“Who are you?”
“Luke Fox.”
“You’re not on the guest list.”
“I’m here on behalf of Addison Clarke. He was supposed to tell you.” He hefted the remains of her phone. “This is pretty irredeemable. You want me to take out the SIM?”
“Please.”
“Shall I?” he gestured at her clutch.
“Thanks.” He stepped towards her to take it from her. “Do you mind if I borrow your jacket, while I get changed?”
“Not at all, my driver can take you.”
“No need, the taxi’s probably already here. Thanks.”
In the cab, Eva stared at the shimmery beauty of the skirt of her dress. This disaster hadn’t featured anywhere in her planning for all eventualities. Surely, once she sobered up, Annabel Grayson would make the rational decision to keep her prospective in-laws’ press office away from YouTube by staying silent about the whole thing. Her minor royal fiancé might not have a title or as much of a fortune as Jonathan Trainer, but he was still a Windsor, the catch every ‘it’ girl desired.
Eva unlocked her front door. No deadlock on? How ironic, rushing out with the police meant she hadn’t locked up properly. Had that only been this morning? She slid her key into the top lock and pushed the door open.
Except it didn’t.
She pushed harder. Something was behind it. Oh, come on, she didn’t have time for this.
“Is everything okay?” Eva jumped at the unexpected.
Not a passing neighbour standing at the bottom of her short garden path, but Luke Fox, just a few steps away from her.
12
“Did you follow me?” Eva’s question was stupid, Luke Fox clearly had. “Why are you here?”
She looked up and down the street, as quiet as it usually was at this time. Would Hugo next door hear through his closed front door if she screamed?
“I just wanted to check that you’re okay.”
“You don’t know me, why the interest in my well-being?”
Luke had his mobile out. “Look, can I show you?”
He held his phone up for her to see, open on the contact for Addison Clarke, mobile, a number that Addison kept very private. After all the times she’d spoken to him, she didn’t have it.
He pressed dial.
“Addison, Luke Fox. Can you say a quick hello to Eva Janssen, convince her of my bona fides? . . .of course, here,” Luke held it out to her.
“Hello?”
“Eva, I’m sorry we couldn’t be there this evening but I hope Luke is doing a good job as our proxy.” Addison’s voice filled her ear, no sound of stress, coercion, the usual confidence, at ease with himself, the world all his. She was reading too much into this.
Sometimes a delivery driver was just a delivery driver, sometimes a good Samaritan was just that.
Luke shivered beside her.
“He’s going above and beyond the call of duty.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
“Sorry to have disturbed you.”
“Not at all, it’s always sensible to check the unexpected. Good luck with the fundraising.”
Eva handed Luke his phone. “Thanks, sorry.” I thought you might be a killer.
“Let me help.” Luke pushed on her front door so she could squeeze inside to pick up the coat stand that must have fallen over in her rush out that morning.
But then she saw the open drawers of the hallway cupboard, spare batteries, blank birthday cards, the washing machine manual, gift bags and two screwdrivers strewn over the floor. What were they doing there? She looked into the lounge. Why were the sofa cushions, covers stripped off, thrown around like six-year-old Lily was building a den? Eva’s feet crunched on something, shards of broken glass, a smashed photo frame.
Poking out from beneath the rumpled rug was her memory box. She snatched it up, holding it against her front, the wood cold on her bare skin, gripping it so it dug into her.
They’d been here. In her house. They’d come for her, the people who’d failed to kill her with the poisoned cake. Eva’s thoughts rammed into each other, crashing, colliding with the violence from which she’d apparently escaped again by pure luck.
But she didn’t have nine lives. She didn’t know how to outrun professional—what were they? A hitman? Assassin? Sitting behind a desk in the Security Services had equipped her with precisely nothing—
Luke’s questioning touch on her arm grounded her. “Wait here.” he whispered.
She snatched up the fireside poker.
“You’re going to skewer the intruder?”
“If I have to.”
“You’re injured, he could blow you over. Let me.” He took the poker and she listened to him moving around the house, the creak just down from the top stair, the floorboards that no number of handymen had been able to fix on the landing. The opening, closing of bedroom doors.
The landline handset wasn’t in its cradle, but Eva found it on the carpet. She listened for no ring tone, but her movie expectations weren’t reality.
“Is the intruder still there?” The 999 operator asked.
The stairs signalled Luke was coming back down, less stealthily than on his way up.
“The police need to know if anyone’s still here.”
He shook his head. She relayed his no.
“No one’s hurt?” The operator asked.
“The house was empty.” But what if Eva had given in to Lily’s demands that she and Anya could spend the night there, that they didn’t need to have a babysitter? Eva dropped onto the sofa base.
“We’ll get CSI out, but they won’t be there until tomorrow at the earliest. Is the house secure?”
“Yes.”
“Is there somewhere else you can stay tonight?”
“Yes, thank you.” Eva’s lie sounded definite enough. The curse of her and Charles being only children, the excuse of being too driven in their careers for time to socialise, two lonely lives entwined.
“Can I take a contact number for you?” The operator asked. Not now her mobile was in pieces. She gave Charles’ even though he still didn’t have it switched on. “Here’s your crime reference number,” Eva mimed writing at Luke and he tapped it into his phone as she repeated it.
The dressing on her forehead, brighter than her hair, was reflected to her from the black
