Murder on the Green. H.V. CoombsЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter Seven

      ‘Ma dai! But who is this … Justin, you should have told me that the new man was coming this morning …’

      It was Aurora who came into the study just after us.

      ‘Carissima,’ said Justin. They kissed each other’s cheeks and they briefly spoke together in machine-gun-like Italian that I couldn’t begin to understand. Aurora moved over to me and shook my hand.

      She was wearing a strappy white cropped T-shirt that showed off her body, and tight low-cut hipster jeans to reveal her infamous tattoo of the swan rising from the very dark blue fabric, its head and beak coiling around her pierced navel. The T-shirt had the word Liar emblazoned on it.

      The overall effect of meeting Aurora was like being hit by a truckload of sensuality.

      ‘It’s Ben, isn’t it?’

      There was certainly no danger of me forgetting her name.

      ‘It certainly is, Aurora,’ I said warmly. She smiled warmly back at me and kissed me on the cheek. It was a gesture designed to put me at my ease. I remember thinking what a kind person she was.

      On her Instagram account she came across as overtly sexual, flirting with the camera, provocative poses, artfully disarranged clothing. The reality was mitigated by a very heartfelt welcome and a feeling that she was a very pleasant person.

      Our meeting before at my restaurant had been brief, as I’d spent most of the time with Justin.

      ‘And how is Jess?’ she asked.

      How sweet of her to remember, I thought. ‘She’s fine,’ I said.

      ‘You are a lucky man to have such a talented girl to work for you, as lovely as she is intelligent.’ She smiled brightly at me.

      ‘Thank you.’ I turned my attention away from her and looked around the study. The Old Vicarage had been extensively renovated twenty years ago and it still bore the hallmarks of its previous owner, the shady businessman. I was pleased to see that the study was furnished in true old-fashioned gangster style from the Seventies. In the fire sale of the house, Justin had obviously bought everything, contents included, and hadn’t got round to changing anything.

      I inventoried a white shag carpet, a large black desk with those clicky metallic balls that bang into each other in an annoying, metronomic way, black leather sofas and a glass-and-chrome coffee table. There were even a couple of enormous nude portraits of women done in coloured pastels on a black background. I know very little about art, but they were awful. At least, I assumed this kitsch tat wasn’t Justin’s doing – it would have been retro gone mad.

      As it was, in his ripped jeans, shoulder-length hair and ornate jewellery, he clashed horribly with his own furniture. He had a latte in front of him and had pulled a Diet Coke for me from a small fridge under the desk.

      Justin leaned forward and lifted one of the silver metal balls and released it. The two of us watched in fascination as it banged into the others and they swayed metronomically back and forth.

      ‘Tasteful, eh,’ he said, grinning at me. ‘I’ve got an intercom too.’ He pointed at a teak box with a silver mesh speaker and three switches. He clicked one and spoke into it, ‘Send him in, Miss Jones.’

      Another grin.

      He said, ‘There’s a speaker on the desk out there in the hall so a secretary can sit there and do whatever you tell her to do. It’s weird how things used to work.’

      I nodded, as we both contemplated the past. The days of secretaries and intercoms. The last time I had seen an intercom was when I was a kid at school outside the headmaster’s office. Longer ago than I cared to think about.

      I caught a sudden glimpse of myself in an enormous mirror (with a chrome frame). With my shaved head, glasses (I didn’t need them particularly, but I’d got them with a two-for-one offer when I’d bought some expensive reading glasses, which I do need – the tortoiseshell frames make me look more intelligent, which is easier than becoming more intelligent), over-tight shirt and hipster-style trousers and shoes, I fitted in uncomfortably well with the décor.

      I looked like a gangster pimp from the Sixties.

      Back to the present.

      ‘What do you make of Justin’s team, Ben?’ asked Aurora taking a seat next to Justin behind the big desk.

      She leaned over and kissed him affectionately. Justin ruffled her hair. I felt a pang of envy – I had nobody’s hair to ruffle. The best I could muster was to pat Francis on the back. I shifted in my chair. It was a leather Chesterfield and fiendishly uncomfortable.

      ‘One big, happy family,’ I said.

      Aurora laughed, scornfully, and sat upright. She pushed her hair back imperiously. ‘Wait until you get to know them,’ she said. ‘Gregor’s a moody depressive, Murdo’s heavily into drugs, Octavia’s man-mad, Tom’s violent and Andrea harasses the waitresses.’

      She had my attention with the last comment. ‘What does Andrea do?’

      ‘Nothing really,’ said Justin quickly.

      ‘He pesters waitresses,’ said Aurora. ‘We’ve had to warn him about it, now Jean-Claude, well, come si dice …’

      Justin was looking at me imploringly. He made an equivocal gesture with his hand.

      ‘I’ve told him to be on his best behaviour at your place, Ben. There won’t be any trouble.’

      I sat upright and narrowed my eyes. ‘I hope not, Justin, for his sake. No one harasses my staff,’ I warned. I was thinking of Jess.

      ‘Nobody will; now, if we can move on …?’

      I tore my mind away from potential unpleasant scenarios involving Andrea.

      ‘And what are you being blackmailed about?’ I asked, settling back in my leather seat.

      He looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight in his Charles and Ray Eames-style executive chair.

      ‘I’d rather not say.’

      ‘You can tell him, Justin,’ said Aurora. ‘I think Ben is very trustworthy.’ She beamed at me and tugged his hair playfully. ‘Justin is naturally very suspicious. I think it’s his Scottish blood coming out.’

      Justin examined his fingertips.

      ‘It’s very delicate.’

      I’m sure it is, I thought to myself. It would be, if blackmail was involved.

      ‘Well, I think you should tell me,’ I said.

      ‘Why should I do that?’ Justin still looked uncomfortable, and he folded his arms across his body defensively. ‘What difference does it make? I just want you to find out who’s doing it, so we can make them stop.’

      I sighed. ‘Because I need to know the hold he or she has over you, so I can better neutralise the risk.’

      ‘OK,’ he said, sulkily, ‘they’ve got evidence of plagiarism.’

      ‘Tell me more about it.’ I tried on an encouraging smile like Oprah Winfrey when she wants someone famous to explain whatever crime or indiscretion