘Did you come by train?’
‘I did,’ she confirmed. ‘It was fine, very smooth.’ Could she get any more banal? She almost asked how he’d got here but stopped herself just in time. It didn’t seem the sort of question to ask someone who’d very probably flown in on a private jet and been stretch-limo-ed right to the door.
‘Are you working on any investigations at the moment?’ Carl asked chattily as he reached for one of the delicious-looking cannoli.
‘We’re digging into a few cold cases,’ she told him, aware of Nicole Ivorson leapfrogging the others straight to the front of her mind, ‘but nothing’s ready to go just yet.’
‘Pity. James and I are always so gripped by your podcasts – we never want them to end. We were very moved by the last one. Terrifying what AI can do in the wrong hands. That poor woman.’
