Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
NICHOLAS
Sunday dawns fine considering it’s mid-November, and we’re in the south of England. There’s a light breeze coming from the south, and the temperatures are forecast as mild, more like September weather. Victoria and I have barely left our rooms since we stumbled through the door in the early hours of Saturday morning after her party at De Luxe. I hadn’t tasted a drop of alcohol, but I didn’t need it to feel drunk. I’m drunk on her.
There was a brief moment when I came inside her where she looked at me and I could’ve sworn she was going to say she loved me. The relief when she didn’t is something I’m not proud of, but as obsessed as I am with my wife, I don’t love her. I can’t love her. Losing my mother the way I did means I’ll never allow anyone to get their claws that deeply into me. Loving a mother is completely different from loving a wife, but they’re both capable of tearing out my heart and trampling over it should things go wrong.
I’m not willing to take that risk. Not with her. Not with anyone. Besides, it’s better this way. We both know where we stand.
That familiar hollow feeling I get in my abdomen every time I think about my mother threatens to consume me. The anger and betrayal I continue to feel to this day, almost twenty years later, never completely goes away. Most of the time, I can suppress it, and sometimes, months go by without me even thinking about her or Annabel. Then an event occurs, like finding that godforsaken key, and all those negative feelings come rushing back.
It doesn’t matter how many decades pass. I will never forgive her for taking her own life.
Xan appears to have accepted that the key is a dead end, an unsolvable mystery, although I know my brother. He’ll never completely give up looking for answers to the many questions he has about his and Annabel’s kidnapping, then our mother’s subsequent suicide.
As long as he’s happy to leave me out of it from now on, that works for me. I have my own fucking mystery to solve. I promised Victoria I’d find out who murdered her sister, and so far, I’m epically failing.
My determination to uncover the truth gives me a brief insight into Xan’s dogged persistence over our mother and sister. I couldn’t bear it if history repeated itself with Elizabeth. Victoria deserves to know the truth. Her parents deserve to know the truth.
I fucking deserve to know the truth.
Although , a voice on my shoulder whispers, if Elizabeth hadn’t died, you wouldn’t be married to Victoria.
Nor would I have known what I was missing, but one thing I’m sure of, I never would’ve obsessed over Elizabeth the way I do over Victoria. Elizabeth and I dated for a few months, although we never went further than a few kisses here and there. The odd thing is, I never questioned why we didn’t have sex, nor did I try to persuade her otherwise. I honestly had no urge to fuck her at all.
That in itself should’ve been a red flag, but I’d never taken the time to think about it. My father told me I had to marry one of the Montague sisters, and I picked one.
The wrong one, as it turned out.
Victoria stirs beside me, and my dick twitches in response. Sighing, she stretches her arms overhead, and I bend down and flick my tongue over her exposed nipple.
“Good morning to you,” she breathes, arching her back.
“I thought you were never going to wake up.” I run my thumb over her other nipple. “I wondered if you wanted to take a trip out today. The weather looks pretty good.”
“A trip where?” Her fingers burrow into my hair, and she pulls me closer to her. Cupping her tits, I push them together and feast on both her nipples at once. “To my vagina by the looks of things.”
I laugh. “Your pussy is a worthy contender, but I was thinking more of Windsor. We could do a little shopping, visit the castle, say hi to the King if he’s there.”
“You say that like he’d invite you in for afternoon tea.”
“He would if it fit in with his schedule. Unfortunately, he’s overseas at the moment.”
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, disbelief rolling in waves across her face. “The King would invite you into the castle? The King of England? You’re not serious?”
I chuckle. “The De Vils and royalty have always been close. We go way back. Centuries of connections.”
“How did I not know this?”
I shrug. “It’s not something that comes up in regular conversation.” I kiss her, then throw back the covers, roll her onto her stomach and slap her arse. “Up, Mrs. De Vil. There’s a whole world to discover outside of this bedroom.”
