Fifth Victim

Fortunately, I was saved from having to stumble through an apology, or awkward silence, by Dina’s dramatic entrance. Parker made gallant and appreciative noises, which Dina coyly accepted. Almost on cue, the arrival of the limo was announced, and we trooped out into the blood-warm night.

As Parker passed me he murmured a quick, ‘Sorry’, which only served to confuse me. Sorry for what?

Outside, Torquil stood by the open rear door of a stretch Cadillac CTS, waiting impatiently for us to emerge. His usual pair of bodyguards were ranged behind him. Both wore boxy evening dress that had been chosen more for ease of movement than for flattery of fit, like a conscript’s uniform. Ms Harling of the country club, I considered, definitely had a point.

Caroline Willner sailed down the stairs first, with Dina behind her. Torquil managed to play the gentleman enough to greet his date’s mother with civility and hand her into the limo, although his manner didn’t alter noticeably with Dina. I wondered if she was disappointed that all the effort over her appearance seemed to have gone unnoticed.

As he ducked into the car, Parker nodded to the troops, who stiffened as if suddenly realising they were raw recruits in the presence of a veteran. One hopped in smartly behind us, the other took the front seat next to the driver.

Inside, the Cadillac was cavernous in a slightly tacky way, with inset LED lighting everywhere, mirrors on the ceiling, flat screen TVs, and champagne on ice. It could seat ten in squishy cream-leather comfort, three abreast at the front and rear of the huge rear cabin, and along one side on a four-seater sofa that would have been too big to fit most British living rooms.

When the door clunked shut behind us, I saw there were two other passengers already in occupation. One was a statuesque red-haired woman in a charcoal silk tuxedo, who was clearly security. The other, lounging at the far end with his back to the raised privacy screen behind the driver, was a thin man in his sixties. He cut a striking figure, with a shock of white hair and Colonel Sanders-style moustache and narrow strip of a beard. So, this was Eisenberg Senior, Torquil’s gazillionaire father. Physically, they were not much alike, but in manner they mirrored one another. Of Torquil’s mother, there was no sign.

Parker and I took the rear seats, with the security man who’d climbed in last alongside us. It was the same guy I’d seen shadowing Torquil at the riding club, rather than the lurker who’d stayed in the car. He glanced at me once, without a flicker of reaction in his face, then muttered an instruction into his radio that we were ready to roll out.

I guessed from the snatches of radio traffic I caught that two generations of Eisenberg men travelling together warranted at least two chase cars. They were not difficult to spot.

Torquil’s cellphone rang twice before we’d made it half a mile. The first time was some kind of message that he glanced at briefly, but when the Mission: Impossible theme began its second run, his father gave him a hard stare that made him pointedly turn off the device – or at least put it on silent.

Meanwhile, Eisenberg Senior greeted Caroline Willner with a distant familiarity. Where Torquil came across as precocious and occasionally arrogant, Brandon Eisenberg had perfected this manner into a certain straight- talking charm, backed by obvious savvy. And he’d done his homework.

As he leant forwards to shake Dina’s hand, he said smoothly, ‘I understand you’re turning into quite the talented equestrienne, young lady. I have a few horses myself, so I appreciate the skills involved to handle them well.’

Dina flushed at the praise, and self-consciously congratulated him on his recent winner in the Kentucky Derby.

‘Well, we sure were lucky this time out,’ Eisenberg said modestly. Duty done, he turned his attention to those of us in the rear of the bus as we began to pick up speed. ‘Mr Armstrong, I understand. Your reputation precedes you.’

‘As does yours, sir,’ Parker returned in that entirely neutral voice he used to such effect.

Eisenberg nodded in acknowledgement, and his gaze slid sideways onto me. ‘And you must be Miss Fox,’ he said. ‘According to my boy, you put up quite a show the other day.’

‘I told you – those guys were total dumb-asses, Dad,’ Torquil put in sharply. ‘If they’d taken a swing at her first, instead of the riding club guy, who knows how it would have gone down.’

Beside me, the bodyguard didn’t quite heave a sigh, but his chest definitely gave a quick rise and fall outside its normal rhythm. I didn’t need to suppose whose expert opinions Torquil had hijacked as his own.

Dina, sitting next to Torquil on the sofa, gave him a nudge in the ribs that was only half playful. ‘Hey, that’s my personal bodyguard you’re talking about,’ she protested, flashing me a smile. ‘Charlie was just great. A real action heroine!’

But Eisenberg was silent for a moment, as if giving his son’s words due consideration. Or maybe he was simply wondering – as I was – why Torquil sounded so annoyed about the inept performance by Dina’s potential kidnappers.

It bothered me – Torquil’s response to the incident. Dina had told me he was a risk-taker and a thrill-seeker in the extreme sports in which he regularly engaged. Did that mean he now fancied himself in the role of bodyguard, with all the inherent dangers that fantasy entailed? If so, he could well cause me some major headaches. Not to mention exposing Dina to possible harm.

I thought back to Orlando’s comments at the riding club, just before the attack. She’d told me that Torquil had been hanging around her shortly before she was taken. Was his interest purely academic, or did he have some other, more sinister, involvement?

I glanced sideways at Parker, caught his brief frown and knew his thought processes had travelled a similar path to my own. Either way, Torquil needed to have his wings clipped before he got any of us into a situation where his proverbial wax melted.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

As we all climbed out of the limo outside the grand front entrance of the country club, Brandon Eisenberg turned, buttoning his immaculate dinner jacket, and said casually, ‘I have a table reserved. You’ll be my guests, of course.’

Caroline Willner smiled at him with every appearance of pleasure and said we would all be delighted. I dredged up one of the facts and figures that the ultra-efficient Ms Harling had flung my way the day before, and recalled that reserving an entire table, which seated twelve, could be had for an outrageous price running into thousands of dollars.

There were few limits, it seemed, to what you could get away with in the name of charity.

Before the dinner and auction took place in the Grand Ballroom, there was a cocktail reception in one of the smaller function rooms. Always a difficult occasion to manage from a security standpoint, because of the general crowding and the liquid nature of people’s movements.

It was fortunate that Dina seemed keen to have me alongside her, otherwise I would have struggled to keep her fully covered once the place really began to heat up. Maybe she just wanted the company. Torquil appeared more interested in making inroads into the complimentary champagne than taking care of his date. There was playing it cool, I decided, and then there was being positively chilly.

As we circulated I ran into plenty of other minders, and was on nodding terms with some of them from previous jobs. There were enough actors and celebrities attending to make casual lunatics alone a possibility, never mind specific targeted threats. The close-protection guys all looked tense as a result.

It was a relief to finally be rallied through to the ballroom to take our seats for the gala dinner. Brandon Eisenberg’s table was one of the best, front and centre. Not where I would have chosen to stash my principal if I’d had a choice.

We were directly in front of the stage where the compere would later attempt to whip up his audience into a frenzy of generous bidding. Eisenberg was first to take his seat, at right angles to the stage, where he could keep an eye on the room as well, without craning his neck. His own bodyguard, the red-headed woman, claimed the chair to his right. I’d learnt from Parker that she was ex-Secret Service, called Gleason.

Gleason had not returned my smile of greeting, but turned on the charm as far as Parker was concerned, and was now attempting to impress him with her professional attention to duty. I assumed she was after a job. In this