I, Spy? (11 page)

I thought about the dead finger, which Alexa had told me she had got back so she could analyse it herself, and desperately wanted to pour out a lot of wine. But I’d had my one glass. I might have to leap in Ted and go screaming off to another crime scene at a moment’s notice.

But that was kind of cool.

My mother can drink for Britain, but she’s the self-denying sort when it comes to things like crisps and chocolate. So she’d bought a tub of Ben & Jerry’s for dessert and sat there smugly with an apple while we all tucked in.

“Sure you don’t want some?” Chalker waved the pot under her nose. “Cookie dough, mmm…”

My mother made a face. “Raw cookie dough? I can’t think of anything more disgusting.”

But she never took her eyes off my spoon.

My parents were happily bickering over football versus Jamie Oliver when my Nokia rang. Chalker gave me an envious glance, having no such excuse to escape, as I legged it and tried to figure out how to answer the damn thing.

“Couldn’t find the ‘answer’ button?” came Luke’s voice when I eventually did.

“Oh, piss off.”

He laughed. “Thought you might like to know we have another suspect for you to come on to.”

“Marvellous.”

“Name of David Wright. Businessman with some rather dodgy connections.”

I sat down on the stairs. “What’s he got to do with Chris’s murder?”

There was a pause, and it occurred to me that it could be absolutely nothing.

“It’s complicated.”

“And I’m not important enough to know.”

“No, it’s…” Luke sighed. “Okay. He’s a big businessman. New York, Sydney, Hong Kong, London, Frankfurt. Owns Wrightbank…?”

“I think I’ve heard of him,” I lied.

“People have speculated for a while that not all of his rather vast fortune was earned by entirely legal or morally correct means. He has been known to buy up ailing banks, sack everyone and merge the money into his own account.”

“Nice.”

“It is for him. He’s also really stingy. Never travels first class, loves to use low-cost where he can.”

I had sneaking suspicion I knew where this was going and laid my head down on the stair above. “He’s flying Ace tomorrow, isn’t he?”

“Oh, you’re so
smart
. Yes. The 348 to Rome. And the reason he’s flying out there, we think, is that he’s going to buy up a huge stake in Ace Airlines.”

I waited, but Luke didn’t say anything else. “I don’t get it,” I said. “Why am I following him?”

“Following who?” Chalker asked, sneaking up behind me. “Hey, Soph, new phone?”

I glared at him. “Fuck off.”

“Since when did you get a picture phone? I thought you had that cheapo thing.”

“It’s not cheap,” I said, and I could hear Luke laughing down the phone. “I spend a fortune on texting…”

“Who are you talking to?” Chalker and Luke asked at the same time, and I paused deliciously.

“My boyfriend,” I said to both, and legged it outside.

Luke was silent for a while. “You have a boyfriend?”

“Didn’t I tell you?”

“No. It wasn’t in your file.”

“My file?”

“Your Ace file. How do you think I knew where you lived or what your school results were? I’d never have hired someone who failed all her GCSEs.”

I took in a deep breath and let it out. Of course he’d investigated me. There wasn’t anything to get mad about. Especially since it was his job. And now mine, too.

“I don’t think they keep notes on people’s romantic lives,” I said.

Luke made a small noise that seemed to mean, “Well, they should.”

“Are you jealous?” I asked slowly, with great glee.

“Jealous? Hell, no. You’re a nutcase. People send you dead fingers.”

I grinned and hugged myself. This was great.

“I didn’t think you’d be jealous of the finger.”

Luke was silent. Through the window, Chalker started making faces at me. I ignored him and turned to the windy garden instead.

“Look, can you just keep an eye out for this guy tomorrow?” Luke said eventually, sounding annoyed. “I’ll send you a photo of him. No baggage belt stuff this time.”

And with that he was gone, and I felt very pleased with myself.

Next morning I was woken again by the combined forces of Tammy and Norma Jean. I got up, got dressed and went back to my flat to take a shower and sort out my Ace uniform. I always hated going back to work after my days off. Hated it. I seemed to spend the whole time going, “Only two days ‘til I have to go back. Only one day. Only twelve hours.” It was like the end of a very short, unfulfilling holiday.

