‘You didn’t have to leave work,’ Mrs Haynes said.
His profile twitched. ‘Yes, I did. You’re going to need sorting out, aren’t you?’
And what the hell did he mean by sorting out? It made Julianna’s blood run cold hearing him speak that way. The man was an ass.
Jackson, now facing forward, was tapping his fingers on his lap and glancing at his wristwatch from time to time. In the rear-view mirror, Mrs Haynes brushed aside a lock of hair; her hand was trembling.
She was afraid.
A few minutes later Julianna pulled up outside the Holland Park whitewashed house with its three floors and battery of CCTV cameras focused on the windows and doors. Jackson carried the baby carrier indoors.
‘I won’t be needing you again.’ Hettie climbed out of the car.
Jackson held the front door open for his wife. She hobbled on her broken heel and rushed past without a glance in his direction. With a kick of his foot, he slammed the door shut.
Julianna sped off back to Haynes’ headquarters, her driving duties finished for the day. Her supervisor, Chris Moran, owed her an explanation about Hettie’s marriage. Hasty, misplaced sentiment, intrusive: those were Julianna’s flaws, but she wasn’t going to let somebody else occupy her punch bag if she could help it, and she liked Hettie; the woman was blessed with dazzling looks and talent, and something else, which frustrated Julianna because words couldn’t describe what she felt. The feelings Julianna could express magnanimously regarding herself were bitterness and envy. Compassion, too, if she dug deep enough, although it wasn’t an emotion she wore on her sleeve.
She relayed the incident in the car to the security chief in an abbreviated fashion. He scratched his bald patch and tilted his chair back with his long legs. His desk was a well-guarded corner plot in the team’s open plan office in the basement. Lunchtime, and they were alone. Her stomach rumbled as she reached the point about the blood on the buggy’s handles.
Chris interrupted her. ‘I should have briefed you on her phobia of blood before today. Sorry, I thought you’d been told.’
‘That wasn’t what bothered me, Chris. She didn’t look happy. The way he spoke to her, it sounded like he was, well, going to bite her head off… or something.’
Chris groaned and his chair landed back on the front legs with a jolt. ‘Look, take my word for it, they love each other. Crazy mad love. It’s just their way. Don’t read into what they say to each other. It’s a minefield. Don’t go there. I don’t and I’ve been with Mr Haynes for years.’
‘He didn’t show much sympathy—’
‘Julianna, leave it!’ The bark was a familiar rebuke. He was an ex-copper, too.
Chris was nominally her line manager. He pulled rank when it came to what she did for the company; whether it was helping the forensic accountants or bodyguard duties, Chris had the final say. She couldn't afford to risk upsetting the status quo.
‘New guy in forensics – Mark Clewer.’ Chris slid a folder across the table. ‘He’s been checked out. If he needs help, then you’re the contact.’
She opened the manila folder and read the first few lines of the report. ‘He doesn’t start until Monday.’
He turned away and waved a dismissive hand. ‘Haynes handpicked him. Just do your stuff, Julianna. It’s what we employed you for.’
Her stuff. She wasn’t sure exactly what her stuff entailed anymore.
~ * ~
Chris had told her to leave the couple alone. But her palms itched, like a scab needing to be picked. In the celebrity press, Mrs Haynes appeared on Mr Haynes’s arm, smiling and playing her part beautifully. Maybe that was all she was to him: a beautiful object or a trophy wife whom he adored for the sake of good publicity. It didn’t help her conscience knowing that there were young children in the Haynes household – what if they witnessed the unpleasant truths about their parents’ behind the scenes relationship? Julianna was determined to re-establish her credentials as an investigator, even if it was only in the privacy of her own mind.
For the rest of the week, she wasn’t asked to drive Mrs Haynes. The opportunities for spying were few.
The intelligence service had recruited her from the Metropolitan’s Serious Fraud division. They had needed her brains – her brawn was under appreciated – to help track the money hidden by terrorists and organised crime, but she had been trained to do undercover operations. Nothing glamorous, just routine surveillances, which were generally tedious and uneventful. By Friday, she had formulated a plan. Her weekends were typically free time, however she was on the reserve list. One of the security guards who worked the night shift at Jackson’s Surrey estate wanted time off at short notice. Julianna volunteered to do the shift.
Heading south out of the City of London in her ancient personal vehicle, Julianna approached the estate with a smidgen of trepidation at her treasonous plot. The secluded house was Georgian and well-maintained, and a substantial property compared to the townhouse in Holland Park where the couple lived during the week. Fasleigh House was a squire’s sanctuary, and with its extensive network of security cameras and fences, it posed few issues for the team based in the gatehouse.
Tom Draper, the other guard on duty, was already there when Julianna rolled up. He briefed her, then buried his ginger mop in a bike magazine. She drummed her fingers on the table, wondering when to make her move. She hadn’t been this excited in a long time. Adrenaline accelerated her heartbeats to a manageable pace. She was ready.
‘I thought I saw something on the monitor, over by the perimeter fence.’ She waggled her finger at the screen.
‘Probably a rabbit or fox. Happens,’ he said, without looking up.
‘I’ll go check. Better safe
