Lost Cause (A Daisy Dunlop Mystery ~ Book 1) Page 2

  He set a cracking pace. Daisy trailed behind the group, paying no heed to the guide’s endless drone and the twittering of her fellow tourists. Dempster marched across another quadrangle pointing at various parapets, gargoyles, and windows. Cameras clicked around her as the Japanese photographed everything. Daisy hung back, feigning interest in a window box.

  The group traversed the beautifully manicured grass, and Master Blanchette swept through a high stone arch with an imperious demand that everyone, “March this way.” Instead, Daisy stepped to the right, out of his line of sight.

  Pressed against the high stone edifice that had undoubtedly witnessed more than she could ever imagine during its long life, she held her breath. As the tour guide’s voice faded into the distance she let the tension go, sagging against the wall. Now what? The place appeared to be an enormous ancient labyrinth with no signs pointing the way to anywhere.

  She kept close to the wall, in the hope no one would look out of one of the many sparkling windows and set up a hue and cry to capture and eject the female invader from their elite masculine enclave. They would probably be as offended by her working-class background as her gender. No amount of practice had softened her northern accent. One word and the jig would be up.

  A timber door in the southern wall stood out from all the others. Larger, intricately carved, and wearing enormous polished brass fittings, it seemed to be a proclamation that what lay behind it was of greater importance than what would be found if you passed through any of its plainer companions. Eyes focused on her goal, Daisy kept walking. The sound of deep male laughter brought her to a halt. Two boys jogged through a high arch, less than six feet from where she stood. Her breath caught in her throat. If they kept moving across the grass they might not see her. One of them turned his head, and she sighed and mumbled, “Shit,” under her breath.

  “Ned.” The one who’d seen her tugged his companion’s arm and nodded toward her.

  The taller boy glanced in her direction. She guessed both of them were probably three or four years older than her son Sherman, so around eighteen. No doubt they were about to finish school, following in their fathers’ footsteps to Oxford, and then life in the city. Ned grinned and she shivered. There was something manic in the way his wide mouth split his face and his dark-eyed stare took her in from top to toe. His focus settled on her chest, and she fought the urge to cross her arms to hide her girls from his lecherous inspection.

  “Well, well, Bolton. What did you find for me?”

  “Maybe she’s lost? Maybe we should show her the way out?”

  Ned slunk toward her. Next time she watched a documentary about lions she’d have more sympathy for the poor unsuspecting wildebeest. She lifted her chin and met the dark-eyed stare of the boy who now crowded her space, looming over her. He hadn’t appeared that tall when he was across the lawn, but she figured he had to be hitting six feet four.

  “What would a pretty lady like you be doing all alone in a boys’ school?”

  He ran a finger down her face and neck, and she batted his hand away before he could continue any further down her body. “I need to find the headmaster’s office.”

  “Maggot Marlborough? Don’t tell me you’re one of the younger boys’ mothers? Hey, Bolton, looks like we’ve got a real live yummy mummy. I haven’t had one of those since Rogers’ mother came to visit at half-term. She was a goer. I can’t believe you didn’t dip your wick.”

  Bolton’s long, skinny face turned a deep shade of crimson. “She was drunk.”

  “So?”

  “So you should have left her alone. And you should leave this poor woman alone as well. You’re sick, Ned.”

  “And you’re a simpering Nancy boy. I bet you haven’t popped your cherry yet, have you? I’ve seen you watching me in the shower. I bet you’d love to have me if I’d just bend over and pick up the soap.”

  “I’m not gay. I just want to wait for the right girl.”

  “Every girl’s the right girl if you’re a real man.”

  Daisy met Bolton’s gaze. “Don’t worry, lad. Some things are worth waiting for, and real men know that.”

  Ned’s minty breath caressed the side of her face as he pressed closer. “I think she likes you, Bolton.”

  Bolton grabbed Ned’s arm. “Leave her, Ned. I thought we were bunking off to go and get drunk? I’ll buy the first round. How about I give you the number for my cousin Emily?”

  “I’ve had Emily. She bores me. I don’t want a girl, I want a woman, and this one is particularly attractive, don’t you think?”

