you?” he asked politely. “What do you art?”
“I . . . paint,” she said. Then she took a deep breath. “And draw. Both.” She looked at him. “And you?”
“A bit of this and that,” he said. “Nothing interesting enough to discuss.”
“Well,” she said, bouncing up suddenly, “it’s been a pleasure. Gotta run.”
He watched her rush off back toward the castle and frowned thoughtfully. She was truly a mystery. If her goal was to baffle and confuse everyone in her vicinity, she was succeeding.
He got to his feet and followed her, because that’s what he did, then decided, after she’d looked back over her shoulder with an expression of alarm, that it was time for a change of costume. He texted Oliver to let him know Samantha was his for a bit, then strode off toward the castle car park to see what sort of ride he could find. Twenty quid bought him a ride to the station from an obliging gardener type, which left him time to duck into a loo and make a few changes to his appearance.
He made himself a spot in a corner of the station and decided the time had come to use his phone to its best advantage. He knew about Samantha’s parents, of course, because he’d done business with Gavin Drummond before—unfortunately—and he liked to know more about his clients than perhaps was polite. But when it came to Miss Drummond herself, it took him quite a bit of time to determine even the most basic details about her. She was the single most inaccessible suspect he’d ever encountered. She had very little social media presence, unlike her parents, who seemed determined to let the world know their every thought.
Odd, though, how they didn’t say anything at all about their children. It was as if they didn’t have any.
Samantha Drummond’s details were sketchy, but telling. Hadn’t she said she was an artist? He snorted. She was a rather good liar, actually, given that her degrees were in history and textile curation. He had learned also that she’d spent the past three years tending to her mother’s extensive collection of Victorian artifacts. What she was doing being a courier for the Cookes was beyond his ken, but not beyond his ability to discover.
He glanced up to see Bloke One and Bloke Two sauntering through the station behind the future van Gogh, trailed by Oliver, who somehow managed to never look the same even if he happened to be wearing the same clothes. Spooky was the only way to describe him.
Derrick wondered briefly who the first two lads were, but as long as they were limiting themselves to knives and fists instead of guns, he wasn’t going to worry too much. He couldn’t imagine the Cookes would have sent security after Samantha, but he found himself continually surprised by what crooks were willing to do to accomplish their ends. Surprised, but not surprised, if that made any sense. Why people couldn’t just be honest and forthright—
Well, that was an argument for a different day. He had enough to worry about at present without delving into the moral morass that was the mind of the average thug.
He got on the train, walking past Samantha and choosing a seat a few rows in front of her. The only thing he could say for certain was that he was thrilled he would never have to have anything to do with her because she was just the kind of woman he would never, ever want anything to do with. Too excited about ordinary happenings and pedestrian sights.
That was all he needed: an idealistic thief.
He texted Oliver to make sure he had line of sight, then closed his eyes and decided that perhaps the only thing that would make sense was to take a nap.
He tried, really he did, to force himself to sleep, but slumber eluded him. There was something bothering him that he couldn’t quite lay his finger on.
It was strange that Samantha had gone out of her way to Castle Hedingham without doing anything more useful than looking around. He had been watching her the entire time save at the
“I . . . paint,” she said. Then she took a deep breath. “And draw. Both.” She looked at him. “And you?”
“A bit of this and that,” he said. “Nothing interesting enough to discuss.”
“Well,” she said, bouncing up suddenly, “it’s been a pleasure. Gotta run.”
He watched her rush off back toward the castle and frowned thoughtfully. She was truly a mystery. If her goal was to baffle and confuse everyone in her vicinity, she was succeeding.
He got to his feet and followed her, because that’s what he did, then decided, after she’d looked back over her shoulder with an expression of alarm, that it was time for a change of costume. He texted Oliver to let him know Samantha was his for a bit, then strode off toward the castle car park to see what sort of ride he could find. Twenty quid bought him a ride to the station from an obliging gardener type, which left him time to duck into a loo and make a few changes to his appearance.
He made himself a spot in a corner of the station and decided the time had come to use his phone to its best advantage. He knew about Samantha’s parents, of course, because he’d done business with Gavin Drummond before—unfortunately—and he liked to know more about his clients than perhaps was polite. But when it came to Miss Drummond herself, it took him quite a bit of time to determine even the most basic details about her. She was the single most inaccessible suspect he’d ever encountered. She had very little social media presence, unlike her parents, who seemed determined to let the world know their every thought.
Odd, though, how they didn’t say anything at all about their children. It was as if they didn’t have any.
Samantha Drummond’s details were sketchy, but telling. Hadn’t she said she was an artist? He snorted. She was a rather good liar, actually, given that her degrees were in history and textile curation. He had learned also that she’d spent the past three years tending to her mother’s extensive collection of Victorian artifacts. What she was doing being a courier for the Cookes was beyond his ken, but not beyond his ability to discover.
He glanced up to see Bloke One and Bloke Two sauntering through the station behind the future van Gogh, trailed by Oliver, who somehow managed to never look the same even if he happened to be wearing the same clothes. Spooky was the only way to describe him.
Derrick wondered briefly who the first two lads were, but as long as they were limiting themselves to knives and fists instead of guns, he wasn’t going to worry too much. He couldn’t imagine the Cookes would have sent security after Samantha, but he found himself continually surprised by what crooks were willing to do to accomplish their ends. Surprised, but not surprised, if that made any sense. Why people couldn’t just be honest and forthright—
Well, that was an argument for a different day. He had enough to worry about at present without delving into the moral morass that was the mind of the average thug.
He got on the train, walking past Samantha and choosing a seat a few rows in front of her. The only thing he could say for certain was that he was thrilled he would never have to have anything to do with her because she was just the kind of woman he would never, ever want anything to do with. Too excited about ordinary happenings and pedestrian sights.
That was all he needed: an idealistic thief.
He texted Oliver to make sure he had line of sight, then closed his eyes and decided that perhaps the only thing that would make sense was to take a nap.
He tried, really he did, to force himself to sleep, but slumber eluded him. There was something bothering him that he couldn’t quite lay his finger on.
It was strange that Samantha had gone out of her way to Castle Hedingham without doing anything more useful than looking around. He had been watching her the entire time save at the
Similar Books
