Hautfort.’
‘More than one, for sure,’ I mumble.
I watch her disappear into the lighted doorway. The enchantress has vanished: I’m the forlorn knight alone on the hillside. I remember her sucking her finger, the ruby lips and the luminous skin.
She’s pricked me – and I know that instant the wound will never heal.
XIII
Luxembourg
‘I’ve found something.’
Ellie cupped her hand over the phone. She was standing by the bandstand in the Place d’Armes, scanning the crowd for any sign of a man in a white raincoat. For the past ten days she’d confined herself to the data room and her hotel room, growing fat on room service and running up an exorbitant bill on bad movies. She didn’t even dare go to the bar, for fear Lechowski would be lurking there.
‘Talhouett have a Romanian subsidiary which might have some pretty huge liabilities. I only found it by chance: there’s nothing in the accounts. One of their directors resigned in protest at the way they were handling it. For some reason a copy of his letter made it into the personnel file.’
‘Have the others seen this?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Not judging by the collection of dried-out Post-it notes which had fluttered out like dead leaves when she opened the file.
‘Can you remove the letter?’
Ellie thought of the dull-eyed security guard reading his dirty magazines, the perfunctory bag searches at the end of the day. The biggest risk was Lechowski.
‘Maybe.’
‘Do what you can.’ Blanchard’s voice was quiet; Ellie struggled to make it out over the blare of a street artist’s boom box in the square behind her. ‘One other thing. Did you find any reference in the files you looked at to something called “Mirabeau”?’
It sounded familiar – a budget item, maybe? – but her head was so full of names and figures she couldn’t remember where or what it had been. And she’d already learned you didn’t say anything to Blanchard without being sure of your ground.
‘I don’t think so. What is it?’
‘Not important. When will you be back in London?’
The due diligence period was almost over. ‘I’m flying home tomorrow night. I’ll be in the office on Monday.’
‘This is excellent work, Ellie. Again you have surpassed yourself. Our client will be impressed. Do you have plans this weekend?’
The street artist had started banging a steel drum. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Michel Saint-Lazare – our client – has invited me to Scotland to hunt. I wondered if you would like to come with me. He would be very interested to meet you.’
For a moment, Ellie was captivated by a vision of lochs and forests, a turreted castle with a roaring log fire, snuggling into an eiderdown in a four-poster bed late at night. She bit her lip. ‘I promised Doug I’d go to Oxford this weekend.’
‘Then you must go, of course.’ At once, Blanchard was brisk and businesslike. Was he offended? Disappointed?
He probably doesn’t care one way or the other.
‘I’ll see you on Monday.’
Oxford
Ellie took the train to Oxford, staring out the window as it chugged up the Thames valley. An autumn haze covered the fields; the sun shone from a vivid October sky and made the world golden. Up on the hills, the leaves were turning. There would be a frost that night.
On a Saturday morning, the carriage was almost empty. Ellie scanned the faces she could see: a mother with two daughters, a man with a bag advertising antiquarian books; two students talking with self-conscious earnestness about Kant and Heidegger. She was invisible to them, which suited her well.
Doug had rugby training that morning; she’d told him not to meet her. She still felt an irrational stab of disappointment when she scanned the waiting faces at the station hall. Just being in Oxford made her apprehensive. She’d only lived there for nine months before Monsalvat approached: long enough for it to be familiar, but not to feel she’d ever belonged. The sense of unfinished
‘More than one, for sure,’ I mumble.
I watch her disappear into the lighted doorway. The enchantress has vanished: I’m the forlorn knight alone on the hillside. I remember her sucking her finger, the ruby lips and the luminous skin.
She’s pricked me – and I know that instant the wound will never heal.
XIII
Luxembourg
‘I’ve found something.’
Ellie cupped her hand over the phone. She was standing by the bandstand in the Place d’Armes, scanning the crowd for any sign of a man in a white raincoat. For the past ten days she’d confined herself to the data room and her hotel room, growing fat on room service and running up an exorbitant bill on bad movies. She didn’t even dare go to the bar, for fear Lechowski would be lurking there.
‘Talhouett have a Romanian subsidiary which might have some pretty huge liabilities. I only found it by chance: there’s nothing in the accounts. One of their directors resigned in protest at the way they were handling it. For some reason a copy of his letter made it into the personnel file.’
‘Have the others seen this?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Not judging by the collection of dried-out Post-it notes which had fluttered out like dead leaves when she opened the file.
‘Can you remove the letter?’
Ellie thought of the dull-eyed security guard reading his dirty magazines, the perfunctory bag searches at the end of the day. The biggest risk was Lechowski.
‘Maybe.’
‘Do what you can.’ Blanchard’s voice was quiet; Ellie struggled to make it out over the blare of a street artist’s boom box in the square behind her. ‘One other thing. Did you find any reference in the files you looked at to something called “Mirabeau”?’
It sounded familiar – a budget item, maybe? – but her head was so full of names and figures she couldn’t remember where or what it had been. And she’d already learned you didn’t say anything to Blanchard without being sure of your ground.
‘I don’t think so. What is it?’
‘Not important. When will you be back in London?’
The due diligence period was almost over. ‘I’m flying home tomorrow night. I’ll be in the office on Monday.’
‘This is excellent work, Ellie. Again you have surpassed yourself. Our client will be impressed. Do you have plans this weekend?’
The street artist had started banging a steel drum. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Michel Saint-Lazare – our client – has invited me to Scotland to hunt. I wondered if you would like to come with me. He would be very interested to meet you.’
For a moment, Ellie was captivated by a vision of lochs and forests, a turreted castle with a roaring log fire, snuggling into an eiderdown in a four-poster bed late at night. She bit her lip. ‘I promised Doug I’d go to Oxford this weekend.’
‘Then you must go, of course.’ At once, Blanchard was brisk and businesslike. Was he offended? Disappointed?
He probably doesn’t care one way or the other.
‘I’ll see you on Monday.’
Oxford
Ellie took the train to Oxford, staring out the window as it chugged up the Thames valley. An autumn haze covered the fields; the sun shone from a vivid October sky and made the world golden. Up on the hills, the leaves were turning. There would be a frost that night.
On a Saturday morning, the carriage was almost empty. Ellie scanned the faces she could see: a mother with two daughters, a man with a bag advertising antiquarian books; two students talking with self-conscious earnestness about Kant and Heidegger. She was invisible to them, which suited her well.
Doug had rugby training that morning; she’d told him not to meet her. She still felt an irrational stab of disappointment when she scanned the waiting faces at the station hall. Just being in Oxford made her apprehensive. She’d only lived there for nine months before Monsalvat approached: long enough for it to be familiar, but not to feel she’d ever belonged. The sense of unfinished
Similar Books
