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He felt like a theatregoer watching actors pushing hard into the stage curtain while they moved around unseen behind it. There was something going on and he was only glimpsing part of it.
What he knew for sure was that there was a connection between the murder in Soho and Mr Ryan. The connection was looser than it might be, but it was real. The book Sean Ryan had found in Istanbul contained pages sewn in about obscene prayer practices from the early days of Christianity. It listed prayers that required real blood being poured and drunk, fire rituals, the castration of offenders and the murder of heretics and apostates, including cutting patches of skin from victims.
The most gruesome ritual involved murdering four people in twenty-four hours, each in a more sadistic way.
The purpose of that ritual was given in a Latin phrase above the small line-drawn images of how each murder should be carried out.
The phrase was: Quattuor Invocare Unum.
It had been translated as Four to Invoke the One. Henry shook his head. Whoever the sick bastard was who’d killed that poor girl, at least he hadn’t started the ritual where four people were going to die. He never wanted to see someone being murdered the way it was shown in those drawings.
Because they were the cruellest things he’d seen in a long time.
18 (#ulink_63930560-f363-5924-b9c7-62c6162abd6c)
Isabel held the edge of the desk. She was getting the runaround. Something was going on that she wasn’t being told about. That’s what it felt like, even if she couldn’t prove it.
Yet.
‘Is the security manager available?’ she said, as calmly as she could, addressing the receptionist.
The woman looked at her, her mouth slightly open. Then her expression changed. Her mask of smiling professionalism slipped back on.
‘Certainly, Mrs Ryan. If you’d like to wait over there, I’ll see if she’s available.’
Isabel sat on the front edge of one of the sofas, examining everyone who passed by. Was it still too early to call the police? Would BXH be a bit more accommodating if she had a police officer with her or if she told them they were on their way?
She looked at her watch. It was still only eight or nine hours since he should have been home, not twenty-four. She took a slow breath, then counted to ten. The world around her was continuing in real time; prosperous-looking people were going out for their lunch break. Though many of them were grim-faced, others were smiling, as if they had nothing to worry about and the stories all over the media about BXH were just lies.
The buzzer in her hand went off again. She turned. Standing beside the receptionist was a small, wide-shouldered, cropped-haired woman. There was going to be no friendly smiles with this lady.
‘Are you the security manager?’ were Isabel’s first words.
‘Your husband is not here, Mrs Ryan.’ Her tone was as definite as a punch in the ribs. ‘His car is in the car park all right. It’s been here since last night. The rules of this building are quite clear. No employee is allowed to leave a vehicle overnight. When you see your husband, will you ask him to remove it?’ She looked at Isabel as if she had a contagious disease.
‘Can I speak to George Donovan?’
‘You’ll have to call him later. He’s out.’
‘A lot of good that’ll do.’
The woman recoiled, as if Isabel had slapped her.
‘It’s all I can suggest, Mrs Ryan.’
She thanked the woman for her help, and crossed the foyer, pulling her coat tight around her as she left the building.
The black Mercedes was still standing, purring at the curb.
Then it came to her. Maybe the wonderful Mrs Vaughann might know something about what had happened last night. Her husband had probably been with Sean.
She headed for the car and tapped on the window, hard. Mrs Vaughann stared at her, eyes wide, as if Isabel was a beggar. She knocked again, harder this time.
The window slid open less than an inch.
‘Mrs Vaughann, we met last summer. I’m Isabel Ryan. My husband works with Paul.’
‘Isabel,’ Mrs Vaughann shouted, as if she’d found a decades-lost friend. The door clicked open.
Mrs Vaughann leaned forward. She looked like someone waiting desperately for something, the way an alcoholic looks while waiting for a bar to open. Her eyebrows were raised. Her skin was pale. Her cheeks hollow. Her brow was all scrunched up.
Isabel stepped inside, then pulled the door closed behind her. It made a perfect reassuring clunk. The driver was in front behind a wall of thick glass. He didn’t even turn his head as Isabel got in.
‘I have to tell you,’ said Mrs Vaughann. ‘I almost didn’t open the window.’ She sounded amazed at herself that she had.
