He straightened. ‘You a copper too?’ he said to Steve.
‘Detective Inspector English,’ said Steve.
‘Well, what do you want? I’m in my costume, so you’d better make it quick. Rehearsal starts in a couple of minutes.’
‘It doesn’t start for a couple of hours,’ she said. ‘Are you Michael Gillanders?’
‘What if I am?’
‘We’d like to ask you some questions.’
‘About?’
‘The murder of Max Quincey.’ She smiled warmly. ‘May we sit down?’
‘If you like, but there’s not much I can tell you.’
‘Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?’
She wriggled into the armchair. Steve perched on the edge of the dresser, avoiding the spilt powder.
Gillanders hesitated, then sank slowly into his chair. He pulled a packet of cigarillos from his jacket and lit up, drawing slowly. Leaning back, he ran a hand over his hair. It was fine and silky, falling to his shoulders. And it was blond, with the beginnings of a bald patch.
Von, whose experience of actors was limited to her brief encounter with Max Quincey, studied him with interest. He seemed ill at ease, constantly glancing at his watch and smoothing down his clothes. His actions reminded her of a junky whose fix is long overdue. She wondered if all actors were as highly strung.
‘So you’re a detective,’ Gillanders said, glaring at her.
‘Does it show?’
His eyes travelled down her body. ‘Now that I see you close up, I’m afraid it does.’
Highly strung, and rude with it
. ‘Mr Gillanders, how well did you know Max Quincey?’
He blew smoke through his nostrils, flaring them, the action accentuating his pinched features. ‘We worked together. We didn’t socialise, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’
‘Why not?’ said Steve. ‘Max Quincey seemed a popular sort of man.’
‘That pederast? Popular? You’re jesting.’ He dragged on his cigarillo, staring fixedly at Von’s chest.
‘We’re not jesting,’ she said. ‘We’re investigating his murder.’
‘You can take it from me that no-one in this theatre liked Quincey.’ He continued to stare at her chest.
She kept her voice level. ‘Mr Gillanders, why are you talking to my breasts? Do you think they’ll talk back to you?’
His head shot up. He looked away, flustered.
‘So when did you meet Max?’ she said.
‘It feels like since before the dawn of man, but it would have been when Jack in the Box ran here in the eighties.’
‘And were you in that production?’ Steve said, writing.
‘Not the lead, which I’m playing now, of course. I was the detective’s assistant.’ He smirked. ‘A bit like yourself.’
Steve continued to write, not taking the bait.
‘What made you go on the road with the Quincey Players?’ Von said.
‘Max offered me a job.’ Gillanders wiped ash off his trousers. ‘Jobs don’t grow on trees in this business.’
‘And you’ve been with the Quincey Players ever since?’
‘Fraid so. I see myself doing Hamlet or Lear, eventually. The Quincey Players are merely a stepping stone.’
‘But nothing better came along?’ Steve said, his lips curving into a smile. ‘In fifteen years, no-one from the RSC came knocking at your door?’
Gillanders threw him a look of loathing. ‘Despite all appearances to the contrary, Max wasn’t a bad manager. We had no shortage of bookings, and we performed a wide variety of plays.’ He puffed slowly at his cigarillo. ‘He ran the Players well, I have to give him that.’
‘And how much are the Players worth?’ said Steve.
‘No idea,’ Gillanders said lazily. ‘But we did well enough we got hefty Christmas bonuses. Not many touring companies can boast that.’
‘What will happen to the Quincey Players now?’ said Von.
‘Someone will take it over,’ he said cautiously.
‘Any name spring to mind?’
‘I really can’t say.’
‘You hadn’t thought of running it yourself?’ she said, watching him.
He inclined his head. ‘If I’m asked to help out as director, of course I’ll step into the breach. I wouldn’t want the Players to go under.’
He seemed to be holding something back. It was time to hit him in a different place. ‘I notice you’re lodging with Mrs Deacon, as was Max Quincey,’ she said. ‘A coincidence?’
‘What are you insinuating?’
‘It’s a simple question.’
‘Then here’s a simple answer. Max arranged the accommodation. If you want to know why we ended up in the same boarding house, you’ll have to ask him.’ He smiled faintly. ‘But you can’t, can you?’
She kept her eyes on his. ‘Where were you on the evening of September 12th, Mr Gillanders?’
‘Ah, straight for the jugular. I went to the cinema, the Odeon at Leicester Square.’
‘What did you see?’
‘The Watcher. With Keanu Reeves.’
‘What was it about?’
His smile mocked her. ‘A serial killer.’