Still. There were no more bloody envelopes on the doormat and no one had disturbed the tapes I put on the door (roll over James Bond), so I figured the day was starting reasonably well. Now for a little bit of slight illegality.

I dressed in my most scary outfit of leather jeans, heeled boots and ripped punk T-shirt, added a biker jacket and lots of eyeliner, and dragged Ted up to Smith’s Guns.

“I need a hand gun,” I said to Joe, who looked me up and down twice. “Something small and discreet. A silencer, too.”

I was pleased with myself for adding this. It made me sound like I knew what I was talking about.

“Sure,” he said. “Where’s your licence?”

“I don’t need a licence,” I flashed my warrant card, “I have this.”

He took it, looked it over and sniggered at the photo, which Alexa had screen-captured when I signed all my confidentiality things.

“This is a warrant card,” he said. “It’s not a right to bear arms.”

“It says I am a government agent,” I said. “I can carry whatever I like and use it in whatever means I see fit to halt the, erm, disruption of, uh, evil.” Eh?

Joe looked me over again. “No,” he said.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Look,” I said. “I’m a spy. People shoot at me. Someone I worked with was found in a baggage belt the day before yesterday. I’m getting dead fingers in the post.
Give me a fucking gun
.”

But Joe said he couldn’t, not without the proper paperwork and authorisation, and I snarled at him and swung back to Ted, who growled sympathetically when I started him up.

“Bloody men,” I said. Joe stood in the doorway, shaking his head at me. I thought about running him over, but decided against it. Too much paperwork.

My phone bleeped with a text message, and I picked it up to find a booking number and flight details for David Wright.
I’m on checkin
, Luke had added,
go straight to gate 13. DON’T let him on flight
.

I stuck my tongue out at the phone. If Luke was in checkin then probably this Mr. Wright wouldn’t even get past security. Ha, as long as he didn’t go down the baggage belt.

Still, it was nice to see Luke could spell properly. Since the advent of predictive type, I’ve started to get really annoyed at txtspk.

I went home to get changed and eat something before I started my shift. I passed the postman on my way up the drive, and he scowled at me. Hey, it’s not my fault someone sent a bloody envelope to me yesterday. If the Royal Mail had handled it more delicately then it wouldn’t have burst and gone all bloody.

Still, I opened the door with some trepidation. The post lay there, looking innocent. A bank statement. A pre-approved credit card offer (this from the people who turned down my first credit card because I didn’t have a rating). A special order code from La Redoute offering me free post and packaging if I placed an order within forty-eight hours. A free pen from a children’s charity (surely they have better things to spend their money on?).

No finger.

I dropped the lot, unopened, on the kitchen counter and started looking for something to eat. Bread, but no butter. Cheese, but no Ryvita. Pasta, but no sauce.

Damn it, it’d have to be crisps again. This time it was clearly not my fault.

I checked the answer phone. Depressingly blank. I charged up both my phones and the stun gun, changed into my uniform and checked my watch. Luke had said I only needed to be there for the Rome flight, which was due to depart at 1410. This meant I had to be at the gate by 1310. This meant I had to leave the house at 1250 if I had a chance in hell of parking anywhere within ten miles of the terminal.

It was 1245. Already? I got my keys and Ted and I rolled off to the car park.

It’s a depressing truth that the ratio between how far you have to park from your destination and the number of minutes you have to get there, is inverse. If I have fifteen minutes to walk up to the terminal, I can park in the first row, so close to Enterprise House I can wave at the office workers. If, on the other hand, I should have been there two minutes ago, I’ll be parking within ogling distance of the control tower, and have to leg it the entire length of the car park.

Today was the other hand. It’s a really big car park.

I didn’t even go to the office to sign in and flirt with Tem, but rushed straight through to the transit train and tried to stop my face from looking like a beetroot that was about to explode. Not a sexy look.

I got out my Nokia again and checked the photo Luke had sent me of David Wright. Mid-forties, brown hair, slightly large build. Exactly like every other businessman who travels with Ace on an hourly basis.

