Page 13 of For Love or Money
‘Not at all,’ Lesley said reassuringly. ‘I’m sure these things happen all the time.’
Al gave her a dubious look. ‘Anyway, we’d like to get rid of this woman before it comes to that.’
‘Hang on,’ Lesley said, holding up a hand to stop him. ‘Before we go any further, I might as well tell you I don’t do wet work.’
‘Wet work?’ Al screwed up his face in dismay. ‘What on earth is “wet work”?’
‘You know, carrying out hits. Offing people.’
‘You mean ...murder?’
‘Well, you said you wanted to get rid of her.’
‘I didn’t mean in theGoodfellassense.’
‘What, then? Scare her off? Rough her up a bit? Because I won’t do that either.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it. Besides, you wouldn’t be my first port of call if I was looking to hire muscle.’
‘I’m stronger than I look, you know. I could do it if I wanted to – which I don’t.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind. But I don’t think we’ll require anything quite so ... hands-on. We just want you to get close to her, find out if we have cause to be worried.’
‘And if there’s nothing?’
Al shrugged. ‘Then I suppose we’ll wish them joy and dance at their wedding.’ He drained his coffee. ‘So, what do you say? Will you be mine?’
Lesley glanced out the window at the grey sky through the steady drizzle that trickled down the glass. So far, the Irish summer was proving to be a washout. Did she want to go to the south of France with Al and his glitzy family? Tough decision ...
‘I’ll think about it,’ she said. No harm in letting him stew a little. ‘I’ll get back to you tomorrow.’
When Al left,Lesley daydreamed about sleuthing escapades in Nice as she loaded the dishwasher. She pictured herself in a wide-brimmed straw hat and dark sunglasses, sipping a glass of cold white wine at an outdoor café while she observed Stella from a discreet distance; then chasing her down narrow streets and cobbled alleys, ducking into doorways to avoid being spotted; perhaps hitching a ride on the back of the motorbike of a handsome French man to continue the chase. This fantasy, she realised, owed more than a little to one of those sixties caper movies starring the likes of Audrey Hepburn.
She knew there was no way she was going to be able to concentrate on work for the rest of the day, so instead she decided to start on some research, and Googled Sir Peter Bradshaw. She found some news stories about his recent heart attack, and there was a touching picture of his youngest son, Scott, at LAX, flying to his father’s bedside. He had his hood up, his gaze averted from the intrusive lenses pushed in his face as he made his way through the airport. He looked strained and anxious, and incredibly hot. Scott was most famous for his role as a dangerously attractive and morally ambivalent vampire in a cultish TV show. He wasn’t very tall, but he was rakishly handsome, and what he lacked in height, he made up for in charisma and raw sex appeal.
There was a photo of Rafe speaking to press outside the hospital, and Lesley was surprised to see Jane Howard, ashen-faced, standing beside him. But then, Peter was still her children’s father, and it had looked like he was going to die. She was probably there for her sons, rather than for her ex-husband’s sake.
There were lots of images of Sir Peter – posing on the red carpet at movie premieres and award ceremonies, or snapped by paparazzi outside smart restaurants, always with his arm around some woman. The names and faces changed, but they were all young, glamorous and beautiful. Some were up-and-coming actresses or well-known models; others were not considered significant enough in their own right to even warrant being named.
Lesley read the captions on all the photos, searching for Stella, but if she was there, she fell into the latter category. The most recent picture she could find was from a premiere just a couple of weeks before Peter’s heart attack. He was smiling for the cameras with his arm around the waist of a leggy strawberry blonde. She was the most likely candidate for Stella, Lesley thought, peering at the photo. Did she look like a gold-digger? There was nothing in the slanting green eyes, high cheekbones or perfectly made-up face that could tell her. Besides, this might not even be Stella, so there was no point in trying to read anything into her expression or body language. What did a gold-digger look like anyway? Probably exactly like this, she thought – a twenty-six-year-old stunner draped on the arm of a frail septuagenarian. Case closed.
There was no shortage of photos of Rafe and Scott, of course, or the gorgeous, glamorous people who seemed to constantly surround them. As she clicked through the images, Lesley started to panic. What had she been thinking? How could she possibly accept Al’s offer? It was all very well fantasising about holidaying with the Bradshaws. But the reality of hanging out with these people in a swimwear scenario was another thing. She didn’t have the figure for it – or the wardrobe. She’d have nothing to wear. And she couldn’t possibly sport a bikini in front of Rafe Bradshaw! Thank goodness she hadn’t accepted the job on the spot. She could still say no. She’d call Al in the morning and tell him she couldn’t do it.
She clicked out of the internet and rang Romy to talk it through with her. She was the sensible one. She’d tell Lesley she should turn it down, and that would be that.
‘So, he knows you’re not really an investigator, but he wants you to do the job anyway?’ Romy asked when Lesley had filled her in. ‘And you don’t smell a rat? I’m starting to seriously doubt your powers of deduction right now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This Al clearly likes you.’
‘No, it’s not like that. I turned him down when he asked me out, so he knows I’m not into him.’
‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you if this job is more about hunting the salami than unmasking the gold-digger.’
‘So you don’t think I should do it?’ Lesley asked.
‘I didn’t say that—’