‘Did you pay by credit card?’
‘Cash.’
‘Anyone corroborate that?’
‘The man who took it could.’
‘Did you go with anyone?’
‘I went alone.’
‘What time did the film start?’
‘About seven. I can’t remember exactly.’
‘Did you eat before or after the film?’
‘I ate before.’
‘In Leicester Square?’
‘I bought a kebab from a stall, and walked around the Square eating it.’
‘It was a cold night for eating outside,’ said Steve, not looking up.
Gillanders regarded him through a veil of smoke. ‘That’s not my recollection.’
‘Can you think of anyone who would want to harm Max Quincey?’ said Von.
‘What an extraordinary question.’
‘Would you mind answering it?’
‘Most of the cast and crew, for starters. Max was a brutal taskmaster. Never satisfied with anything less than perfection.’
‘But that was his job, wasn’t it? Directing?’
‘You didn’t hear the tittle-tattle after rehearsals. The cast were on the point of mutiny. It was all I could do to calm them down – they look up to me as an older brother figure – but they nearly walked out.’ He drew on the cigarillo. ‘Nothing was right as far as Max was concerned. People standing too far forward, then too far back. Lighting all wrong. Max didn’t raise his voice, you understand. He used sarcasm. He belittled. It’s not how I would manage a team of actors.’
‘Miss Manning seemed to suggest it was the other way round,’ said Steve. ‘It was Max who was popular and you who weren’t.’
‘Piffle. What would that hag know? Always downstairs in her little troglodyte cave. She rarely surfaces to join the world of men.’ An ugly gleam came into his eyes. ‘She’s in hormone hell most of the time.’
‘Did Max pick the cast for the play?’ said Von.
‘Max?’ He laughed unpleasantly. ‘He couldn’t pick his nose. He left that to me. He had a say, though. Insisted on sitting in on the auditions.’
She glanced at his receding hairline. ‘How old are you, Mr Gillanders?’
‘A gentleman never tells.’ His gaze was steady. ‘And a lady
never asks.’
‘You see, I’m wondering how old you were in 1985, when Jack in the Box ran here first.’
His eyes flickered, but he said nothing.
Interesting how they all become cagey when I talk about the old play
. ‘Answer the question please,’ she said. When there was no reply, she added, ‘We can do this down at the police station, if you prefer.’
‘Ah yes, the old your-place-or-mine routine.’ He pulled on the cigarillo. ‘I’ll be forty in December. That would make me twenty-five in 1985.’
‘Twenty-four,’ said Steve. ‘You were twenty-four when Jack in the Box ran in the October.’
Gillanders regarded him under half-closed lids. ‘A mathematical genius,’ he lisped.
‘Do you remember the Jack in the Box murders, Mr Gillanders?’ Von said.
He glanced at the doll on the table, then looked away quickly.
Yes, he remembers
. ‘Well?’ she said, when the silence had gone on too long.
He ran a hand over his eyes. ‘What happened to those boys was terrible,’ he said in a whisper.
‘Did you know Max Quincey was a suspect?’
‘Everyone knew. The police were all over the theatre. We saw him arrested.’
‘Do you think he was involved in those murders?’
‘Oh, without a doubt.’
‘The police found no evidence,’ she said, her eyes on his.
‘Give me some credit. Please. Absence of evidence isn’t evidence of absence.’
‘Is there any evidence for your statement?’
‘If there were, he’d have been locked up.’ He pressed the
remains of his cigarillo into a pot of cold cream. ‘You didn’t know him. He had a vicious streak.’ He smiled nastily. ‘Max never could hold his liquor. A glass of Glenmorangie and he’d slur you his life history.’ He drew a cigarillo from the packet and ran a fingernail over it. ‘He was the worst kind of child, the kind that pulls wings off flies. You’d think you’d regret your childhood brutalities, but he didn’t.’
‘Brutalities that continued into adulthood?’
‘Who knows what goes through a queer’s mind? His bumboys were young and vulnerable. He liked them that way. I’m sure if they’d had wings, he’d have pulled them off.’ He put the cigarillo to his lips and snapped open the lighter. ‘I’ve no doubt he did them all.’ He blew smoke to the ceiling. ‘Now, is there anything else? It’s just that—’
‘What is your sexual orientation, Mr Gillanders?’
He stared at her, then laughed crudely. ‘Oh, I love sex. But not with boys. I’m a red-blooded male.’ He glanced at her breasts. ‘Chrissie Horowitz can corroborate that.’
‘I thought a gentleman never tells.’
