“You think someone’s following you, Luke?” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Like…a private detective, maybe?”
I will kill him.
“It’s probably nothing!” My voice is a bit strangled. “Just coincidence!”
“Probably.” Luke nods. “Strange, though. See you later.” He touches my hand, and we both watch him wend his way between the tables.
“Trust is a beautiful thing between a married couple,” observes Danny. “You two are very lucky.”
“Shut up!” I’m scrabbling for my phone. “I have to call them off!”
“I thought you already did.”
“I did! Days ago! It’s all a mistake!” I find Dave Sharpness’s card and jab in the number, my fingers fumbling in agitation.
“How do you think Luke will react when he finds out you’re having him trailed?” asks Danny conversationally. “I’d be quite pissed if it were me.”
“You are really not helping.” I glare at him. “And thanks for mentioning private detectives!”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” Danny claps his hand over his mouth in mock apology. “Because he would never have worked it out on his own.”
I’m through to voice mail, and I take a deep breath.
“Mr. Sharpness. It’s Becky Brandon here. There seems to have been some confusion. I would like you to stop following my husband, Luke. I do not want any investigation. Please call off your operatives at once. Thank you.” I switch off the phone and take a gulp of Danny’s champagne cocktail, breathing hard. “There. Done.”
KENNETH PRENDERGAST
Prendergast de Witt Connell Financial Advisers
Forward House 394 High Holborn
London WC1V 7EX
Mrs R Brandon 37 Maida Vale Mansions Maida Vale
London NW6 0YF
20 November 2003
Dear Mrs. Brandon,
Thank you for your letter.
I have noted your new shareholding in the London Cappuccino Company.
I would recommend you do not make any further share purchases simply because of “fab shareholder perks” such as free coffee. You should be looking for solid, long-term growth prospects.
In answer to your other query, I am not aware of any jewelry companies which give away free diamonds to their shareholders.
Yours sincerely,
Kenneth Prendergast
Family Investment Specialist
FOURTEEN
I JUST HOPE they got my message. Or the one I left last evening. Or the one I left this morning. I must have blocked Dave Sharpness’s voice mail completely, telling him to stop the investigation. But until I speak to him myself, I can’t be positive the message has got through.
Which means the surveillance could still be on.
As we leave the flat together the next morning to go to the pram center, all my senses are on high alert. I feel sure someone’s watching us. But where? Hiding in the trees? Sitting in a parked car with a long lens trained on us? I edge down the steps of the building, my eyes darting from side to side. There’s an electronic clicking sound to my left, and I instinctively shield my face with my hand — until I realize it’s not a camera, it’s someone opening their car.
“Are you all right, darling?” Luke is watching me, bemused.
The postman comes by, and I shoot a suspicious glance at him. Is he really the postman?
Oh, yes. He is.
“OK.” I hurry to Luke. “Let’s get in the car. Now.”
We should have bought a car with blacked-out windows. I told Luke all along. And a built-in fridge.
My mobile rings just as we reach the gates of our block, and I jump a mile. That timing is too coincidental. It’ll be the private detective, telling me he’s in the boot of the car. Or he’s in the building opposite, with a sniper rifle aimed at Luke….
Stop it. I didn’t hire an assassin. It’s fine.
Even so, as I get my phone out, my hands are trembling. “Er…hello?” I say nervously.
“Hi, it’s me!” comes Suze’s breezy voice, with the clamor of children’s voices in the background. “Listen, if they have a twin Urban Baby cozy-toes in red trim, will you get it for me? I’ll pay you back.”
“Oh. Er…of course.” I grab a pen and scribble it down. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s it. I’d better go! Talk later!”
I put my phone away, still feeling jumpy. We’re being followed — I just know we are.
“So, where is this place?” Luke consults the leaflet and starts pressing buttons on his sat nav. The map pops up and he pulls a face. “It’s bloody miles away. Do we have to go here?”
“It’s the best place in London! Look!” I read from the leaflet. “You get to try all the top-quality prams on a variety of terrains and a consultant will help guide you through the maze.”
“The maze of pram-buying or a literal maze?” inquires Luke.
“I don’t know,” I admit, after searching through the leaflet. “But anyway, it’s got the widest choice and Suze said we should go there.”
“Fair enough.” Luke raises his eyebrows and does a U-turn. Then he frowns at the rearview mirror. “That car looks familiar.”
Shit.
Trying to appear casual, I swivel my head to see. It’s a brown Ford and a guy is driving it. A dark-haired, pockmarked, private detective kind of guy.
Shit shit shit.
“Let’s listen to the radio!” I say. I start tuning into different stations, turning the volume up, trying to distract him. “And anyway, so what if it’s familiar? There are lots of brown Fords in the world. Who knows how many? Probably…five million. No, ten…”