Boot Camp Bride (26 page)

‘Better.’

‘You were saying …’

Still smarting from his comment about her place in the office hierarchy, Charlee was keen to show that she was capable of more than filing and dog walking.

‘Anastasia told me they often go night fishing when the tide is at its highest. But, they can’t go out tomorrow night because it’s the Gala Dinner,’ she said, her voice slowing. She stalled, recalling the conversation she’d overheard in the mews kitchen and gave Ffinch a searching look. ‘What aren’t you telling me, Ffinch? This isn’t about Anastasia and spiking
Mirror, Mirror
’s exclusive, is it - if it even exists?’ She slammed her mug down on the table with such force that Ffinch winced. ‘So give.’

‘That table had to be sourced specially, you know. So careful with it -’

‘I don’t give a flying fuck about the table,’ she exclaimed hotly. ‘I know that you and Sam have been using me like some kind of - of Trojan Horse to get you into the camp. What I haven’t figured out is why, but give me time and I will. Don’t bother to deny it, Ffinch; I know you well enough to tell when you’re lying. And, judging by your expression, you have no intention of letting me in on the secret, have you - partner?’

‘When it’s all over, you’ll be told everything,’ he said, maddening Charlee even further.

‘When what’s all over?’ Charlee was so vexed she felt like hitting him - or - or, damaging his beloved camper van.

‘I’ve said too much …’

‘You haven’t said anything, that’s my point. Oh, here,’ she thrust the mug at him. ‘I don’t need you, your tea, your biscuits - or the crumbs from your table, come to that. I’ll find out for myself.’ She got to her feet, replaced her outdoor clothing and tried to squeeze between his knees and the tiny table. But he pushed her back down onto the bench seat.

‘You will not find out for yourself, Charlee; it’s too dangerous,’ he growled.

‘Pah!’ Charlee waved a dismissive hand in his direction.

‘Seriously, Charlee, I mean it.’

‘Then take me into your confidence.’

‘I can’t, not yet. In our business, plausible denial counts for a lot,’ he explained.

‘What does that mean, exactly?’ She turned to face him.

‘It means that if you don’t know what’s going on you’ll be able to lie all the more convincingly when questioned.’

‘Questioned? By whom - Mr Potato Head, or the bridesmaid from hell - Valentina?’

‘Valentina?’ Now it was Ffinch’s turn to look puzzled.

‘See, you don’t know everything.’ Charlee slid over the bench seat and managed to manoeuvre herself between him and the table. Unexpectedly, he jerked her into his arms and onto his knee, tipping her back and cradling her, his eyes ranging over her face.

‘Don’t go poking around, please. Just once, do as you’re told.’

‘Told?’ she asked, annoyed.

‘Asked,’ he amended. ‘I know you too well, Carlotta.’

‘It’s going to take more than calling me Carlotta to put me off the trail - Rafa.’

‘Seriously, Charlee, it could be dangerous. I - I don’t think I could bear it if anything happened to you.’ Did she imagine it, or was there a catch in his voice?

Touched by his concern and that he was man enough to show it, her heart missed several beats before continuing in its usual rhythm. She examined his face minutely - saw the flaws on his skin, the unexpected flecks of gold in his eyes. ‘What could possibly happen to me?’ she asked, shivering at the thought of danger stalking the boot camp.

 ‘Just be careful, that’s all,’ he said cryptically. Then he brought his head closer as though he wanted to kiss her, badly. ‘When this is over …’ he breathed.

‘Yes? What about when it’s all over?’ she prompted as Ffinch, apparently thinking better of his desire to kiss her, let her go.

‘Nothing. You’d better go,’ he said through gritted teeth as though it cost him to release her.

Charlee sent him a frustrated look that acknowledged that returning to the intimacy they’d shared the other night would be sheer madness. But neither could she deny how lying in his arms made her skin tingle and her stomach flutter as though a thousand butterflies had taken up residence. The genie had escaped from the bottle two nights ago and was in no hurry to return. It would be easy to surrender to the wildness pulsing through her veins, blot out the rest of the world and succumb to passion in this curtained-off, intimate space.