‘Thanks. It’s horrible out there.’ Isabel shivered. ‘There’s something I want to ask you. You always have your finger on the pulse.’ This was the woman most of the other BXH wives wanted to be.
Mrs Vaughann smiled, like a Siamese cat enjoying being stroked. ‘Please, call me Suzi.’ She put her hand on Isabel’s arm. Her skin looked translucent, as if she was made of expensive porcelain.
‘You poor thing. You’re wet.’ She handed Isabel a tissue.
‘I’m okay.’ Isabel rubbed her hands together.
Mrs Vaughann leaned back, looked at her appraisingly. She made an exasperated noise.
‘You know, I’m glad you came over. I do hate sitting here. You know they’ve gone too far this time.’ She sounded angry.
‘Who’s gone too far?’
Mrs Vaughann picked up a copy of the Evening Standard lying on the floor near her feet. It was folded open at an inside page. She pushed it towards Isabel as if it had a bad smell. Her hand was gripping the paper so hard her knuckles were white. Then she uncurled them, as if she didn’t want Isabel to see how anxious she was.
‘A few BXH people were at some horrible place last night.’
Near the top of the page there was a picture of police tape cordoning off the front of what looked like a crummy restaurant. On a canopy above the door was part of a word – Magnol. Isabel’s pulse was beating on both sides of her forehead.
The headline above the picture read: ‘Lap Dancer Murdered.’
A prickling sensation ran up her neck. ‘BXH people went there?’
Mrs Vaughann looked at her as if Isabel was a slow learner.
‘They were there when that poor girl was murdered.’
Sean couldn’t have anything to do with this, could he? He’d been working late last night.
Please, God, make it so that he isn’t involved in this.
‘What is it you wanted to ask me, Isabel?’
She swallowed. ‘Sean’s missing.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I wanted to find out if you knew where they were last night.’
Mrs Vaughann’s eyebrow arched. ‘Since when is he missing?’ She sounded almost happy at the news.
‘He should have come back at two, maybe three this morning. He hasn’t turned up.’
Mrs Vaughann sucked air in through her pursed lips. ‘Paul didn’t come back either,’ she said quickly. ‘We’re in the same boat, my dear.’
She put a hand on Isabel’s thigh. It was a sisterly gesture, she knew, but Isabel was tempted to say her husband wasn’t like Mr Vaughann. Sean had told her that Vaughann liked to be friends with lots of women in the bank. Friends with benefits was the rumour.
Sean wasn’t like that.
‘You should know,’ said Mrs Vaughann, ‘that if I find out there’s another woman involved or if he’s got anything to do with what happened to that dancer, I’ll cut his equipment off myself. He won’t be a big swinging dick if I do that.’ She sounded like she meant it.
Mrs Vaughann pressed her hand to her pale forehead. She looked the picture of a wronged corporate wife in her Jimmy Choo shoes and steel-grey Agnès B dress. She’d probably just come back from one of her charity coffee mornings, which she was famous for.
‘What about your husband? Do you have any idea why he …?’ Mrs Vaughann’s voice trailed off. Her pencil eyebrows were raised even more now.
Isabel imagined what she was going to say next. Was Sean cheating on her? She’d been pushing the thought away all morning. But she couldn’t do that forever.
Her standard reply to any girlfriend, who suggested he might stray, was to say that he never stayed out late. But she couldn’t even say that now. She plucked at her sleeve, as if there were fluff there. There wasn’t.
‘I don’t know what to say.’ She knew she sounded uncertain.
Mrs Vaughann looked at her and smiled. Her teeth were perfect. Most of the wives of the bank’s top executives had tight-lipped superior expressions. Most of them still had a personal masseuse, trainer and a holistic therapist pampering them every day or two. They usually tried to hide how superior they felt to the rest of humanity, but not very successfully.
Smugness oozed from them like the rotting smell from a carcass. But Mrs Vaughann was different. Her smile was genuine.
‘All men are bastards,’ she said.
‘I trust Sean,’ said Isabel. But there was a hollowness in her tone, as if she didn’t believe what she was saying. Her mouth was dry too.
She shook her head, glared out the window at some people leaving the bank.
‘I’m sure you’re right about Sean,’ said Mrs Vaughann. ‘It’s probably just bad timing, him going missing.’