She rolls back over. “Do you think we’ll have time to drop by Anthony’s house on the way? I haven’t had chance to do an in-person site visit yet.”
“I’m sure we can make the time.”
An hour later, with Sol behind the wheel and Barron sitting beside him, we wind our way out of Oakleigh. After visiting Anthony Davidson’s eighteenth century sprawling second home and listening to Victoria excitedly talk about her plans for it, we set off for Windsor.
Hand in hand, we meander through the streets, ducking in and out of tourist shops, where Victoria indulges in buying what she calls classic souvenirs and I call tat. But in truth, I spend most of my time watching her. On the odd occasion she catches me looking and our eyes meet, I get a violent urge to push her up against the nearest wall and fuck her senseless. I feel like a teenager again where sex is the only thing on my mind.
Our grumbling stomachs and sore feet lead us to a bustling café. We snag the last table, toward the middle, and order lunch. Over our food, we talk a little more about her plans for Davidson’s house, and she lights up like a goddamn Christmas tree, her enthusiasm and animation both charming and enchanting.
Not for the first time I wonder how I never saw the real person beneath the dour appearance she used to wear like a tattered cloak each time our paths crossed.
Now I see the real Victoria, I can’t take my eyes off her.
Once our plates are empty, I beckon to a passing waitress and ask for our bill, but as my attention returns to Victoria, she’s paled, and her eyes are flared wide open as though she’s seen a ghost.
“What’s the matter?”
She swallows, blinking furiously. “Nicholas, do you have the drawing on your phone?” she whispers. “The one of the taxi driver.”
“Why?” I half turn to follow her gaze, but her nails dig into my arm.
“Don’t turn around. Just show me the drawing, please.”
“You think you see him?”
“I don’t know. Let me look at it.”
Frowning, I open the photos app on my phone and enlarge the artist’s impression based on the only witness to the driver of Elizabeth’s cab that I’ve managed to locate. I slide the phone across the table. Victoria doesn’t pick it up, but her eyes dart down, then up, then back down again. Finally, she looks at me.
“It could be him. It could be, but it’s hard to tell. Same jaw, same square chin, but he’s not wearing glasses, or a cap, like in this drawing.”
The urge to turn around is almost impossible to ignore. “Tell me where he’s sitting.”
“Along the back wall. It sort of looks like him, but…” She bites her bottom lip. “I’m not sure.”
I take my phone back and seek out Barron standing guard by the entrance. I lift a finger and swirl it in the air. He nods his agreement and gets on his phone to call Sol and tell him to bring the car. Sol won’t be far away, but no parking is allowed on this street.
“Describe exactly where he’s sitting and what he’s wearing. Be specific.” I didn’t want to have to scan the room in case he spotted us. If he was in on the plot to kill Elizabeth—if she even was the target, which I’m still not entirely convinced of—then the last thing I want is to spook him and have him take off and disappear into the crowds.
“There are five tables to the left of a painting of Windsor castle that’s hanging on the wall, and four to the right. He’s on the left-hand side in the middle of those five tables. He’s sitting alone, and he’s wearing a dark gray bomber style jacket and blue jeans.”
“Good. That’s good. I’m going to get up now and come around to your side of the table and pull out your chair for you. Stay seated for me, but don’t look at him. Maybe take out your phone and look at that instead.”
“Okay.” She does as I instruct, and once her attention is on her phone, I toss some cash on the table and rise to my feet. As I circle around the back of Victoria’s chair, I flick up my gaze. Thanks to her detailed explanation, I locate him immediately. Luckily for me, he’s fixated on his phone, too. I immediately recognize the similarities to the artist drawing, but I agree with Victoria. It’s hard to tell for sure. The best thing to do is to follow him, see where he goes, then decide on a course of action.
“Let’s go.” I touch Victoria’s shoulder, taking her hand as she rises.
Barron opens the door for us, and we walk outside just as Sol pulls up in the car. I press my palm to Victoria’s back as she climbs in, then get in beside her.