  When he pressed closer she wriggled to try and escape. Ned laughed. “Feisty.” He grabbed her wrists and pinned her arms above her head. Daisy turned her face away as he tried to kiss her. Five minutes ago she’d hoped no one would see her, now she would give anything to have someone else discover she was on the grounds without permission. Ned pressed his knee between her thighs, and Daisy growled.

  With a twist she freed a hand. Her fingers gouged his face as her left knee made solid contact with his groin. His elbow smashed into her cheek as he grabbed for his crotch. His shriek of pain was both satisfying and sickening. Ned fell to the ground, holding his no doubt crushed testicles. Bolton danced from foot to foot. The door Daisy had been heading for flew open, hitting the wall with a solid thud, and a huge bear of a man bore down on them.

  “What’s going on here? Bolton? Gilbertson?”

  Ned rolled to his hands and knees and slowly pushed to his feet. His face was still pale, and sweat beaded his top lip and high forehead. “We found this woman trespassing, and when we tried to show her the way out she kneed me in the privates, sir.”

  The glowering man curled his great paw-like hands into fists and turned his attention to the smaller boy. “Bolton?”

  Daisy pressed her fingers to her cheekbone, happy that although it ached, nothing appeared to be broken. As she turned her attention to Bolton she saw him swallow and glance at Ned. “Yes, Mr. Marlborough. That’s what happened. Ned was showing her the way out.”

  Daisy snorted with disgust. Hands on hips she glared at Ned. This must be Maggot Marlborough. “Bullshit. They had no intention of showing me the way to anywhere. Although this Neanderthal, Gilbertson, seemed to think he should show me his dick. I’m not in the habit of being accosted by children, even ones who attend elite schools and whose parents are upper-class twits.”

  The man’s eyebrows dived closer to his eyes and the line of his mouth turned grim. “What are you doing on the premises? And don’t try to pass yourself off as a parent. I know them all.”

  “Aren’t you going to punish them? Six of the best. I’m not a big advocate of corporal punishment, but if my son Sherman behaved like that with a girl I’d make sure his backside got a warming.”

  Marlborough glanced at the two boys. “Shouldn’t you both be in Maths?”

  Bolton nodded madly, and Ned rumbled, “Yes, sir.”

  “Then why are you still here?”

  Bolton took off at a trot, but Ned hung back. “What about her?”

  “Leave her to me.”

  Ned opened his mouth, but Marlborough lifted his hand. “Not another word. Now go.”

  Daisy watched the boys until they disappeared from sight. “Thank God for that. Now, if you’ll just show me the way out.”

  Marlborough folded his arms. “Not so fast. You haven’t told me why you’re here.”

  Any idea she had about snooping fled under his fierce gaze. “I was on the tour, but I got lost. So, where is the way out?” She glanced from left to right.

  “Didn’t Mr. Blanchette warn you about the consequences of wandering off from the group?”

  Daisy smiled. “Oh that. How about you don’t prosecute me for trespass, and I won’t call the papers and tell them one of your pupils attacked me?”

  Mr. Marlborough snorted, and before Daisy could stop him, he grabbed her by the elbow and marched her across the grass toward the door he’d appeared from. She stru
ggled. “Let me go. I’m not one of your children.”

  “If you were I would spank the truth out of you.”

  “Now you want to get into the spanking? You don’t believe he tried to assault me? I suppose you think I smacked myself in the face. How about some medical attention? I could be scarred for life. Have you any idea how much facial reconstruction costs? Are you willing to risk having to explain to the parents that the funds for an extension to the school library had to be spent on a new face for an innocent woman brutally attacked on school premises?”

  Her voice echoed as he dragged her down a bleak stone corridor.

  “The Honorable Edward Gilbertson comes from a very prestigious family. You, on the other hand, appear to be up to no good. Manufacturing a story won’t help. And believe me, whatever happened to your face could only be an improvement.”