Isabel turned to her. There was something sad about the way Mrs Vaughann looked, all taut, like a wire about to snap. Suddenly she felt sorry for her.
‘Have you talked to Paul about all this?’ She pointed at the Evening Standard.
If staff from the bank, senior staff, had been in that sleazy club when a dancer was murdered that was definitely bad news for the bank. Their reputation would be in the gutter. But did Isabel care? Sean mightn’t have even been there. He certainly wouldn’t have done anything stupid there.
‘No, I haven’t. Not yet. But I’m not leaving here until I do.’
Isabel stretched towards the door handle. Outside, hail was ticking and slithering against the window. Great, even the weather was conspiring against her.
‘I have to go.’
Mrs Vaughann squeezed her arm, held it.
Then she coughed, and bent forward. As she did Isabel caught a glimpse of her neck, and saw rows of wrinkles. She looked older than Isabel had imagined. There are some things even Botox and plastic surgery can’t hide.
‘Prepare yourself, Isabel. The media will be all over us because of this takeover.’
Her eyebrows rose. They looked to be in the wrong place now. Her eyes were fixed on Isabel, as if she was working out if she could trust her. Her lips were pressed tight. Mrs Vaughann looked out of the windows on both sides, as if she thought someone might be listening to them.
‘Your husband is leading the facial recognition project, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. Is there a problem with it?’
Mrs Vaughann’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s a problem with everything at the moment, Isabel. I just hope your husband is able to cope with the stress.’
She looked worried.
‘I have to go.’ Isabel opened the door. The urge to leave was getting stronger by the second.
She had to find Sean. And she wasn’t going to do that listening to Mrs Vaughann. She stepped out of the car and didn’t look back.
The hail was coming down like a million icy arrows. She raced for the entrance to the underground.
19 (#ulink_0e34c4c6-23d3-5415-89aa-cb1ff7db4615)
Adar got out of the taxi. He headed for the coffee shop overlooking Bank Street. He could see the front and side entrance to BXH from one of the window seats.
He put his backpack on the floor and sat in the empty chair opposite the older grey-suited man who was talking softly into his phone. He eyed Adar with surprise and suspicion. A minute later he stood and left the coffee shop.
Perhaps it was the way he’d stared at him, unblinkingly, or perhaps it was the hood that covered his head, which he kept pulled down to the level of his eyebrows.
The only time he’d taken it off had been when he was walking through immigration at the City Airport corporate terminal twenty-four hours before. Immigration officials like to be able to see who they’re letting into the UK and for people to smile.
He accommodated them.
The Bombardier Global 5000 he had arrived on would be ready to fly back to La Guardia on Long Island, in New York State, in a few hours. It was the fastest private long-range jet available. The leasing company they had hired it from had allowed Lord Bidoner to provide his own crew.
Adar’s flight record was well beyond the number of hours needed to pilot long distance with only passengers, and La Guardia was used to the odd arrangements of the sporting and corporate elite, heading for their Gold Coast Long Island mansions. He put his day old pay-as-you-go phone down in front of him and downloaded the email app. He looked at the saved message in the draft folder.
Red, it read.
He added the word ‘green’ to the message, then saved it. That was enough. Lord Bidoner would be able to see that he was about to proceed.
He downloaded the Instagram app, and logged in as the agreed identity. His next message would be a picture of a London black cab. That would mean he had completed his next task and was on his way back with the package. He glanced at the entrance to BXH as he put the phone away.
He didn’t want to miss him. He had a message for George Donovan. All he had to do was work out how to deliver it.
20 (#ulink_7d23fcfe-5c4d-5e86-98f6-81f5a03f4c43)
This was all getting ridiculous, Sean wouldn’t have gone to a strip club – he was not that kind of man. But it would explain the late nights. The thought of Sean visiting that club left an ache in Isabel’s chest. The weekend in Paris didn’t matter now. He’d been the best thing in her life since they’d come back from Istanbul. She could almost feel his arms around her when she thought about him.
As the cab came up the street she saw a police car outside their next door neighbour’s house. A dark Ford was double-parked outside their house. She got out of the cab by the police car, and peered in. What was she expecting, Sean to be in handcuffs in the back?
