Oliver before he finally folded it up again and replaced it in the wallet. ‘If I had a girlfriend like that,’ he said sternly, ‘I wouldn’t be getting myself into trouble chasing after the likes of Bernie up there.’
Oliver took the wallet and dropped it in his pocket. He wiped blood from his upper lip. ‘Sound advice, sir,’ he said. ‘But that’s not my girlfriend. She’s my little sister.’
Ben walked through the opulent foyer of the Dorchester Hotel and approached the reception desk. ‘Is Miss Llewellyn still in room 1221?’ he asked.
Three minutes later he was walking fast over the soft carpet of the corridor approaching her door. He was thinking of what she wanted and what he could say to her after all this time.
He rounded a corner. There was a guy standing just up ahead. He didn’t look like he was waiting for anyone, and he didn’t look like a guest. He was just standing there with his back to one of the doors. Ben checked the number on it.
He looked the guy up and down. He was a very big man. He was five inches taller than Ben, about six-four. And he was broad. Probably about twice his weight, maybe 350 pounds. He was wearing a dark polyester suit that stretched too tight over his chest and shoulders. His arms looked as though they were ready to pop the jacket sleeves apart at the seams. A decade or more of heavy steroid use had left his face cratered with acne scars. His tiny head was shaven to a polish and sat on his massive shoulders like a pea on a ruler.
Ben walked up to him without breaking stride. ‘I’m here to see Leigh Llewellyn.’
The big man folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. A flicker of amusement passed over his face. ‘Nobody sees her,’ he said in a bass rumble. ‘She’s not to be disturbed.’
‘I’m a friend. She’s expecting me.’
The wide-set eyes bored hard into his. ‘Not that I’ve been told.’
‘Can you tell her I’m here?’ Ben said. ‘The name’s Hope.’
A short shake of the head. ‘Uh-uh. No way.’
‘You’d better let me through.’
‘Piss off, dwarf.’
Ben reached across to knock on the door. The man’s square hand shot out and the stubby fingers closed around his wrist.
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ Ben said.
The big man was about to answer when Ben twisted his hand into a lock that was a fraction away from breaking the wrist joint. He bent the arm up behind the guy’s back and forced him down on his knees. Pain was like that. It didn’t matter how big they were.
‘Maybe we should start again,’ Ben said softly. ‘I came here to see Leigh Llewellyn. I don’t want to hurt you unless you make me. All I want is to be let inside. Do you think you can manage that?’
‘OK, OK. Let go.’ The big man’s voice was high-pitched and panicky and he was beginning to shake.
The door opened. Two more men appeared in the doorway. They were both wearing the same cheap suits, but neither was as big as the first guy.
Ben threw them a warning look. ‘You men had better let me in,’ he said. ‘Or I’ll break his arm off.’
A familiar face appeared behind them. They moved aside for her. ‘It’s all right,’ she said to them. ‘I know him.’
‘Hello, Leigh,’ he said.
She stared at him. ‘What are you doing with my bodyguard?’
He couldn’t help but smile at the sound of her voice. There was still that melodic Welsh lilt in her accent, only slightly tempered by the years of travelling around the world and living abroad.
Ben let the guy go and he slumped heavily to the floor. ‘Is that what you call this sack of shit?’ he said.
The other two bodyguards were hovering around the doorway, exchanging nervous looks. The big one picked himself slowly up off the floor, sheepish, rubbing his hand and groaning.
‘You’d better come inside,’ she said to Ben.
He shouldered past the two men and stepped into the room.
Room 1221 was a vast suite filled with the scent of flowers. Pale sunlight filtered in through three tall windows, flanked with heavy drapes. Leigh led him inside and closed the door quietly, shutting the bodyguards out in the corridor.
They faced one another uncertainly.
‘Fifteen years,’ he said. She was still the same Leigh he remembered, still beautiful. The same willowy figure, the same perfect skin. Those green eyes. She was wearing faded jeans and a navy sweater. No makeup. She didn’t need it. The only piece of jewellery she had on was a gold locket on a thin chain around her neck. Her hair hung down loose over her shoulders, black and glossy, just as he’d remembered it.
‘Ben Hope,’ she said frostily, looking up at him. ‘I promised myself that the next time I saw you I was going to slap your face.’
‘Is that what you called me for?’ he said. ‘Now I’m here, feel free.’
‘It didn’t look like you were going to turn up.’
‘I just got your message last night. I came straight here.’
‘I left it days ago.’
‘I was busy,’ he said.
‘Right,’ she snorted.
‘I got the impression you needed my help,’ he said. ‘Now it seems as though I’m not exactly welcome.’
She looked at him defiantly. ‘I don’t need you any more. I panicked, that’s all. I shouldn’t have called you. I’ve got things under control now.’
‘Your reception committee? I noticed.’
‘If you’ve gone out of your way to get here, I’ll make it worth your while.’ Her handbag was lying on an armchair. She walked over to it, took out her purse and started counting banknotes.
‘I don’t want your money, Leigh. I want to know what’s going on.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘You’re putting on a circus?’
She put the purse down. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Why else would you hire a bunch of clowns?’
‘They’re for protection.’
‘They couldn’t protect you from a gang of Quakers.’
‘I had to hire someone. You weren’t there. Just like the other time.’
‘I’m here now,’ he said. ‘I’ve come all this way-at least tell me what’s going on.’
She sighed, relenting. ‘All right. I’m sorry. I’m tired and I’m scared. I need a drink. Want one?’
Ben laid his brown leather jacket on the back of a settee. ‘That sounds like a good start,’ he said. ‘I could do with a decent Scotch, after that crap they gave me on the flight.’
‘You still like your whisky.’ Leigh opened an oriental drinks cabinet and took out a green bottle. He thought he could see a slight tremor in her hand. ‘Single malt?’ she asked. She filled her own glass as full as his. He couldn’t recall that she drank. But then, she’d been a girl of nineteen in those days. So much time had passed. He realized he hardly knew her any more.
She took an agitated sip of the whisky, pulled a disgusted face and gave a little splutter. ‘I’m in trouble. Something happened to me.’
‘Sit down and tell me everything,’ he said.
They sat facing one another in comfortable armchairs either side of a coffee table with an ornate etched glass top. His glass was already empty. He reached for the bottle and poured another double measure.
Leigh brushed a strand of hair away from her face. She swivelled her whisky glass on the tabletop as she spoke. ‘I’ve been in London for six weeks for work,’ she said. ‘Doing
