Page 15 of Murder Most Actual

This was becoming almost as absurd as Belloc and his grandstanding. “Of course it would feel good. Unless you’re incredibly shit at oral it would feel good. But—” Liza made a strangled, exasperated, sexually confused noise that came out as a sort of “grah.” “Will you just tell me what you know about the actual murder?”

“Good to know you’re living up to the name of your podcast at least.” Ruby sounded deeply disappointed. “About the murder itself, I know nothing. But where my erstwhile employer is concerned, I suspect everything, as should you. Rule nothing out, not even that Ackroyd has just faked his own death and is even now stalking the halls of the hotel waiting for a moment to strike.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“In my world, it pays to be flexible mentally as well as physically.”

Despite the circumstances, Liza laughed. “Do you just spend your whole life being paranoid and horny?”

“It’s what I intend to call my autobiography. I don’t think it’s likely that Mr Ackroyd’s mangled corpse will be wandering around trying to shoot me, but it has happened to me at least once before.”

“What? When?”

“Now, now, darling, a lady must have her secrets. I said I’d tell you three things: that was the first. The second is that whether Mr B is here himself, or whether he’s sent somebody, they won’t act against me until they are certain I haven’t passed his account numbers on to anybody else.” Suddenly, her tone was a whole lot less playful. “The money he can afford to lose; the information he has to protect at all costs.”

“How does that help?”

“Well, it helps me rather a lot. And it helps you because once I’m sure you won’t immediately go to Belloc or Quirke, you might find yourself in possession of some rather interesting documents.”

“Documents that a hardened gangster is definitely willing to kill over?”

Ruby’s body shifted again in the dark, and Liza tried to ignore the heat of it. “I suppose when you put it that way it is a bit double-edged, but you’re a journalist, Ms Blaine.”

“I’m a podcaster.”

“They give Pulitzers to podcasters these days. Just think of the scoop.”

And to Liza’s frustration, at least part of her did. That was the problem with seductresses; the smart ones knew there was more than one way to seduce a person. “Okay,” she said. “What’s the third thing?”

“The vicar is not who he seems.”

Great. “Any chance you could make that not completely vague and unhelpful?”

There was a sudden and intensely bright crack of light as Ruby opened the cupboard door. “No.”

As the two of them were about to part ways, a final question rose Columbo-like in Liza’s mind, and she turned. “What is your real accent?”

“Sugar,” said Ruby in a flawless Georgia drawl, “you’ll never know.”

Chapter Seven

Belloc, in the Dining Room, with Instructions

Saturday morning

They woke early the next morning because a 7 a.m. start was Hanna’s idea of a lie-in, and while Liza was slightly more sedentary in her habits, she’d never been the sleep-’til-noon type, even at university.

“Did you slip out of bed last night?” asked Hanna as she wriggled out of her nightclothes and into a much more practical set of underwear than she’d chosen the previous evening.

“Yes. I wanted to make some notes.”

In the few heartbeats of silence that followed, Liza took the opportunity to gaze out of the window. The storm had passed, but the snow was still falling, albeit more gently, and for the tiniest of moments she let the glory of the highlands take her breath away.

Then Hanna broke the spell with: “What sort of notes?”

“About, you know, our situation.”

Hanna frowned. “I’m assuming you mean the murder and not our marriage, but actually, either one is worrying.”

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