Page 109 of Making a Killing

Adam Fawley

30 July 2024

09.27

They say everything looks better under a blue sky, but I reckon it would take a nuclear winter to take the shine off Soho Farmhouse. I can’t actually remember anywhere so blatantly beautiful; the contrast to Kate Madigan’s house in Belfast is almost obscene. The maintenance bill alone must be stratospheric – all that deliciously restored brickwork, the bleached wood, the sweet smell of money and herbaceous borders. Alex even went so far as to ask if she could come with me, and she’s never donethatbefore – ‘just to have a nose – I could pretend to be Ev’ – so I reminded her fake-sternly that impersonating a police officer is a criminal offence, but yes,I would keep an eye out for celebrities, though no, I wasn’t going to take any pictures as that would rather undermine my authority, at which point even Lily started laughing and I knew I was beat.

Nick Vincent must have warned them I was coming because the chap in a cap at the main entrance waves me through without asking for my ID (I think there may even have been a ‘sir’), and there’s an immaculately uniformed Staff waiting out the front of reception. ‘Adèle’ is very keen to know if I had a good trip, how the traffic was and whether I’d like coffee. I say fine, fine and yes, in that order, and she ushers me into what she calls the Main Barn, which is apparently the ‘Hub of the House’. A big open-plan bar with more exposed brickwork and a wall of not-for-reading books and knick-knacks for that home-from-home vibe. There are chairs and sofas dotted about, but at this time of day the place is all but empty, apart from a couple of young blokes lolling in a far corner who are probably from a boy band – they’ve done bloody well to afford this place at their age otherwise. But apparently even that’s not enough discretion for Nick Vincent because Adèle leads me up a flight of stairs at the far end to a mezzanine space where he’s lolling on a leather couch behind a copy ofEsquire.

He doesn’t look up, though he must hear us coming on these floors, so I’m forced into power games before we even start. I turn to Adèle.

‘Thank you, that’s great.’

She bows slightly, ‘I’ll be up with the coffee,’ whereupon Nick Vincent gives a slightly contrived start and rustles up his paper.

‘Detective Inspector, how rude of me, please, sit down.’

I’m sure he knows he’s got my rank wrong but I don’t actually give a toss so that particular play doesn’t land. I don’t give a toss that he doesn’t offer to shake my hand, either. He’s in extravagantly casual you’re-interrupting-my-holiday dress – a linen shirt, white shorts, flip-flops and a pair of sunglasses perched on his head. For some reason it always annoys mewhen blokes do that. If he uses the term ‘R and R’ I may just have to punch him in the mouth.

He flings himself back in his seat and looks me over. ‘So – how can I help? Terrible this thing about Robin.’

‘How well did you know her?’

He makes a face. ‘I can’t say Iknewher at all. In fact, I’ve been racking my brains but I don’t think we ever actually met.’

‘But she worked for you.’

‘Only freelance, and only once or twice. She did some background on Luke Ryder, from memory.’ He crosses an ankle on to a knee and gives me a steady look. ‘It’s really Tarek you should be talking to. He handles all the researchers.’

‘You must have known what she was working on, though. Her sister told us it was a Dry Riser project.’

He raises an eyebrow, just a little. ‘She’s right, it was.’

‘OK, so what was it?’

His amusement is obvious now. ‘Well, I rather thought you would tell me. I mean, it was your case, wasn’t it, DetectiveChiefInspector Fawley?’

It’s not checkmate but it’s damn close. I’ve underestimated this guy. And it occurs to me suddenly that all this is going straight into his file – hell, he may even be bloody recording it – there’s a mobile on the table between us –

‘Needless to say, this conversation is confidential. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that.’

He smiles, showing his American-white teeth. ‘No, I’m sure you don’t.’

I can hear footsteps behind me; saved by Adèle.

She sets out the cups and a bowl of sugar. There are actual chocolate flakes on the top of my cappuccino. Vincent has mint tea – fresh, of course, no doubt out of the obligatory organic herb patch; he must always drink the same, given she didn’t bother to ask.

Reset time.

‘So Robin Tierney had found out. About Daisy Mason.’

He sits back and stirs his tea. ‘That she’s still alive? Yes, she had.’

‘And that’s why you’re so interested.’

He shrugs. ‘What film-maker wouldn’t be? It’s a great story.’

‘And even better if she turns out to be involved in the murder, right?’

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