Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #3: Books 9-12 (A Dead Cold Box Set), Blake Banner [reading in the dark TXT] 📗

I stepped out into the lobby, put the phone to my ear and said, “Yeah, Stone.”

“Chiddester here. We are on the brink of a major crisis.”

“I know.”

“You can’t leave before it’s settled.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Is it true, what I’m hearing?”

“I don’t know what you’re hearing, Chiddester.”

“That Dehan…”

“Is this line secure?”

A hesitation. “…Yes.”

“Then it’s true. But there is more to it than what you might have heard. Who has contacted you?”

“I can’t say, but look, I really think you need to get over here.”

“Where are you?”

“Holland Park, number five.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“Perhaps, I’m not sure. Shall I send a car for you?”

I thought about it for a moment. “If you do, will we get there? Would it be smarter to get a cab, or ask Harry for a car?”

He gave a small, humourless laugh. “Quite the contrary, dear chap. It’s no trouble at all. The Home Office provides men like me with cars that are bullet proof and bomb proof. Total waste of the taxpayer’s money, but I suppose they think it’s necessary. In this day and age, with the enemy living in our very midst, perhaps they’re right.”

“I hear you. Yeah, then perhaps you should send a car.”

I returned to the dining room and ordered coffee. It was my turn to smile ruefully. “Party’s over, kiddo. Chiddester is sending a car for us. Time to face the music.”

SIXTEEN

The waiter informed us that a car had arrived for us from Lord Chiddester. I took Dehan’s arm and we stepped out, through the lobby, to the front steps. The car was a Jaguar XE. It was by the door with the engine running and a uniformed chauffer holding the rear passenger door open for us. Both the car and the driver looked bulletproof.

He drove fast and efficiently, with his eyes on the road and all three mirrors in rapid, successive glances. As we approached Knightsbridge, he said suddenly, “We’ve picked up a motorbike, sir. I’ll try and get rid of him, but if he’s still with us by the time we arrive, I’ll ask you to stay in the car till I give you the all clear. All right?”

I nodded. “That’s fine.”

I went to look out the back window, but he said, “Don’t look, please, sir. I’d like him to think we’re not aware of him.”

“OK…”

There was the usual traffic at Knightsbridge, but it wasn’t heavy, and as we moved toward Kensington Road, up ahead the lights turned to amber. Instead of slowing, the driver accelerated fast, with his eyes on the mirror and a nasty smile on his face. The biker, fearing he might lose us if we jumped the lights, hit the gas too. Twenty feet from the lights, our driver braked hard. There was a squeal of tortured rubber and, through the windshield, I saw all the people waiting to cross at the lights stare in horror, wince and put their hands to their mouths. Behind us, there was another squeal of brakes, a loud thump and the car shook. Everybody ran to help the biker and our chauffer slipped across the red lights and continued on toward Holland Park. After a moment, he said, “It’s all right, sir. I think we lost him.”

Dehan smiled. “You think?”

Holland Park is short, and runs in a slight curve from Holland Park Avenue to Abbotsbury Road. There are no more than twenty or thirty houses on it, and one of those is the Greek Embassy. The rest are huge, white, double-fronted Victorian mansions set back from the sidewalk behind five-foot balustrades. We pulled up outside one of those mansions, about a third of the way down, and while the driver got out and opened the door for Dehan, I got out on the other side.

He scanned the street with his right hand behind his back under his jacket and opened the gate for us. “Make it snappy,” he said, and we walked fast down the path that cut through the front lawn to the front door, which opened as we arrived.

A man in a black suit wished us a good evening and ushered us into a large entrance hall. It was elaborately Greco-Roman, the way the Victorians liked it, and was painted mainly white and cream, though a deep burgundy carpet covered the hall and climbed a sweeping, white marble staircase to the upper floors. Large, white doors with brass knobs stood on either side of the hall.

We had no coats to give him, so he gestured us to follow him across the hall to the door on the right. He tapped, stepped in and said, “Detectives Stone and Dehan, sir.” Then he stood back for us to enter.

Chiddester was standing by the Victorian fireplace. He looked worried as he watched us come in and the door close behind us. The room was furnished with comfortable, modern furniture. The chairs and sofa were flanked by tables and attractive lamps.

Sitting in two of the large, comfortable armchairs were Nigel Hastings and Justin Caulfield. I can’t say I was surprised, it was what I had expected. Chiddester came forward.

“My dear Dehan.” He took her hand. “I am so sorry that all of this has happened during your honeymoon. Please do sit. Can I offer you a drink?”

She told him she was fine, winked at him and sat. He shook my hand, frowning at me like he wasn’t sure what to make of me. I told him I didn’t want a drink either. I sat on the arm of Dehan’s chair and smiled at Hastings.

“For a man who never wanted to see me again, Hastings, you didn’t take long to arrange it.”

He managed to put sneering, contempt, hatred and triumph all into his face at the same time, and screw it up into an ugly