We laugh quietly for a moment, and then he grows serious again.
‘One more thing.’ He’s obviously not entirely comfortable with what he’s about to say. ‘Dan wants you to contact Layla.’
Oh Jesus, I could do without that.
‘Me?’
‘You’re the only one who can do it.’ He checks on the pigeon. Missing its footing, it staggers and flies off down the street. ‘Sooner or later, she’s going to find out about the accident. He doesn’t want her showing up out of the blue.’
‘But she’s his sister.’
‘We all know that.’ He lowers his head, following the path of the pigeon’s flight. ‘I don’t know why he won’t see her.’
‘I don’t know either.’
‘Well, somebody’s got to contact her, and apparently you’re the best person for the job.’
‘Dan said that?’
‘Yes. He wants you to pass on the news, make sure she’s alright … let her know she’s not to get in touch.’ He fiddles again with the tap.
‘Great,’ I mutter.
‘He’s sorry … about the way he reacted to her. I know that much. But he’s not ready to meet her yet.’
‘What about Sophie?’ I ask.
He cocks his head. ‘What about her?’
‘She’s ill. That’s why Layla came down. She wanted him to know.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘Breast cancer. They caught it early. Her odds are good, but …’
Clive rubs his chin.
‘Does Dan know about this?’
‘I never got to tell him.’
‘Fuck.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t tell him. Not yet. Maybe when he’s a bit stronger. He’s having another operation, on his leg. After that, perhaps.’
Not for the first time today, I picture the man I love laid up in his hospital bed. No matter what I’m going through, it’s far worse for him.
‘How am I going to find out how he’s doing?’
‘You can’t. No contact. We’re both changing our mobile numbers. This is the last time we can talk for a while. It’s going to be hard, but it’s only temporary. A few days, a few weeks. Who knows?’ He pauses. ‘He loves you. I’m to make that perfectly clear.’
Leaving the tap to run, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a tiny canister and hands it to me.
‘What’s this?’
‘Mace spray. Just in case.’ He reaches into his pocket again and gives me what looks like a small black key fob. ‘And this is a personal alarm. You can’t hide away here. You need to be out and about. If you’re worried at any time, press the button.’ He touches it lightly. ‘You won’t be alone.’
I examine the alarm. I can only hope it’s never needed.
‘We stuck to the story with the police,’ Clive goes on. ‘I don’t know if they bought it, but there you go. We’re searching for Boyd. Bill’s coming over from Bermuda. He knows a few people.’
I think of Bill: on the surface, nothing more than a bright-eyed, harmless old man. But there’s a dark undertow, complete with shady connections … and the iron will to use them.
‘I don’t want anybody bumped off.’
‘Nobody’s being bumped off.’
We’re interrupted by a banging door. Clive turns off the tap. A hint of panic flashes across his eyes.
‘Ready for your performance?’ he asks.
‘Bring it on.’
We straighten up in unison.
‘What the fuck are you two doing?’ Lucy demands.
‘I was feeling a bit sick,’ I blurt quickly. ‘Clive was helping me.’
‘But …’
Another ring at the doorbell causes all three of us to start. I’m grateful for the distraction. Lucy clearly doesn’t believe a word I’m saying, and to top it off, she’s just clocked the mace and the little black fob.
‘I’ll get it,’ I announce.
Dumping my new possessions on the worktop, I make my way out into the hall and pull open the front door. I’m faced with an overly-happy delivery man, clutching a huge bunch of red roses.
‘Maya Scotton?’ he chirps.
‘Yes.’ A sliver of ice runs through my veins.
‘These are for you. There’s no card.’
Before I can tell him to sling his cheery hook, the roses are thrust into my hands. Without another word, Mr Happy gets back into his van, slams the door and starts the engine.
‘Well, these aren’t from Dan.’ Clive cranes his neck over my shoulder, eyeing up the van, making a mental note of the company name. ‘I’ll look into it.’
‘You won’t find anything. He’ll have covered his tracks.’
We both know who I’m talking about. Convinced he’s won the latest battle, Boyd’s making it obvious he’s still around.
‘They’re going in that thing,’ I announce, stepping out onto the pavement. Thank goodness the neighbours are busy with home improvements. There’s a skip right outside our flat. In the most public way possible, I’m going to let Boyd know he certainly hasn’t won the war. Far from it. With a dramatic flourish, I make a show of dropping the roses into the rubble.
Chapter Two
I hear a cough and take another furtive peek at the man who’s currently examining a seascape. He’s been here for almost as long as I have, picking over one painting after another. It’s three days since I last saw Dan and I’m already descending into paranoia. My brain’s on the rampage, wondering whether he’s one of my protection team or some low-life Boyd’s employed. With his slicked-back hair, brown corduroy jacket, striped polo shirt, neatly ironed jeans, and brogues, I settle for the third, most realistic option. He’s nothing more than an innocent art lover, working his way through every single canvas in the place. Disregarding him, I look out over Frith Street, watching the bustle of Friday night in Soho, wishing I could return to a simple life, where everything was exactly as it seemed. But for now, at least, I’m lost in a world of pretence, conscious of
