pink tufted couch flashed into her head. At that, the decision was made for her. Farrell got out of bed, padded to the kitchen, opened the freezer and took out a bottle of Grey Goose vodka.
Soon the classics professor was on her second Martini, the ache at the back of her head was gone, and she believed she’d erased the memory of the flute melody. It was a syrinx melody, actually. The syrinx or Pan pipes featured seven reeds bound side by side. Along with the lyre, the Pan pipes were one of the oldest musical instruments in the world. But their eerie, breathy tonality had been banned from the ancient Olympics because it sounded too funereal.
‘Who cares?’ Farrell grumbled, and then gulped at her drink. ‘To hell with the Olympics. To hell with Denton Marshall. To hell with the lot of them.’
Buzzing on the vodka now, becoming another person, Farrell vowed that with the migraine behind her she wasn’t going to dwell on loss or injustice, or oppression. It was Friday night in London. She had places to go. People to see.
The professor felt a thrill go through her that deepened into a hunger when she swayed down the hall, went into her bedroom closet and unzipped a garment bag hanging there.
Inside was a dramatic hip-hugging A-line black skirt slit provocatively up its right flank, and a sexy sleeveless maroon satin blouse designed to show plenty of abundant cleavage.
Chapter 35
AT FIVE O’CLOCK that Friday afternoon, Knight was in his kitchen making the twins dinner, resigned to the fact that he would not witness the opening ceremony of the Games live and in person.
Knight felt spent, anyway. All day long, from the moment Luke had awoken crying, he had been consumed by the needs of his children, his frustration with the nanny issue, and his inability to push the Cronus investigation forward.
Around noon, while the twins were playing, he had called his mother and asked her how she was holding up.
‘I slept two hours,’ she replied. ‘I’d nod off and all I could see in my dreams was Denton, and every time I’d feel such joy that I’d wake up and then face heartbreak all over again.’
‘God, how horrible, mother,’ said Knight, remembering the insomnia and anguish he’d suffered in the immediate weeks after the birth of the twins and Kate’s death. Many nights he’d thought he was going crazy.
He thought to change the conversation. ‘I forgot to tell you: Mike Lancer invited me as his guest to sit in the organising committee’s box for the opening ceremonies. If you find me a nanny, we can go together.’
‘I don’t know if I’m ready for that volume of pity quite yet. Besides, no memorial service has been planned. It would be unseemly for me to look as if I’m celebrating.’
‘The Olympics are part of Denton’s legacy,’ Knight reminded her. ‘You’d be honouring him. Besides, it would do you good to get out of the house and help me defend Denton’s reputation to one and all.’
‘I’ll consider it.’
‘And by the way: no nanny, no work on Denton’s murder investigation.’
‘I’m not a nincompoop, Peter!’ his mother snapped.
Then Amanda Knight hung up on her son.
Around three, when the children were napping, Knight reached Jack Morgan. Private’s owner was usually laid back and very cool, but even over the phone Knight could sense the pressure that Jack was under.
‘We’re doing everything we can to find a nanny,’ Knight said.
‘Good,’ Jack said. ‘Because we need you.’
‘Bollocks,’ Knight fumed after he’d hung up.
His doorbell rang at around five-thirty. Knight looked through the security peephole and saw his mother in stylish black slacks, shoes and blouse, grey pearl necklace and earrings. Dark sunglasses. He opened the door.
‘I arranged a nanny for the evening,’ Amanda said, and then stepped aside to reveal a very unhappy Gary Boss, resplendent in pedal-pusher khaki trousers, argyle socks, loafers, and a bow tie with barber-pole stripes.
His mother’s personal assistant sniffed at Knight as if he were the purveyor of all things distasteful, and said: ‘Do you know that I personally spoke with Nannies Incorporated, Fulham Nannies, the Sweet & Angelic Agency, and every other agency in the city? Quite the reputation, I’d say, Peter. So where are they? The little brutes? I’ll need to know their schedules, I suppose.’
‘They’re in the living room, watching the telly,’ Knight said. Then he looked at his mother as Boss disappeared inside. ‘Is he up for this?’
‘At triple his exorbitant hourly wage, I’m sure he’ll figure out a way,’ Amanda said, taking off her sunglasses to reveal puffy red eyes.
Knight ran up the stairs to his bedroom and changed quickly. When he came down he found the twins hiding behind the couch, eyeing Boss warily. His mother was nowhere to be seen.
‘Her highness is in the car,’ Boss said. ‘Waiting.’
‘I done one, Daddy,’ Luke said, patting the back of his nappy.
Why couldn’t he just use the loo?
‘Well, then,’ Knight said to Boss. ‘Their food is in the fridge in plastic containers. Just a bit of heating-up to do. Luke can have a taste of ice cream. Bella’s allergic, so digestive biscuits for her. Bath. Story. Bed by nine, and we’ll see you by midnight, I’d think.’
Knight went to his children and kissed them. ‘Mind Mr Boss, now. He’s your nanny for tonight.’
‘I done one, Daddy,’ Luke complained again.
‘Right,’ Knight said to Boss. ‘And Luke’s had a BM. You’ll need to change it straight away or you’ll be bathing him sooner rather than later.’
Boss became distressed. ‘Change a shitty nappy? Me?’
‘You’re the nanny now,’ Knight said, stifling a laugh as he left.
Chapter 36
AS KNIGHT AND his mother made their way to St Pancras Station and the high-speed train to Stratford and the Olympic Park, Professor Selena Farrell was feeling damn sexy, thank you very much.
Dusk was coming on in Soho. The air was sultry, she’d got vodka in her, and she was dressed to kill. Indeed, as she walked west from Tottenham Court Road towards Carlisle Street, the classics professor kept catching glimpses of herself in the shop windows she passed, and in the eyes of men and women who could not help but notice every sway of her hips and every bounce of her breasts in the skirt and sleeveless blouse that clung to her like second skins.
She wore alluring make-up, startling blue contact lenses, and the scarf was gone, revealing dark-dyed hair cut in swoops that framed her face and drew the eye to that little dark mole on her right jawline. But for the mole no one, not even her research assistant, would ever have recognised her.
Farrell loved feeling like this. Anonymous. Sexual. On the prowl.