The very thought made her giddy.

If she’d been Ffinch’s real fiancée and separated from him for weeks, she knew he wouldn’t waste time night fishing when time could be spent more engagingly in bed. That made her doubly suspicious of Yevgeny’s motives and what he was up to at the boot camp. It also reminded her that she was here to do a job. Gathering herself together, she wriggled and slithered along the bench seat until she could stand upright.

Questions had to be answered, reassurances given and truths told. Until that happened she couldn’t give in, she had to be strong. Without turning round - knowing that simply looking at him would weaken her resolve - Charlee stepped out of the camper van.

A couple of schoolboys sauntered round from the back of the Coal Shed carrying a six-pack of cider and sharing a cigarette. They took one look at Charlee emerging from the camper van and shouted: ‘Doggers!’ at them. Then they choked with laughter as though they’d just said something witty.

‘What did you say?’ Charlee demanded fiercely, her eyes sparking fire. She took a couple of steps towards them, her expression making plain that they’d picked the wrong afternoon to try their brand of adolescent humour on two strangers. ‘Repeat it, you little shit.’

 ‘Nothing, missus, nothing!’ Clearly believing her deranged, they dropped their cigarettes and high tailed it across the car park towards Thornham. Charlee made as if to chase after them and then stopped, unsure what she would do if she caught up with them. Shouting at them had released some of her pent-up tension and when she looked over her shoulder at Ffinch he was standing by the side of the camper van barely concealing his laughter.

 ‘She has a black belt in origami you know,’ he shouted after the boys. ‘You’ve had a narrow escape. ’

Still smarting from his unwillingness to tell her anything more about the investigation, Charlee didn’t appreciate him laughing at her expense. Smoothing out her tracksuit, she glared at him, let out a loud ‘huh,’ and headed back to the boot camp with as much dignity as she could muster.

To her credit, she didn’t look over her shoulder to see if he was watching her.

Chapter Thirty-one
A Storm in a Samovar

When Charlee returned to her room, it looked like a tornado had passed through it scattering debris in its wake. Anastasia’s possessions had been removed and the armoire doors were gaping wide. Charlee had half expected it, but the untidy room and the fact that she probably wouldn’t be permitted to talk to Anastasia made her feel unutterably sad. They’d developed a rapport over the last two days and she already missed her exotic room-mate. The only consolation was that she could now use the mobile phone to get in touch with Ffinch without being overheard.

Mobile phone!

She rushed over to the armoire where her denim jacket was lying on the floor. Unsurprisingly, when she searched the pockets for the spare mobile phone it was missing. Damn. Had she been rumbled as an undercover journo? Or did they think she’d hidden the phone so she could ring her boyfriend in secret?

 Boyfriend! She let out an almost Gallic pouf and shrugged her shoulders. Whatever their relationship was, she could hardly claim to be Ffinch’s girlfriend - thorn in his side might be a more accurate description. Sighing - she seemed to do a lot of that lately - she started to tidy up the bedroom. The first item she picked up was the framed photograph of their ‘engagement’. Turning it over, she noticed that the cutting from
The Times
was missing.

She frowned and searched for it on the floor but it was nowhere to be found.

Now she was intrigued. Why had Anastasia’s people considered it worth their while to remove a seemingly innocuous piece of paper? To check her out, maybe? Deciding she’d better act like a bona fide fiancée whose room looked like it’d been professionally turned over, she marched downstairs. Better start complaining before the management put the mobile phone and the cutting from
The Times
together, googled Ffinch’s unusual surname and started to ask some uncomfortable questions.

She pinged the bell on the reception desk impatiently and the manageress and her sidekick came out of the back office. ‘Yes?’ she asked, putting her hand over the bell to prevent Charlee ringing it again.

