Aysha was embarrassed that he’d seen her outburst. She could feel her face going an unflattering shade of red so she busied herself with the coffee while Benedict talked to the editor on the phone. He was a charmer on the phone; she’d heard him in action, forming close relationships with trucking companies, car dealers and other yards. Even when regular punters off the street came in looking for spares, he was helpful, pointing them in the right direction when they were searching for engines, alternators, power-steering pumps or even just a second-hand headlight.

Finally, he replaced the handset and looked at her.

‘Sorted,’ he said. ‘We’re late, but there was a bit of wriggle room, so the ad’s in.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, putting a mug of coffee on his desk and hurrying back to her own. ‘The filing cabinet’s locked.’

‘Always is, overnight.’ Benedict held up a key.

Aysha got up, went over to his desk and snatched it out of his hand. Or tried to. Benedict hung on to it. She widened her eyes at him. What the fuck?

‘I’ve got a spare, if you want one,’ he said.

‘Thanks,’ she said, and stood there tapping her foot in annoyance while he searched in the desk drawer and found it, handed it over.

She went back to her own desk, unlocked the filing cabinet and sat down. Glowered at Benedict. Smooth bastard. He smiled back, serenely.

117

117

Shauna had chewed it over in her mind until it drove her almost crazy. Sometimes, your gut told you things. You just felt that something was wrong. She might have moved on up, but she was still Romany, and her senses were sharp. She thought she was right about this.

She didn’t want to be right. She’d had Jeb watching Josh when he was over here, but he hadn’t seen a thing out of order. Nothing suspicious. Still the feeling persisted – that Josh was up to something. And so she was going to have to prove that she was wrong. Now, to do that, she was here at lunchtime in the middle of town, getting a professional involved.

Christmas was coming round again soon, there was tinsel draped over the till and out in the streets of London all the decorations were alight and glowing. But Shauna was full of gloom.

She was meeting up with Lesley Deveney in a busy coffee shop off the Strand, full of yummy mummies and their howling brats and gangway-filling double pushchairs. It was raining outside and all the windows were misted up. She arrived first, ordered a cappuccino and waited for a quarter of an hour. No sign of the bloke. A forty-plus woman came in, straight shoulder-length dark hair, a plainish face, intelligent down-slanted dark eyes with big bags underneath them. She was dressed in a black jacket, a crisp white shirt and skin-tight jeans. She walked over to Shauna’s table.