there, even though it was greeted with open arms and rolled-up shirt sleeves.
His destination that morning was the Salisbury private hospital in Harley Street. On entry, Vince saw that it was more akin to a swanky five-star hotel than a hospital. The only thing that gave away its true status was the white-coated doctors and blue-uniformed nurses – as opposed to pantomime-dressed bellboys and frilly-knickered French chambermaids. But Vince noted that even the medical staff had an unhurried and genial attractiveness about them, as though they were hand-picked extras milling around the set of Dr Kildare.
He was shown up to Isabel Saxmore-Blaine’s room, where a uniformed copper sat reading a paperback outside the door. As Vince badged him, he went to stand up, but Vince said ‘Relax’ and knocked sharply on the door.
‘Who is it?’ came a woman’s high-impact voice, its timbre a little husky, a little low, a little rich . . .
‘The detective who punched you on the chin,’ Vince announced, smiling at the uniformed copper who had looked up from his paperback with an expression bordering on astonishment. From inside, Vince heard some arguing, albeit of the very polite and hushed variety, which then hushed completely. The door eventually opened and there stood Isabel Saxmore-Blaine.
She took a deep breath, gave him a welcoming smile, and said: ‘Come to admire your handiwork?’
He winced at the sight of the bruise on one side of her jaw. It had now reached its full apogee of colourfulness: a crescendo of tonic blues and purples fading into ochreous browns and yellows.
And then it was her turn to wince, as she noticed the bruise on the side of his own jaw. ‘What happened to you?’
Vince’s chin-shiner was nothing compared to hers, being just several different shades of black and blue. He couldn’t tell her the truth; there was just no way of putting a good slant on that one. A list of appropriate mishaps ran through his mind: fell off his horse while playing polo, helping a lady out of her carriage, clumsily doffing his cap whilst neglectfully holding a croquet mallet. He shrugged out a dismissive mutter about an incident at work, par-for-the-course stuff.
So there they were, both wearing slight expectant smiles on bruised chins, as she invited him in. The luxury theme of the lobby had carried on up into the room, five-star all the way. The only thing to give it away as not being the presidential suite at the Dorchester was the high metal-framed bed with a clipboard of medical notes attached to the footboard.
Just rising from the sofa was a portly, elderly man in a double-breasted chalk-stripe suit, an old school tie and a gold watch-chain running from his lapel into his breast pocket. A corona of white curly hair skirted a bald head, which he now covered with a dark blue fedora, plucked from the arm of the sofa, before he struggled into a fawn covert coat with a collar of well-worn olive green velvet. Finally, collecting some papers from the coffee table, he slid them into his admirably distressed and monogrammed ( G D L ) pigskin briefcase, and fastened the brass locks.
‘Detective Treadwell, this is Geoffrey Lancing, my lawyer.’
Vince offered his hand, and the lawyer grudgingly shook it.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Lancing.’
‘Likewise, Detective,’ said the lawyer, not really meaning a word of it, while not taking his eyes off his client. ‘Isabel, my dear, I must ask you once more to reconsider. This is not a wise decision.’
‘Thank you, Geoffrey, but that really will be all.’
The lawyer turned to Vince. ‘May I ask you for your professional opinion, sir?’
Isabel Saxmore-Blaine said: ‘No, you may not.’
Vince looked between the two of them and said nothing.
She jumped in again before the lawyer could. ‘I’ll save you the time, Detective, as you know how long-winded lawyers can be. Geoffrey here is my father’s lawyer—’
‘Your family’s lawyer for the last
His destination that morning was the Salisbury private hospital in Harley Street. On entry, Vince saw that it was more akin to a swanky five-star hotel than a hospital. The only thing that gave away its true status was the white-coated doctors and blue-uniformed nurses – as opposed to pantomime-dressed bellboys and frilly-knickered French chambermaids. But Vince noted that even the medical staff had an unhurried and genial attractiveness about them, as though they were hand-picked extras milling around the set of Dr Kildare.
He was shown up to Isabel Saxmore-Blaine’s room, where a uniformed copper sat reading a paperback outside the door. As Vince badged him, he went to stand up, but Vince said ‘Relax’ and knocked sharply on the door.
‘Who is it?’ came a woman’s high-impact voice, its timbre a little husky, a little low, a little rich . . .
‘The detective who punched you on the chin,’ Vince announced, smiling at the uniformed copper who had looked up from his paperback with an expression bordering on astonishment. From inside, Vince heard some arguing, albeit of the very polite and hushed variety, which then hushed completely. The door eventually opened and there stood Isabel Saxmore-Blaine.
She took a deep breath, gave him a welcoming smile, and said: ‘Come to admire your handiwork?’
He winced at the sight of the bruise on one side of her jaw. It had now reached its full apogee of colourfulness: a crescendo of tonic blues and purples fading into ochreous browns and yellows.
And then it was her turn to wince, as she noticed the bruise on the side of his own jaw. ‘What happened to you?’
Vince’s chin-shiner was nothing compared to hers, being just several different shades of black and blue. He couldn’t tell her the truth; there was just no way of putting a good slant on that one. A list of appropriate mishaps ran through his mind: fell off his horse while playing polo, helping a lady out of her carriage, clumsily doffing his cap whilst neglectfully holding a croquet mallet. He shrugged out a dismissive mutter about an incident at work, par-for-the-course stuff.
So there they were, both wearing slight expectant smiles on bruised chins, as she invited him in. The luxury theme of the lobby had carried on up into the room, five-star all the way. The only thing to give it away as not being the presidential suite at the Dorchester was the high metal-framed bed with a clipboard of medical notes attached to the footboard.
Just rising from the sofa was a portly, elderly man in a double-breasted chalk-stripe suit, an old school tie and a gold watch-chain running from his lapel into his breast pocket. A corona of white curly hair skirted a bald head, which he now covered with a dark blue fedora, plucked from the arm of the sofa, before he struggled into a fawn covert coat with a collar of well-worn olive green velvet. Finally, collecting some papers from the coffee table, he slid them into his admirably distressed and monogrammed ( G D L ) pigskin briefcase, and fastened the brass locks.
‘Detective Treadwell, this is Geoffrey Lancing, my lawyer.’
Vince offered his hand, and the lawyer grudgingly shook it.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Lancing.’
‘Likewise, Detective,’ said the lawyer, not really meaning a word of it, while not taking his eyes off his client. ‘Isabel, my dear, I must ask you once more to reconsider. This is not a wise decision.’
‘Thank you, Geoffrey, but that really will be all.’
The lawyer turned to Vince. ‘May I ask you for your professional opinion, sir?’
Isabel Saxmore-Blaine said: ‘No, you may not.’
Vince looked between the two of them and said nothing.
She jumped in again before the lawyer could. ‘I’ll save you the time, Detective, as you know how long-winded lawyers can be. Geoffrey here is my father’s lawyer—’
‘Your family’s lawyer for the last
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