The Manhattan Puzzle. Laurence O’Bryan
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Most of the wives of the bank’s top executives had tight-lipped superior expressions. Most of them still had a personal masseuse, trainer and a holistic therapist pampering them every day or two. They usually tried to hide how superior they felt to the rest of humanity, but not very successfully.
Smugness oozed from them like the rotting smell from a carcass. But Mrs Vaughann was different. Her smile was genuine.
‘All men are bastards,’ she said.
‘I trust Sean,’ said Isabel. But there was a hollowness in her tone, as if she didn’t believe what she was saying. Her mouth was dry too.
She shook her head, glared out the window at some people leaving the bank.
‘I’m sure you’re right about Sean,’ said Mrs Vaughann. ‘It’s probably just bad timing, him going missing.’
Isabel turned to her. There was something sad about the way Mrs Vaughann looked, all taut, like a wire about to snap. Suddenly she felt sorry for her.
‘Have you talked to Paul about all this?’ She pointed at the Evening Standard.
If staff from the bank, senior staff, had been in that sleazy club when a dancer was murdered that was definitely bad news for the bank. Their reputation would be in the gutter. But did Isabel care? Sean mightn’t have even been there. He certainly wouldn’t have done anything stupid there.
‘No, I haven’t. Not yet. But I’m not leaving here until I do.’
Isabel stretched towards the door handle. Outside, hail was ticking and slithering against the window. Great, even the weather was conspiring against her.
‘I have to go.’
Mrs Vaughann squeezed her arm, held it.
Then she coughed, and bent forward. As she did Isabel caught a glimpse of her neck, and saw rows of wrinkles. She looked older than Isabel had imagined. There are some things even Botox and plastic surgery can’t hide.
‘Prepare yourself, Isabel. The media will be all over us because of this takeover.’
Her eyebrows rose. They looked to be in the wrong place now. Her eyes were fixed on Isabel, as if she was working out if she could trust her. Her lips were pressed tight. Mrs Vaughann looked out of the windows on both sides, as if she thought someone might be listening to them.
‘Your husband is leading the facial recognition project, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. Is there a problem with it?’
Mrs Vaughann’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s a problem with everything at the moment, Isabel. I just hope your husband is able to cope with the stress.’
She looked worried.
‘I have to go.’ Isabel opened the door. The urge to leave was getting stronger by the second.
She had to find Sean. And she wasn’t going to do that listening to Mrs Vaughann. She stepped out of the car and didn’t look back.
The hail was coming down like a million icy arrows. She raced for the entrance to the underground.
Adar got out of the taxi. He headed for the coffee shop overlooking Bank Street. He could see the front and side entrance to BXH from one of the window seats.
He put his backpack on the floor and sat in the empty chair opposite the older grey-suited man who was talking softly into his phone. He eyed Adar with surprise and suspicion. A minute later he stood and left the coffee shop.
Perhaps it was the way he’d stared at him, unblinkingly, or perhaps it was the hood that covered his head, which he kept pulled down to the level of his eyebrows.
The only time he’d taken it off had been when he was walking through immigration at the City Airport corporate terminal twenty-four hours before. Immigration officials like to be able to see who they’re letting into the UK and for people to smile.
He accommodated them.
The Bombardier Global 5000 he had arrived on would be ready to fly back to La Guardia on Long Island, in New York State, in a few hours. It was the fastest private long-range jet available. The leasing company they had hired it from had allowed Lord Bidoner to provide his own crew.
Adar’s flight record was well beyond the number of hours needed to pilot long distance with only passengers, and La Guardia was used to the odd arrangements of the sporting and corporate elite, heading for their Gold Coast Long Island mansions. He put his day old pay-as-you-go phone down in front of him and downloaded the email app. He looked at the saved message in the draft folder.
Red, it read.
He added the word ‘green’ to the message, then saved it. That was enough. Lord Bidoner would be able to see that he was about to proceed.
He downloaded the Instagram app, and logged in as the agreed identity. His next message would be a picture of a London black cab. That would mean he had completed his next task and was on his way back with the package. He glanced at the entrance to BXH as he put the phone away.
He didn’t want to miss him. He had a message for George Donovan. All he had to do was work out how to deliver it.
This was all getting ridiculous, Sean wouldn’t have gone to a strip club – he was not that kind of man. But it would explain the late nights. The thought of Sean visiting that club left an ache in Isabel’s chest. The weekend in Paris didn’t matter now. He’d been the best thing in her life since they’d come back from Istanbul. She could almost feel his arms around her when she thought about him.
As the cab came up the street she saw a police car outside their next door neighbour’s house. A dark Ford was double-parked outside their house. She got out of the cab by the police car, and peered in. What was she expecting, Sean to be in handcuffs in the back?
He wasn’t. She fumbled for her keys. The black paint on their front door glistened. The glass was opaque. She could see a shape moving on the other side. She heard someone behind her, turned.
It was one of the neighbours. She was wearing a bobble hat. She glanced at Isabel, then looked away as she passed, as if she suspected that the police car had something to do with her. Isabel didn’t care. She turned back to the door. She wanted her old life back. Now.
She took out her keys. Her hand was trembling. The mist on her breath filled the air as she turned the front door key.
Before she even got a chance to take it out, someone on the other side yanked the door open, almost catching her fingers. A burly, hard-eyed policewoman was looking at her as if she were a criminal.
Isabel felt weak. Blood was rushing the wrong way inside her. Her knees had stopped working.
The police were in her house.
‘What’s going on? Where’s my husband?’ Her words came out in a rush.
‘Are you Isabel Ryan?’ the policewoman said. She’d have been able to find a place on a Soviet-era ice hockey team, she was that big.
‘Yes?’
The policewoman looked at her. For a heart-twisting moment Isabel thought she was going to say that Sean was dead.
Then another man, in plain clothes, said something Isabel didn’t catch, and the policewoman stepped aside.
‘I’m Inspector Kirby,’ said the man. His accent was from the north of England. He was tall and had a sickle-like jaw. He was standing at the bottom of their stairs, as if he’d just come down.