“What’s the skinny?” Barron asks as he slams the passenger door closed.
“We could have a match on the drawing,” I say, knowing I won’t need to add any more details for Barron to catch on. “Sol, back up, will you? But make sure I can still see the café.”
“No parking on this street, Mr. DV. We might draw attention from a traffic warden.”
“Noted. I’ll deal if we do.”
“Do you really think it was him?” Victoria asks, a little color flooding back into her cheeks.
“I’m not sure. Like with all artists impressions, it’s difficult to make a direct match. Plus, we don’t know how reliable the witness was, especially given the time he was away. The human memory is pretty fallible.”
“But the nose and the jaw, they looked right.”
I nod. “I agree.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Wait for him to come out, then follow him. If we can’t go by car, we’ll go on foot. I want to see where he ends up.”
Now I have a lead, however tenuous, I’m not about to let it go. It could amount to nothing, but we won’t know unless we follow through.
Another fifteen minutes pass before the man in question emerges from the café. He looks left and right, then jogs across the road, setting off at a brisk pace. Fortunately, he doesn’t duck down any side streets. We follow at a crawl, with Sol doing an excellent job at keeping us far enough away to not draw attention, but close enough to ensure we don’t lose the guy.
“He’s heading for the Q-park,” Barron says, referring to a multi-story car park on the outskirts of town. Sure enough, two minutes later, he ducks through a doorway and into the car park.
“Wait here.” Barron’s out of the car a second later. He disappears through the same door. Two minutes later, my phone rings.
“He’s driving a dark blue Aston Martin, registration JLE 626. He’s heading out the main entrance. I’m thirty seconds away.”
JLE 626. A private number plate, and an Aston, too. Whoever this guy is, he’s wealthy, which means if this is the driver who picked up Elizabeth, what the hell was he doing driving a cab? None of this makes sense.
Barron jumps back in the passenger seat and shortly afterward, the blue Aston appears. The guy turns right out of the car park, and Sol follows, making sure to stay a couple of cars behind him.
We head northwest out of Windsor, passing Slough and Maidenhead before traffic thins out.
“Pull back, Sol,” I say. “I have his number plate. If we lose him, I can easily get his address.”
“Sure thing, Mr. DV.”
Up ahead, the Aston turns into Cookham Village, a classic British hamlet with quaint streets and one-of-a-kind antique shops. At the northernmost point of the high street, the Aston pulls off the road and through a set of gates.
“Drive past, then turn around,” I instruct Sol.
He swings into a side road and reverses course, edging slowly past the place where the Aston turned in. Behind the gates is a two story, L-shaped, brick house. The driveway is graveled with red brick edges, and the Aston is parked in front of a double garage. Christian’s the property expert, but I’d put this place in the ballpark of ￡3-4 million, meaning the guy isn’t my kind of rich, but he isn’t poor, either.
Therefore, he has no need to moonlight as a taxi driver.
What the fuck is going on here? The signs all point to him having nothing to do with Elizabeth’s death, but I can’t leave here without at least talking to him and trying to get a bead on his whereabouts on the day of the murder.
“Sol, pull over. Barron, you’re with me.”
“Wait.” Victoria grabs my forearm as I reach for the door handle. “I’m coming, too.”
“No, you’re not.”
Her lips thin, and her eyes do that flashing thing that tells me she’s about to give me a piece of her mind. I cup a hand around the back of her neck and bring our foreheads together.
“We don’t know who this guy is or what he’s capable of. Your safety is all that matters.”
“What about your safety?”
“I have Barron with me, and I’m more than capable of taking care of myself. If you come with me, I’ll be worried about you, and that will make it more dangerous for all of us.”
She surrenders in stages: a heavy sigh, eyes cast down, shoulders slumping. “I hate it when you make logical sense.”
I chuckle and kiss her forehead. “Sol, lock the doors.”
