He’s still got most of Rob’s fifteen grand, so he booked himself into a hotel called The Pig. It’s the perfect place to hole up for a couple of days, and to do what needs to be done. It’s quiet, great food, lovely staff, private. You can see deer out of your window in the morning.
Is Eddie ready? He’s still not sure. It has to be exactly right before he makes his move. He’s only going to get one shot. But he still needs the answer to this final tricky question: can you shoot somebody through a pane of glass in a high building? Would it deflect the bullet? If you can, he is all set.
Eddie heads down to the hotel dining room. It is a relief, after Ireland, not to be mobbed. Perhaps this will be the final stop on the impromptu world tour he finds himself on. That would be nice. He could handle staying here until the deed is done. There’s even an herb garden.
As Eddie reaches the third step from the bottom of the staircase, he has a view into the restaurant. It’s classy but also cozy—that’s a nice combination. He’s already read the menu, of course he has, he’s only human, and is looking forward to the fish and chips. The fish has been caught locally, and the potatoes grown locally. As for the batter, that’s anyone’s guess.
There is sunlight pouring into the room, and, before Eddie reaches the bottom step, he sees it glint off a ruby-and-emerald brooch of a crouching tiger. There, at a window table, is Rosie D’Antonio, talking to an older guy. The guy is wearing a waxed Barbour jacket and purple cords. You saw that a lot with people who’ve had to wear suits all their lives. No idea how to dress without one.
Eddie backs up the stairs one by one, making no sound. An elderly couple walks past him on the stairs, and he gives them a gentle wave.
So Rosie D’Antonio is in the hotel? Perhaps she’s staying here? That would make things even easier.
Time for Eddie to get room service, and finalize his plan.
73
“I’m sorry,” says Derek Charters. “I didn’t realize we were dressing up.”
Rosie laughs. “This isn’t me dressing up. And you suit purple cords. I’m sorry to get straight down to business, but did you take a look at everything Steve sent you?”
“Steve, is it?” says Derek. “New man of yours, I suppose?”
“No,” says Rosie. “Not for want of trying, though. This New Forest trout is delicious by the way. When did England learn to do food?”
“Nineties,” says Derek. “I took a look, and Vivid Viral Media seems to be up-front.”
“Up-front?” Rosie is surprised by this.
“They’re an agency,” says Derek. “Long established, changed course recently, but that’s business, isn’t it? It seems that this Felicity Woollaston spotted a gap in the market. Social media influencers. Huge sums of money flying around. There’s a hundred and fifty thousand pounds, for example, to a man called Mark Gooch, two hundred thousand to a man named Jackson Lynch. It’s big business.”
“But not dodgy?” asks Rosie. “As far as you can tell?”
“It’s a real company,” says Derek Charters, “with a real history. But there is a question I would be asking if I thought this company was being used to launder money.”
“What might that question be?” Rosie asks.
“Why did they choose this particular company?” Derek says. “Why did the cuckoo choose this particular nest? It won’t have been at random; that’s far too dangerous.”
“So somebody must already have had a connection with Felicity Woollaston?” says Rosie.
“I’d say so,” says Derek. “That’s business. Did I ever tell you about the time I bought an Estonian bank?”
“Let’s say yes, so I don’t have to hear about it,” says Rosie. “How’s Carol, by the way?”
“Oh, she’s right as rain,” says Derek. “Living in Jamaica with a ski instructor.”
“In Jamaica with a ski instructor?”
Derek shrugs.
“Carol’s stories were always better than yours,” says Rosie.
“Why the interest in Vivid Viral?” asks Derek. “Anything I can make some money out of?”
“Ever the investment banker, Derek,” says Rosie. “Murders. They’re trying to kill a good friend of mine.”
“Murders are your specialty,” says Derek. “No one is trying to kill you, though, I hope?”
“Well, funnily enough, someone was,” says Rosie. “A Russian billionaire. I don’t suppose you’re a hitman?”
“With my arthritis?” says Derek.
Rosie laughs. It’s funny, across a lifetime, the people you pick up. It’s often the most unexpected ones who stick around. There are friendships forged in fire, which end up disappearing like smoke, and other casual, nodding friendships, which will stay with you for the rest of your life.
From the corner of her eye, Rosie catches a movement. It’s on the staircase in the hallway and looks an awful lot like a tracksuit bottom moving slowly up the stairs.
Eddie Flood? How has he managed to follow them again? Here’s a guy who doesn’t give up.
She will have to tell Amy immediately, of course, but a further, troubling, thought occurs to Rosie.
Of all the places to stay, why is Eddie here?
What if Vasiliy Karpin hasn’t given up on her? Jeff Nolan was supposed to be brokering a deal with him, but Jeff Nolan is very missing, presumed very dead.
Has Rosie taken her eye off the ball? What if Eddie had been hired to kill her all along? Shooting at Amy was just to get her out of the way?
“Can I top you up?” asks Derek, tipping the wine bottle toward her.