To my surprise and delight, Sven was partnering me at the gate. I hadn’t even glanced at my roster to see if he was in or not. I’d hardly thought of him at all. Which showed what an empty life I had before, spending precious wake-up minutes checking to see which cute blokes were on shift with me.

“Sophie! Are you all right?”

I grinned and nodded. “I’m fine. Sven, you never go to the gate.”

He shrugged. “You always said the gate was better. I think you’re right.”

I preened slightly at that. Hey, I was right!

Something chirruped in my bag. I searched through it, careful not to let Sven see what was inside. Stun gun, cuffs—oh Christ, imagine if I have to cuff Wright at the gate!—defence spray, Siemens phone (silent), Nokia… flashing and bleeping. The screen said Three. Luke.

“Just five seconds,” I said to Sven, who nodded.

“Are you there?” Luke asked.

“Yes. Completely dead.”

“Well, the flight’s full. Booked at 148.”

“Shit!” That was maximum capacity. “Have you seen him yet?”

“No. Only half checked in. We’ve got a school party.”

“Fantastic.”

“And they’re Italian. All those big, heavy suitcases.” He sounded really pissed off, and I had not a shred of sympathy for him. He’d tried to sleep with me yesterday, tried to add me to his list of emotionless conquests. Well, ha! He wasn’t getting me.

“Give me a ring if he turns up, okay?” I glanced at Sven who was listening casually. Well, he probably wouldn’t understand what I was saying anyway. I looked over at the gate phone. “I’m on 3223.”

“Speak to you later.”

I turned round to Sven as I switched my mobile off. We’re not really supposed to use them in public. In fact we’re not supposed to use them at all.

“That was my brother,” I improvised. “We’re having some furniture delivered.”

Sven nodded. “I put the flight on Open,” he said, gesturing to the computer.

Great. Even Sven wasn’t flirting with me. Did I put eye shadow on my cheeks or something?

People started turning up and asking us questions. A lot of them didn’t speak English. Quite a few weren’t even travelling on our flight. I kept having to remind myself that I was working for the government now, doing something very important and exciting, although it would have been nice if I could have known what it was.

All the time I kept scanning the crowd for Wright, turning my head left and right. Sven must have thought I had a neck problem. The phone rang and I pounced on it, but it was just Lissy, the dispatcher, telling me we could send them down now.

I looked over at Sven. “Can I just check the loads first?”

He shrugged and opened up the flight for me, but with him looking over my shoulder I couldn’t start searching for Wright. I made do with checking the manifests, but I didn’t get as far as the Ws before another person asked me if we were going to be boarding soon, and Sven said yes and picked up the microphone.

So I pulled boarding cards and kept my eyes peeled for a middle-aged businessman with brown hair.

I must have sent thirty of them through, still scanning Sven’s queue for Wright, when I came to the large group of Italian kids, all passing through in three and fours, giggling over each others’ identity cards and passports.

I didn’t see Wright at all. The phone hadn’t rung. My Nokia, safe in my bag beside me, kept silent.

So I pulled the last boarding card wrong, waited until the passenger had disappeared, then said to Sven, “I got the wrong half of the card. I’ll just go down and give her her luggage receipts.” Then I grabbed my bag and legged it before he could ask me anything.

I pulled out my phone as I ran and tried to call Luke, but got nothing. Damn! I got all the way to the plane, waved the ticket stub at Lissa and ran up into the aircraft. The card belonged to a woman taking her seat halfway down the plane and I sauntered down there, keeping an eye out for Wright.

Yes! There he was! Sitting near the back in the middle of the group of school kids, looking pissed off. I wondered what he’d done at checkin to deserve that.

Then I wondered why Luke hadn’t stopped him.

Then I wondered why everything suddenly got more closed in and quiet, and I looked around and realised in amazement that they’d shut the doors. Why hadn’t they told me to get off?

Because I was in Ace uniform, I’d over-sprayed my hair that morning so it was in a hostess-style helmet, I wasn’t wearing my hi-vis (which I should have, but it was still in my bag), and I was just about to say something to a passenger.