‘Hoist with your own petard. Your next question was going to be about evidence of my sexual orientation. Well, there it is. Ask the lady.’ He looked at a spot behind Von. ‘Yes, I could tell Chrissie Horowitz was up for it the moment I clapped eyes on her. It was only a matter of time before she invited me into her office, and I had my hand up her skirt.’ He winked. ‘I always check out the engine before giving it a service.’
Von got to her feet, trying to keep the distaste from her face. ‘I think we’re finished here, Mr Gillanders. Could you page Dexter and tell him we’ll meet him at the end of the corridor?’ She paused at the door. ‘I notice you have a Jack in the Box.’
‘We all have one,’ he said carelessly. ‘It’s for luck.’
‘Well then, good luck with tonight’s performance.’
He froze, the cigarillo partway to his lips. His expression
changed to one of dismay.
‘You should have said, break a leg, boss. That’s why he looked so horrified.’
‘I know. I couldn’t resist it. It was the way he boasted he’d had sex with Chrissie Horowitz that did it,’ she added with contempt. ‘What a prick.’
Steve looked amused. ‘Aye, a true gentleman would never fuck and tell.’ He opened the car door for her.
As they moved away, her mobile rang. She glanced at the display. ‘I need to take this, Steve.’
‘No problem.’
She clamped the phone to her ear and turned away. ‘Kenny? Where are you?’
The voice was faint. ‘In the British Library, researching my story.’
‘How’s it going? When will I see you?’
‘Possibly this evening.’ He sounded excited. ‘My contact is brilliant, love. I’m getting the scoop of the century.’
‘That’s great. But listen, I’ll be home late. Steve and I are going to see this play, Jack in the Box.’
There was an edge of suspicion to the voice. ‘Jack in the Box?’
Damn it. Just what I need. He’s going to sulk because I’m with Steve
. ‘It’s part of our investigation, Kenny.’ She felt Steve glance in her direction.
‘If you say so.’
She was annoyed she had to explain herself. ‘Try to get back this evening, will you?’
‘Not much point if you’re going to be out, is there?’ He rang off.
‘Jesus,’ she muttered, snapping the phone shut.
After a pause, Steve said, ‘What do you reckon, then, boss?
About our Mr Gillanders?’
‘You can keep him.’
‘I meant could he be our Mr X?’
‘Too early to tell.’
‘You were right about Gillanders and the long blond hair, though. And it looked dyed.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I owe you a tenner.’
‘Buy me a sandwich at the nick.’
‘Do you reckon that tan was real?’
‘You could see the streaks under his chin.’ She grimaced. ‘It was his voice I couldn’t stand, as though he’d swallowed a mouthful of oil. Must be my working-class upbringing.’
Steve massaged his neck. ‘Bottom line, is Gillanders in the frame?’
‘We need to check his alibi. Let’s pull the CCTV from Leicester Square.’ She thought back to the interview. ‘Did you notice the brand of cigarillos he smokes?’
‘Hoyo de Monterrey. I’d recognise that smell anywhere.’
‘Maybe he and Max were chummier than he made out.’
‘Could be they chatted and smoked together in Max’s room.’
‘Tempting to cast him as a suspect, Steve, but there’s no real motive.’ She hesitated. ‘Except possibly the money angle.’
‘Surely the Quincey Players aren’t worth that much?’
‘It’s not how much they’re worth but how much Gillanders believes they’re worth. He might think Max was sitting on a nice little nest egg.’
‘I’ll check him for priors, boss. Maybe we’ll strike lucky.’
But she had stopped listening. Her mind was back at her conversation with Kenny. Kenny, who’d told her he was phoning from the British Library. With faint sounds of laughter and music and clinking glasses in the background.
Chapter 11
Later that day, Steve put his head round Von’s door.
‘I’ve been trawling through the Police National Computer, boss. Gillanders is clean as a whistle.’ He leant against the door jamb, smiling lazily. ‘And before you say anything, yes, I’m sure. I know you don’t trust computers, but I do.’
‘After all that carry on about the millennium bug?’
‘It didn’t hit the PNC,’ he said patiently.
‘And the ILOVEYOU virus earlier this year?’
‘Nor that.’
She let it go. She would never win the argument about computers. Like many people not brought up on them, she both hated and feared them, even though she knew they had become a necessary part of policing.
‘Okay, so Gillanders has no priors,’ she said. ‘Where do we go from here?’
‘I was thinking about the Quincey Players and how much they’re worth. We didn’t find the Players’ books at Max’s. We could ask Chrissie this evening if she still has them.’