  Her captor opened a large black door and shoved her inside. She stumbled in her ridiculous heels and grabbed the back of a dark brown chesterfield sofa to stop herself from falling. Marlborough stood in front of the now-closed door, folded his arms and stared at her. “Why are you really here?”

  Daisy took a deep breath. “My name’s Daisy Dunlop, and I’m looking for Tobias Wareham. I came here hoping someone could give me some information about him.”

  “But you didn’t think to make an appointment?”

  She shrugged. “What does it matter now? I’m here, and you’re here. Perhaps you could tell me a bit about Toby, and I’ll forget what happened in the quadrangle.”

  The man’s eyebrows sunk so low on his brow they almost covered his dark beady eyes. The thin line of his already skinny lips didn’t bode well. His voice shook with rage and spit showered out of his mouth as he yelled, “Sit down.”

  Daisy sank onto the sofa and rethought her position. “That’s fine. How about we call it a mistake, a simple misunderstanding? I’ll be on my way and say nothing more.”

  Marlborough opened the door. “How about I call the police and tell them you’re not only a trespasser, but you’re a journalist digging up dirt on former and current pupils?”

  “I’m not. I’m not a journalist. I’m a private detective.”

  “Bolton’s father is the chief constable, and Gilbertson’s father is the Secretary of State for Justice. Do you still want to accuse them of something?”

  Before she could answer he swept imperiously from the room and slammed the door. She jumped to her feet, but the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the ancient lock brought her flight across the room to a stop. She put her hands on her head and growled. “For fu— far out.”

  Now she wished she hadn’t agreed to Paul’s request for her to stop using the F-word. So what if it was setting a bad example for Sherman? Some situations required the F-word, and this was definitely one of them. There was only one horrible, humiliating way out of this mess. She sank onto the sofa and tugged her phone from her bag. “For God’s sake. He’ll be so full of shit. Bugger.”

  She unlocked the keypad and searched her contacts, found the name Paul had entered in for her only that morning, and then hit the call button.

  *

  Solomon sat on the edge of the bed and turned to smile at the woman running a hand down his back. Despite the hour they’d spent rolling around naked, she’d pulled the sheet up to cover her voluptuous breasts.

  She smiled back. “Are you sure you can’t stay a little longer?”

  “If only I could, but alas, your husband would not be best pleased to find me in his house, never mind his bed.”

  “Or his wife?” She sighed and rolled away from him toward the bedside cupboard, revealing a pert backside and generous figure.

  She turned back and handed him a fat yellow envelope. He dropped a kiss on her naked shoulder and got to his feet. While she might be uncomfortable letting him see her body now the deed was done, he had nothing to hide. She watched as he pulled on his pants, shirt, jacket, socks, and shoes.

  He glanced at the photos strewn over the dressing table. “You’ve all the evidence you need, but if I can do anything more be sure to let me know.”

  “Thanks, Solomon. I guess you think I’m as bad as he is, screwing you to get my own back. Do you feel used?”

  He chuckled. “No, to both questions. You’re a fine woman, and no one can blame you for seeking comfort in the arms of another when you find your husband has been warming the bed of his secretary three nights a week.”

  “I thought you would come back and tell me I was being paranoid and you had no pictures for me.”

  “I’d thought the same.”

  “Clive used to be a wonderful husband.” She blinked furiously, and Solomon hoped another bout of crying wouldn’t follow. Providing solace to the cheated wife when he delivered the evidence wasn’t a habit, although he had done it more than once or twice. He was a sucker for a woman in tears, but he couldn’t stay. If she was to use what he had found to speed her divorce, and get a big settlement from her maggot of a husband, Clive Lewis, it was best he didn’t ever know she had been shagging the man who took the pictures.

  Solomon slid the fat yellow envelope into his jacket pocket and dropped a kiss on her cheek. “You’ve my number if you need me. You’re a beautiful woman any man would be proud to have on his arm. Don’t let your useless shite of a husband tell you anything less.”

  She pulled him down and gave him a long and intimate kiss before letting him go.

  Solomon left the house, pulling the door shut behind him, and made his way to his black SUV. He lifted the corner of his mouth in a lopsided smile. Sex with no strings attached was the best sex of all. And it was even better when it came with a pocket full of money.