They thought I was cabin crew. I was on my way to Rome.

The flight to Rome is two and a half hours long, the longest two and a half hours of my life, excepting my Philosophy exam, which I snuck out of early because my head was going to explode from boredom. I convinced the crew that I was a newbie, not hard since they were—miraculously—expecting one. I also, and totally without effort, convinced the passengers that, as it was my first day, I’d fuck-all idea of what I was doing.

I dropped things. I spilled things. I forgot things. I was a bloody wreck. I was insanely grateful that I still had my passport in my bag from when I took it in for One to see, so I wouldn’t get chucked out of the country before I could follow David Wright and…

And what? What the hell was I supposed to do? Tail him to his hotel? Disguise myself as room service and spy on him from there? Why was SO17 even interested in him anyway?

“Are you okay?” asked a pleasant American voice as I prepared to spill tea down my tenth victim. They make it look so damn easy when you’re flying. Being cabin crew is really hard!

“Yeah, I’m sorry.” I looked up from the tray into lovely hazel eyes and a perfect, all-American smile. “It’s my first day.”

He grinned. “Gotta start somewhere. Well,” he peered at my chest, and I realised he was looking at my name-badge (hell cannot know how much I hate that badge and the trouble it gets me into), “Sophie, I think you’re doing just fine.”

I gave him a tense smile. “Thanks.”

He offered me his hand. “I’m Harvey.”

Like the cocktail? “Nice to meet you.” I handed him his tea, dripping slightly, and moved away. But every time I passed him, he smiled at me, and I started smiling back, feeling like I had a friend on board.

Which was more than I could say for the crew. Ace hired the biggest bitches—male and female—there ever were, and locked you in a tin can with them. Cruelty! They never said anything nice to me, never helped me out at all, just told me to do stuff and laughed at me when I said I couldn’t.

“Didn’t you have any training?” one of them asked. He had peroxide hair and could not have looked gayer if he’d been wearing pink and flopping his wrist. He gave me an up-and-down that took in my frazzled hair (no amount of hairspray will hold it), melted make-up, sweat-patches under my arms, and tea stains on my trousers. He sneered, and I snapped.

I reached past him for my bag and withdrew my wallet with my red pass and warrant card.

“No,” I said, flashing the card at him, “no training. I’m undercover. I have had a long day, people have been sending me fingers through the post and I found a dead body the day before yesterday. Be nice to me or I’ll show you what kind of weaponry a government agent carries.”

God, I wished I’d had a camera.

In fact, I did, and I took out my Nokia and snapped a picture of his face.

“For my files,” I said, and after that, they couldn’t have been nicer.

We landed at Ciampino airport and I abandoned the crew, rushing away after Wright. He had no luggage to collect and strode ahead out of the little terminal to the taxi rank, where he stood talking to the driver in rapid Italian.

Shit. There were a lot of other taxis around but I didn’t know the Italian for “follow that car”!

I stood staring at him as he got in. “Double shit!” I hissed, stamping my foot.

“Are you okay?”

It was Harvey, the all-American boy. Out in the sunlight he was tall and sparkling, looking perfectly refreshed after the flight, jacket slung over his arm, tie perfectly in place.

I let out a sigh. “Do you know the Italian for ‘follow that car’?”

He grinned, shading his eyes and looking after Wright’s taxi, now waiting to turn off the concourse. “That car?”

“Yes. There’s a passenger in there who left his camera behind. I want to give it back to him.”

Harvey stared at me. “You’re a full service airline, aren’t you?”

“I surely am.” I looked up at him, pleadingly, and he shrugged. “Okay, hop in,” he said, opening the door for me. “I’ll come with you.”

I stared.

“We had a chat at the gate,” Harvey said easily. “We’re staying in the same hotel.” He said something to the driver, who nodded. Harvey gave me a little push towards the car.

I had no choice but to get in, one hand inside my bag, searching for my stun gun. Illegal, hell. Thank God for my red pass which had let me through security without being scanned.

Though fuck knew how I’d get back through Italian security.