“Then none of this brings us any closer to Loubet,” says Amy.
Jeff is studying something intently. “Max would have needed help.”
“Jesus,” says Amy. “Who would be stupid enough to help Max Highfield?”
Jeff looks at Susan, and then at Amy. The sunlight now pierces the window blinds, throwing black stripes onto his face. “I think you know who, Amy.”
What’s happening here? Amy feels like she is walking into a trap.
“The first name on this list,” says Jeff, “was introduced to me by Max Highfield three days after he came back from a trip to San Francisco.”
“Come on—” Amy starts. Now she sees.
“Where his close-protection officer,” says Jeff, “was Amy Wheeler.”
“Amy?” says Susan.
“And on the day that the second name on the list was introduced, who was Amy working for?” Jeff pauses for an effect that is not needed, because they all know the answer. “François Loubet.”
“No,” says Amy.
“We both know exactly what’s happened here, Amy,” says Jeff.
90
Steve has never been in a sauna before, and he is fairly sure he never will be again. But he’s investigating, and investigating always involves some sort of sacrifice.
What he needs right now is a friendly introduction to Rob Kenna, and he has found just the man for the job.
He sits on a bench diagonally opposite the big Cockney he’d seen playing golf with Rob yesterday. Could be an ex-cop, this fella, open, dependable face, bald, red head pouring with sweat.
“Like a sauna in here, innit?” says Steve.
Mickey Moody smiles. “You sound like a Londoner?”
“Steve,” says Steve, wondering if it was supposed to be this difficult to breathe. “Bermondsey born and bred.”
“Mickey,” says Mickey Moody. “Billericay. You been playing?”
“Not a golfer, just love a sauna. Really opens up the pores,” says Steve. He has just been googling saunas. “Had a walk round the course, got my ten thousand steps in, then straight in here.”
“People don’t normally wear T-shirts and shorts in the sauna,” says Mickey.
“I hear ya,” says Steve.
“Or shoes,” adds Mickey.
Steve had suspected all this, but he wasn’t comfortable with any form of nudity. Even feet.
“Saw you playing with that DJ. Rob whassisname?”
Mickey Moody looks at Steve more closely. “Rob Kenna? Did you?”
“I’m not a cop, I’m just nosy,” says Steve. “What’s he like?”
Mickey shrugs. “Don’t care if you are a cop. Dunno, really, we just play golf. He seems all right. I’ve learned not to ask too many questions of people round here.”
“Why’s that?” Steve asks.
“What do you do, Steve? For a job?” Mickey asks.
“Scented candles,” says Steve, taking himself by surprise.
Mickey nods. “I was in scrap, for years.”
“You meet a few characters there,” says Steve.
“You do, old son, you do,” agrees Mickey. “And that’s the point. I learned long ago not to ask anyone anything. Did my job, got paid, went home to the wife. People’d come into the yard trying to sell you all sorts, brand-new Ferraris, all stuff you wouldn’t believe. Or they’d ask if you could leave the gate open at night and not look too closely at the crusher the next morning.”
“Sounds a lot like the scented-candle business,” says Steve. Both men laugh, and Steve follows this up with a hacking cough from the overpowering eucalyptus fumes.
“I always gave a polite no,” says Mickey. “No offense given, no offense taken, but I’m not your man. And one by one these guys with the Ferraris and the dead bodies would get nicked or shot, or get coked up and die in their pool. And there was me, nice little business, nice little house, and now a nice little retirement, little villa by the golf course.”
“Never tempted?”
“A couple of years we struggled,” says Mickey. “And you start thinking, ‘Maybe,’ ‘Should I?’ You know? But it’s not how I was born. I was raised by my grandmothers, and they’d have killed me. Where do you live now, Steve?”
“Ormskirk,” says Steve. Where did that come from? Steve isn’t even sure where Ormskirk is. Near Liverpool?