  As he turned the key in the ignition the tinny jingle of his phone filled the air. He tugged it from his pocket and checked caller ID. Lisa. He clenched his teeth and tossed the phone on the dashboard, his good mood evaporated. Sometimes sex had enough strings to bind you for life.

  He shoved the truck into gear and sped away with a screech of tires. His phone beeped to announce that a message had been left. He glanced at his watch. Lisa must have used every expletive she knew to describe him to leave a message that long. He would call her back, later. Solomon maneuvered around a bus stuck at a bus stop and contemplated what to do with the rest of the afternoon. If he went back to the office he would have to deal with Daisy. His cleaner would still be at his house, and she could talk the devil to death. The woman was a saint and could get blood stains out of anything, but that didn’t stop her berating him for getting the blood on his clothes in the first place. The Shamrock Arms was close by. He’d stop in for a Guinness and to shoot the shite with some of his fellow countrymen. Give Daisy another hour and it would be safe to go back and lock the place up for the night. She must be bored witless by now.

  A car pulled away from the curb, and Solomon swooped in to claim the space. With fifty pounds transferred from the envelope in his jacket to his wallet and his phone back in his pocket, he climbed from behind the wheel, slammed the door, and punched the lock button on his key fob.

  His hand was on the pub door when his phone went again. Perhaps he should get it over with. The pint of Guinness would slide down easier without the knowledge that he still had Lisa to deal with. If the conversation left him tense, a second or third Guinness would soon fix that. He stepped to the side to allow another customer in and tugged his phone from his pocket. There was no caller ID, and he hesitated. He could refuse the call, but perhaps it was more work. With a sigh, he hit the accept button and pressed the phone to his ear.

  “Solomon, is that you?”

  “Daisy? How did you get my number?”

  “I’m a detective. I detect things.”

  “Don’t be a smart-arse.”

  “I’m not being anything. Actually what I am being is held hostage.”

  “Are you not at the office?”

  “No. Why would I be? Not unless your staff get held hostage often.”

&nb
sp; “I don’t have any staff.”

  “I guess you didn’t get my note, then?”

  “I guess not. Is there a point to this call? Only I have an appointment.”

  “Can you cancel it? I really am being held hostage.”

  “Daisy, what the feck do you want from me?”

  “I’m at Langdon College. I was on the tour, and there was some nastiness and a simple misunderstanding. They seem to think I’m a journalist. Now they have me held in an office. They won’t let me go, and they’re threatening to call the cops. I’m too young to go to jail. I’ve seen what happens to attractive women in jail.”

  Solomon chuckled. “Don’t worry yourself. You’re not that attractive.”

  “Screw you, Solomon.”

  “If that’s an offer I’ll have to say no. I’ve got standards.”

  “Fine. If you won’t come and get me, then I’ll call Paul and tell him to bail me out at the police station. You’d better keep a tight hold of your balls, though. Paul told me you’d be looking out for me, and yet here I am about to be banged-up in jail for life. He won’t be happy when he gets home from filling the country’s ATMs with money and I’m not there to cook his dinner.”

  “I’ve tasted your cooking, Daisy. The man’s digestive system would welcome the break.”

  “You arse-wipe. I’ll just take my chances with the fuzz.”

  Solomon couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Calm yourself, woman. I’ll be there in twenty minutes, and then you can tell me what you did to get the fine gentlemen at Langdon College so upset.”

  Chapter Three

  Daisy stared at the door and then at the clock ticking ominously on the wall. What if Solomon was full of shit and had no intention of coming to her rescue? So much for proving she was capable of being left to her own devices. She’d failed before she’d even begun. Solomon could be on the phone to Paul right now telling him how much danger she’d put herself in. If Paul freaked out she’d have to go back to working in an office.

  Unable to sit any longer, she got up and looked around. A bank of filing cabinets stood along one wall. They were labeled, and she hovered at the drawer containing the W’s. Would Toby be under W for Wareham or M for Mardon? She grabbed the handle and tugged, but the drawer wouldn’t open.