‘It can wait till tomorrow. Tonight’s her grand opening, we don’t need to spoil it for her.’
He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘Talking of which, shall I pick you up at yours?’
‘We could meet at the theatre.’
‘You don’t fancy a wee bevvie beforehand?’
She registered the disappointment in his voice. ‘Not a bad
idea,’ she said. ‘We could rendezvous at that fancy wine bar two blocks up from the Garrimont.’
He looked at his feet. ‘You know, boss, it would be easier if I just called for you.’
She knew he wanted to be in charge of the evening. ‘You’re right, Steve. Seven at mine?’ She pulled the tickets from her bag. ‘Here, why don’t you look after these?’
The doorbell rang at seven on the dot.
‘Hold on, Steve,’ Von shouted, putting the final touches of Fauve Fuchsia to her lips. There was no need to hurry. She knew Steve would wait patiently, he was the waiting kind.
As she opened the door, the wind blew against her face, lifting the ends of her silk scarf.
Steve was standing gazing at the street. He turned at the sound. ‘Wow, boss, I’ve never seen you with your hair up.’
‘And I’m still on duty. You should see me on a non-work night.’ She nodded at his silver Nissan Primera. ‘You’re not driving, are you? There’s nowhere to park on Shaftesbury Avenue.’
‘Good thinking, boss,’ he said hastily. ‘I’ll call a cab.’
She smiled to herself. She recognised this behaviour from her teens. The sensible thing would have been either to come by tube or take a taxi to her flat. But by bringing his car, Steve would have to return with her at the end of the evening to fetch it.
‘Kenny home tonight?’ said Steve.
Von sipped at her vodka tonic. ‘He said he might be. But that can mean anything with Kenny.’
He gazed into his malt, saying nothing.
They were sitting in a dark wine bar on Shaftesbury Avenue. Von was surprised to find it half empty. The drinkers nursing
their cocktails seemed to be serious types, dressed for the theatre. It was the type of watering hole she shunned, preferring bright noisy pubs, but it had been Steve’s choice. He behaved as though he knew the place, and she wondered idly whether he brought Annie here.
‘Okay, let’s get back to business,’ she said. ‘We need to check timings in the play. That’s entrances and exits. If we both do it, we won’t miss any.’
He brandished his notebook. ‘And I’ve brought a pencil torch. So, we do all the characters?’
‘All six.’ She scrutinised the programme. ‘In order of appearance, we have a wife, a postwoman, a detective, his assistant, Jack the Lad, and the husband.’ She glanced up. ‘Did you say you’d seen this play before?’
‘I was in Glasgow in eighty-five. It never came that far north.’
‘Then listen carefully as there’ll be a little test at the end.’ She read from the text. ‘Millie and Sebastian Davenshawe, a happily married couple, are living their dream in rural Berkshire. However, Sebastian’s many absences as an MP to Westminster soon cause Millie to find solace in the capable arms of Jack Forrester. But, where Jack is concerned, all is not what it seems. While declaring undying love to Millie, Jack is also declaring undying love to Sandra, Annabelle, Jeanette, Marie, and Veronica.’
‘That’s more than six characters, boss.’
‘They’re not all in the play. Must be noises off.’ She continued to read. ‘Jack juggles his love affairs, keeping his many mistresses sweet with tokens of affection. But when the arrival of his latest gift, a Jack in the Box doll, coincides with the arrival of Scotland Yard, Millie realises that Jack is less of a Lover and more of a Lad. Follow his antics as he tries not only to escape the long arm of the law, but also the wrath of his various mistresses.’
‘There’s a joke in there somewhere.’
‘Now, when it comes to timings, I’m particularly interested in the detective’s assistant, the role Gillanders played in 1985.’
He scratched his chin. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking about it and Gillanders doesn’t strike me as a killer. Unpleasant, yes, but not a killer.’
‘I’m ruling nothing out. We’re dealing with actors, Steve. And liars.’ She nudged him lightly. ‘Lose your faith in human nature.’
‘Yes, boss.’
Chrissie Horowitz, resplendent in a silver-sequinned sheath dress, a glass of champagne in one hand and a cigarette holder in the other, was in the foyer chatting with a large group of guests. She was clearly on the lookout for someone, turning to the front door whenever it opened.
Seeing Von and Steve, she excused herself and came over. ‘I’m so glad you could make it,’ she said, clasping Steve’s hand. ‘Let me take you to the hospitality suite.’ She smiled at Von. ‘We’ve oodles of champagne and it all has to be drunk.’
‘I expect you’re sold out,’ said Von, as they passed a table loaded high with Jack in the Box dolls.
