Page 72 of The Question of Us
“First off, drive back past the house and tell me what you see. Jerry’s given Angela a summary and she’s listening in. I’m gonna enjoy watching her chew your arse when you finally meet.”
Wonderful.“Whatever. I’ll leave you on speaker phone.” I circled the eucalyptus and headed back down the road. “I’m about three hundred metres from the driveway.”
“Face your phone down so the screen doesn’t light up the interior of your car.”
“Already is,” I lied, flipping it over. “Almost there. The party is still in action. A few people are wandering out front of the house.” I cracked my window and Eric Clapton filled the car. “I don’t think—holy shit.”
“What?” Samuel demanded.
“It looks like Gazza’s BMW heading down the driveway, followed by a big SUV. But... that’s impossible.” I took my foot off the accelerator and the car slowed. “Gazza wouldn’t leave without Nick, and one of them would’ve called. Plus, Nick said Gazza could barely walk on his own.”
“Can you see the driver?” Samuel demanded, his voice a thin slice of anger.
I squinted through the windscreen. “Not through the headlights, but if he turns left, I might get a chance when we pass each other. What the fuck is going on, Samuel?”
Samuel grunted. “I don’t know but I don’t like it.”
“He turned left. Here he comes.” I squinted to protect my eyes from the glare of the headlights as I turned at the last minute and tried to catch the other driver as he sped past. It was little more than a flash of skin and hair lit by the electronic dash, but it was enough.
“It’s not Gazza,” I said emphatically. “Whoever it is has dark hair, not Gazza’s current platinum blond tips.”
“You’re positive?” Samuel pressed.
“No, I’m not fucking positive,” I snapped. “But it’s my best guess.”
“All right. All right,” he backed down. “Was he alone?”
“I don’t know,” I flustered. “I think so, but it was too fast to be sure. Here comes the other SUV.” I watched a Land Cruiser sail by and sighed. “Just a driver on his own, I think. No one I knew. What the hell are they up to? Do I follow Gazza’s car or wait here? He could be in the trunk. They both could. Or they could still be inside. Fuck! What should I do?”
When he didn’t answer, I roared, “Samuel! Tell me what to do. I don’t fucking know what to do.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Nick
I figuredthe security guard had to be the same man who’d checked Gazza in at the gate since the odds of there being two Scottish guards was a little on the low side. He pushed me through a side door into the house and up a narrow set of stairs onto an impressive landing.
Modern art and baroque-style mirrors hung above expensive antique furniture that featured gleaming honey wood bursting with inlaid panels of intricate design. Buttoned velvet chairs and Persian rugs added warmth and an additional layer of luxury, and in the middle of the voluminous space, a grand staircase with a sweeping polished balustrade led back down to the ground floor. I’d obviously been brought up the service entrance. Everything smelled like money and good taste, but to me it was suffocating and pretentious and I wanted to throw up. I couldn’t imagine Lee living in all this.
A man stood guard outside a door just along the stairs I’d come up and I wondered if Gazza or Lee or Aaron were inside. “Hey, Clarence, who’s that?” The man squinted my way and I ducked my chin while noting the name.Clarence.
“Unexpected company. Interesting night, right?”
The other man laughed. “Aren’t they all?”
Clarence didn’t reply. He steered me to a door further down the hall, knocked, then opened it without waiting. He pushed me inside and then shoved me roughly to my knees. I caught a glimpse of a rug before I landed and a dark mahogany desk that likely cost more than my year’s salary.
Without knowing who else was in the room, I stayed where I was, hands cable-tied behind my back, head lowered, eyes on the rug, praying no one would recognise me.
“I found this guy hiding in the gardens above the pool.”
“Is that right? How about you wait next time before barging in uninvited?” It wasn’t hard to pick that voice as Marty’s. The unmistakable authority cut through the room like a knife and I hoped like hell Mads had made that call.
“Sorry, Boss.”
I turned my head just enough to see Marty staring coldly at his phone before he threw it on the desk and turned his attention to me. Fury simmering in my chest, I dropped my gaze back to the intricately patterned Turkish rug and let Marty’s eyes burn a hole in the top of my head.
After a nerve-racking minute or so, he finally spoke, though not to me. “Any ID?”
