“One second,” says Tony.
Tony puts his finger over the microphone, so Steve only hears a muffled chat. Tony and Felicity, eh? Seems to be going well. The line clears again.
“She’s never heard of her,” says Tony.
“Courtney Lewis?”
“Never heard of her,” says Tony.
“But you told us about her,” says Steve. “So how did you hear about her? It’s literally impossible that anyone else in Axley would know the connection.”
“You’re the detective, mate,” says Tony. “Felicity says hi, by the way. She was eating an ice cream, and she got some on her nose. Honestly, it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.”
Steve hears Felicity giggle. Actually giggle. My God, love is a wonderful, but also sickening, thing.
“Listen,” says Steve. “Say hi back from me, and enjoy yourself.”
“Aye, aye, captain,” says Tony. “Over and out.”
Steve hears Felicity giggle again. Bit much now. He puts his phone back in his pocket. Amy and Rosie are waiting for his news.
“The information didn’t come from Tony; he swears to it. And Felicity says she’s never heard of Courtney Lewis.”
“So?” Rosie’s question hangs in the air.
“So, listen,” says Steve. “Perhaps someone else in Axley just happened to have that information? Just happened to be in the pub and mention it?”
“Or?” says Amy, knowing Steve well enough to not finish the sentence.
“Or Felicity Woollaston is lying to Tony.”
“And lying to us,” says Amy.
Is Felicity Woollaston lying to them? How much does Tony really know about her?
“Well, while you work your way through that, let’s interview someone about a man nailed to a tree,” says Rosie, walking toward the winery. She looks back at them, over her shoulder. “And I wouldn’t say no to a drink.”
66
Max Highfield is so furious, he can barely enjoy the Emirates First Class Lounge. Where is his bodyguard? They had a deal. Max takes his business to Henk; Henk hires the best bodyguard he has for him. So why is he sitting here alone? Why did he just have to get his own salad? Why is the bodyguard meeting him in Dubai and not here?
A nervous-looking teenager approaches him. “Are you Max Highfield?”
Well, well, well, here we go. This is what happens. Are you Max Highfield? Take a wild guess, kid. Who else looks like this? Who else is wearing a custom-made Gucci knitted tank top in First Class? Max raises his sunglasses to confirm that it is indeed him. And then motions to his salad to let the teenager know it is rude to approach someone when they’re eating. Good to learn that lesson young.
“Titans of War is my favorite film,” says the teenager, not picking up on Max’s salad cue. “It’s so good.”
“They underused me in that,” says Max. Could this kid have picked a more annoying film? Why doesn’t anyone mention The Rose of Sarasota? “I was like, I don’t just do action, you know?”
The teenager nods uncertainly. “Yeah, I liked it when you kicked that man off that spaceship.”
How does a teenager get into the Emirates First Class Lounge anyway? If Max was actually paying for his ticket, he’d be even more angry. The Diamond Conference people are paying. Max is hosting, and two writers called Shaun and Christine have written a few jokes for him. “It’s the only ceremony with more carats than the British Vegetarian Awards.” That one is a pun about “carats,” as in diamonds, sounding the same as “carrots,” as in vegetables. They had explained it, and guaranteed it would work.
The teenager is still staring at him. Max puts his sunglasses back on, and starts to eat his salad.
“Could I get a photograph?” asks the teenager.
This is why Max will never forgive Henk. He’s on his own here. Henk should have someone with him 24/7, except when Max doesn’t want someone with him. But here he is, defenseless.
“Sure,” says Max. The youngster takes out his phone. He’s trembling, which is something at least, a mark of respect. The boy gives a shy smile, and Max gives a tough-guy scowl. He is lucky in that people prefer it when he scowls. He knows some actors who have to smile when they meet members of the public, and it kills them.
“Thank you,” says the kid. He’s not a bad kid, but this is not something Max should be dealing with alone. Max nods to him and goes back to his kale. The kid runs back excitedly to his parents. The dad gives Max a thumbs-up. Another invasion of privacy. Can’t a man just kick back in his lime-green tank top and get a bit of peace?
Max rings Henk.
One of the lounge staff approaches. “Sorry, sir, no calls in the lounge.”
“I know,” says Max. “But I’m Max Highfield.”
The woman has no answer to this.
Henk isn’t answering. You wouldn’t get this from Jeff Nolan. Jeff would see his name and pick up. Middle of the night, whenever. Perhaps it’s not going to work out with Henk after all? But Max has burned all his bridges by now.
Max will see how the Dubai bodyguard goes. He’s taking a keener interest these days. Previously Max had had bodyguards only because everyone else had them, and he didn’t want to feel less important than, say, Ben Affleck. But now, since the messages have started, the death threats, he feels he might actually need one.
The last one read:
I know what you did. And you won’t get away with it. RIP.