‘My room’s been virtually ransacked by your staff when they moved Anastasia Markova out. If you think for one moment I’m going to act as chambermaid and tidy up their mess - you are much mistaken.’ Charlee leaned across the desk and stared boldly into the manageress’s boot face. ‘And if I find anything missing when I return to my room, I’m calling the police.’

Stepping away from the desk, she folded her arms and waited.

‘I was told that you’d gone for a walk on the marshes, Miss Montague. You have returned earlier than expected. Give me one moment.’ She spoke to her sidekick in Russian, the gist of the conversation being that everything was to be put back exactly as it had been before.

‘
Konechno ,vse doljno bit polojeno obratno, kak eto bilo
.’

‘
Daje telefon
?’ the girl asked.

‘Everything but that,’ Natasha said firmly. ‘The telephone which you overlooked, Miss Montague, was found by a member of staff moving Miss Markova’s things. The battery was flat and the phone was bleeping in your pocket.’ Charlee knew that to be a lie; Ffinch had ensured that both phones were charged before stashing them away. ‘It will be returned to you at the end of your stay.’

‘
Ona pozvonit v policiu
?’ the girl asked, sending Charlee a worried glance.

‘There’s no need for the police, is there Miss Montague?’ the manageress said silkily. Her cheekbones slid upwards in a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘This has all been a misunderstanding, a storm - as you English say - in a tea cup?’

‘Or, as you say in Russia, a samovar?’ Charlee replied impertinently, letting the manageress know she couldn’t be intimidated.

‘Quite.’

‘And Anastasia?’ Charlee inquired.

‘Naturally Miss Markova’s fiancée wants her close to him and we are happy to accommodate their wishes,’ the manageress said.

Their wishes? Charlee didn’t think Anastasia’s wishes came into it.

‘Come, Miss Montague, you should be pleased. You will no longer have to share a room, no? Please - go into the sitting room, read lovely bridal magazines and drink tea. Your happy day will be here soon, yes?’

Feeling that she’d protested enough, Charlee graciously inclined her head. The manageress clapped her hands and spoke in rapid Russian to a couple of minions who headed upstairs. Then she led Charlee towards the sitting room where a roaring fire, a stack of glossy magazines and a cup of Earl Grey were waiting.

After dinner, Charlee sat in the bay window staring into the darkness across the marshes, her knees under her chin. She’d seen nothing of Anastasia during the meal and had been informed that Miss Markova and Yevgeny Nikolayevich were dining in private. The bedroom felt empty and she was glad that she would be returning to London after tomorrow night’s Gala Dinner.

She imagined herself back in her shabby bedsit, which smelled of sardines, and typing up her copy story on her laptop. Copy? What copy? This was fast becoming the-scoop-that-never-was.

Demoralised, she reached into her tracksuit bottoms and pulled out the mobile phone. She checked it for a signal and then sat looking at it consideringly. She longed to talk to Poppy, to Ffinch, to anyone - but she daren’t risk running the battery down. It had to last her until tomorrow night when she and Ffinch met up. What was he doing now, she wondered? Watching TV in his room after a calorie-laden meal at The Ship Inn, she bet!

Hearing noises on the gravel drive below her, Charlee looked down and saw a group of boot camp instructors, kitted out SAS-style in dark clothing and Polartec balaclavas, hauling a couple of motor boats onto trailers and then out of the main gate and towards the marshes. She guessed that was Mr Potato Head going fishing and wished him well. It was a freezing cold night and frost was already turning the trees silver under a gibbous moon. Perhaps, she mused, it reminded him of Siberia or wherever he’d been born. She frowned - did Siberia have salt marshes or salt mines? Geography had never been her strong suit.

Beset by a sudden desire for company, Charlee decided to go downstairs and join the other brides-to-be in the sitting room and pretend enthusiasm for everything that accompanied getting married these days. Preparing herself for yet more chatter about cupcakes on stands versus traditional fruit cakes, she locked the bedroom door behind her. What did it matter that your wedding cakes consisted of rounds of different cheeses or that the chocolate fountain had seventy per cent cocoa solids for dipping marshmallows into?