The gates are locked, but there’s an intercom attached to the wall. I press it and wait.
“Yes?” a male voice comes through the speaker.
“I need to speak to the owner urgently.”
“I am the owner. Who is this?”
“My name is Nicholas De Vil.”
There’s a pause, then, “Who?”
My temper ratchets up, a prickle of irritation crawling up my neck. I run my finger around the collar of my shirt. “I think you heard me the first time. Open the gates.” As an afterthought, I add, “Please.”
The intercom cuts out and for a split second, I consider what I’ll do if the gates remain closed. One way or another, me and whoever drives that Aston Martin are having a conversation. Today.
A buzzer sounds, then the gates open inward. I stride up the driveway with Barron right beside me. Before we reach the front door, it opens. Standing on the other side is the man from the café.
“I’m not sure what this is about, Mr. De Vil, but I don’t believe we know each other.”
“Correct, Mr…”
He hesitates for a second. “Earnshaw. Joel Earnshaw.”
I nod. “I apologize if I came across as a little… brusque. I won’t take up much of your time.”
His gaze travels to Barron. “And you are?”
“He’s with me. Five minutes. That’s all I ask.”
With some reluctance, he steps back and motions us into the house. I step into a large hallway with herringbone oak flooring. A staircase leads to the upper floor, and several doors are off the entranceway. He leads us to the one at the far end, which opens into a decent-sized kitchen overlooking a pristine lawn lined with trees, shrubs, and autumn flowers planted in raised beds. A dog runs around the back yard, yapping at the birds and leaping into the air in a futile attempt to catch one.
“Please, have a seat.” He motions to a small table in one corner of the kitchen.
“I prefer to stand.” Reaching into my pocket, I pull up the image of the drawing and turn my phone to face him. “Does this man look familiar to you?”
He peers at the picture for a second before his eyebrows lift a few millimeters. “Why, it looks a little like me.” Frowning, he shakes his head. “Although the eyes aren’t right, and I don’t wear glasses.” A small laugh. “Nor a baseball cap. My head is too big for those things.”
He seems genial enough and certainly surprised at the similarities between himself and the picture on my phone.
“Can I ask what this is about?”
“My wife’s sister was murdered in September.” I keep to myself that Elizabeth was my fiancée at the time. Too many branches to divert the issue away from the matter in hand. “The man driving the cab that exploded, killing her instantly, is the man in that picture.” I study him carefully. “The man that looks like you.”
He blinks a few times, glancing from me to Barron then back to me. “I’m sorry about your sister-in-law. My condolences for your loss. And yes, there are one or two similarities between that drawing and me, but I can assure you I’ve never driven a cab, and I don’t know anything about a murder.” He chuckles. “Nor am I an Arsenal fan. My father would disown me. We’re Chelsea fans through and through.”
“What is it you do, Mr. Earnshaw?”
“I’m in property. I buy, renovate, and sell. It affords me a nice life.” He gestures around the kitchen. “As you can see, I have no need for a second job.”
“No.” I rub two fingers over my mouth. “Are you married?”
“Goodness me, no.” He laughs again. “I’m committed to the bachelor life. There are far too many pretty ladies out there to tie myself to just one.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” I murmur. “Well, thanks for your time. I appreciate it.”
“Of course. I only wish I could have helped.”
This time, it’s my turn to laugh. “Trust me, Mr. Earnshaw, you would not have wanted to be the man in that picture.”
He turns a little pale. “Perhaps not.”
“We’ll see ourselves out.” Once we’re on the other side of the door, I turn to Barron. “Dead end.”
“Worth a try.”
“Yeah.” The problem is all I see ahead of me is dead ends and no answers. I climb back into the car and grimace at Victoria. “It’s not him.”
Her shoulders sag, and she tilts her head to one side, sighing heavily. “It was worth a shot.”
Nodding, I gather her hands in mine and rest them both in my lap. “Sol, let’s go home.”