Surely, the only thing that mattered was that you were marrying the right man. One you not only fancied the pants off, but who made you laugh and who would bring you mugs of hot chocolate and painkillers when you went down with the flu.

A few hours later, she was back in the bay window watching the lights out on the marshes. But these were no will-o’-the-wisps, it was the fishing expedition zigzagging across the narrow channels and returning to the boot camp. Perhaps that’s what night fishing entailed, she thought, and went on to wonder what one caught on the marshes in the middle of January. For a night fishing expedition there appeared to be much to-ing and fro-ing, she reflected.

Bored, she turned her attention to watching the moon rise in the east where it hung like a searchlight in the sky, illuminating the marshes. There was a timid scratching at the door and when she opened it, Anastasia was standing in the corridor looking furtively over her shoulder.

‘Anastasia!’ Charlee exclaimed joyously. ‘I’ve missed you. Come in, come in. I have wodka,’ she joked, pronouncing as Anastasia had done.

‘No Sh-arlee, I cannot stay. I have skipped away from Valentina while she is on toilet.’ There was a pause as they struggled to keep that particular image out of their heads. ‘I have present for you.’

‘Present?’ Charlee asked, puzzled. ‘I don’t need a present, your friendship is all I ask,’ she said. And, in a moment of epiphany, she knew she wouldn’t be writing any article that hurt Anastasia, destroyed her reputation or ruined her wedding. Even if she had chosen to marry Mr Potato Head. What Sam would have to say about that, she’d worry about later; what Ffinch would have to say about that, she’d think about much, much later! After this debacle, language school, translation services or teaching would be a worthy, alternative career.

Anastasia stood in the half-opened doorway, looking too spooked to venture further into the room. She called Charlee over and then pushed a smart washbag into her hands. Puzzled, Charlee unzipped it and discovered that it contained expensive toiletries and a business card with Anastasia’s personal phone number and email printed on it.

‘Sh-arlee, I know it was you outside nightclub on my hen’s night - when prince was there. Yes? I remembered your funny, spiky hair and friendly blue eyes.’

What had she said to Ffinch before she’d embarked on this mission: she’s no airhead … she’ll remember me from outside the nightclub? What had he said: she probably wouldn’t recognise her own sister unless she came with a name badge and a backstage pass. She’d take great delight in pointing out to him how wrong he’d been after she’d been ‘let go’ by Sam Walker for dereliction of duty.

But, for now, she had to explain. ‘Anastasia, I have to tell you …’ Charlee struggled to find words which would excuse her double-dealing.

‘There is no time.
Vi govorite po rysski
?’

‘Yes, I speak Russian,’ Charlee said, glad she could drop the pretence at last.

‘
Vi mojete prochest kirillcy
?’ Anastasia asked, somewhat desperately.

‘I can read Cyrillic script, too, of course - but I don’t understand …?’

‘You are my way home, Sh-arlee. But it is dangerous and you must take care. Take present. Sweet Sh-arlee.’ She took a step into the room and hugged Charlee, her eyes brimful of unshed tears. ‘You will not let me down.’

Then she was gone.

Perplexed, Charlee flopped on the bed and unzipped the bag. She put Anastasia’s business card in the expanding pocket at the back of her Moleskine diary next to the now redundant list of questions. Then she tipped the toiletries onto the bed and rooted through them. They appeared nothing out of the ordinary, apart from being astronomically expensive. She turned over a bottle of Chanel 19 eau de parfum and then absent-mindedly squirted herself with some.

Zipping up the washbag, she placed it on her bedside table next to the photograph of Ffinch. She longed to ring him, but curbed the instinct. What could she say to him? ‘I’ve been given a bag of toiletries which have a significance I do not understand. Anastasia Markova not only knows that I can speak and read Russian, but has identified me from outside the nightclub on Christmas Eve.’

He’d most likely go apeshit. Much better to keep quiet until she knew exactly what she was dealing with.

What exactly Anastasia expected from her.