‘We are.’ There was pride in her voice. ‘Standing room only.’
‘Are you expecting to sell all these?’
‘This is the first time the dolls have been on sale to the public. They don’t go into the shops till tomorrow. All these will vanish tonight. Even people who aren’t seeing the play will come in and buy.’ She smiled over her shoulder. ‘And this pile is nothing. You should see the storeroom.’
The hospitality suite was a large oval room with gilded columns and fading gold brocade curtains. A poorly executed decorating job had caused the plaster to fall off the ceiling and the yellow paint to flake off the walls. Despite this, the atmosphere was one of old-world charm. The room was heaving
with guests.
‘The canapés will be here shortly.’ Chrissie beckoned to a waiter holding a tray of glasses.
Von took a flute. The champagne was so chilled that the glass had turned misty. She took a sip. It was good quality. Whatever the Garrimont’s financial problems, Chrissie wasn’t stinting on opening night.
Dexter came over and whispered into Chrissie’s ear.
‘I’m afraid I need to go,’ she said. ‘I’m doing poor old Maxie’s job and I have to get to the wings. We’re about to start.’ She smiled at Steve. ‘Enjoy the performance. And do come back after the show to meet the cast.’
Dexter seemed reluctant to leave. ‘May I say how ravishing you look, Chief Inspector?’ He lifted Von’s hand and kissed it, his eyes on hers. With a nod to Steve, he followed Chrissie out of the suite.
‘Bit of a chancer,’ muttered Steve. ‘I doubt his balls have dropped yet.’
Von took his arm. ‘Come on, there’s the bell. Five minutes to curtain up.’
‘But we haven’t had the canapés yet,’ he said in an anguished voice.
Chrissie had done them proud: their seats were in the front row of the grand balcony. Below was the vastness of the stalls, sprawling towards the stage.
‘This was a marvel in its day, Steve,’ Von said. She had a fear of heights and kept her eyes directed upwards. ‘I used to come here as a child to see the Christmas panto.’
Steve was fingering the threadbare red velvet. ‘I’m not surprised they’re running an appeal. The upholstery’s falling to pieces.’
‘Most London theatres are past their best, but everything
here’s just that bit too worn.’ She studied the ceiling. The chandelier suspended from the cusp of the arch was dingy with dust. The few lights that still worked glowed weakly. ‘It was grand once. See those gilded cherubs.’
‘Aye, if you like that sort of thing. Bit over the top for my tastes.’
‘You’re not telling me you don’t get this kind of opulence in Glasgow.’
‘Not the part I came from. The paint peeling off the walls is a familiar sight, though. At least it’s not damp.’
Chrissie walked onto the stage. She held up a hand, and the conversations died away. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she said, ‘as you know, the director, Max Quincey, is unable to be with us today.’
‘That’s the understatement of the year,’ Steve said under his breath.
‘But I’m sure he’ll be with us in spirit. Maxie was a great inspiration to us all, both cast and crew. His first, his greatest love, was the theatre. He worked selflessly to ensure that not only did he never let us down, he never let his audience down. I’d therefore like to dedicate to Max Quincey, this opening-night performance of the play he made his own: Jack in the Box. Thank you.’
To thunderous applause, and a few wolf whistles, Chrissie swept off the stage.
‘Nice touch, boss. Let’s hope the actors are up to it.’
The lights dimmed, but not enough that they couldn’t see to write. Von glanced at Steve. He looked as surprised as she was.
To the strains of Tom Jones singing ‘Sex Bomb’, the curtain went up. The stage was designed as a split set, bedroom at one end and living room-cum-kitchenette at the other. There were several places to hide, the hallmark of a bedroom farce.
The music faded away, and a slim woman in a pink chiffon
nightie and matching dressing gown floated onto the stage. She went into the bedroom and sat in front of the dresser, combing her hair.
‘The wife, Millie. Character Number One,’ whispered Steve. He peered at his watch, and wrote in the notebook.
A minute later the doorbell rang. It was the postwoman, delivering a parcel for Millie. They bantered about the weather being unpredictable, like men. She left, and Millie carried the parcel into the living room, unwrapping it as she went. A frisson ran through the audience as they saw what it was.
Millie held up the gilt-edged card and read to the audience. ‘To Millie, from your ever-loving Jack.’ She lifted the lid and the doll sprang out with its cry, ‘Jack-jack! Jack-jack!’ Even from the balcony, Von could see it was identical to the doll in Max Quincey’s room.
The doorbell rang again and the detective and his assistant arrived, asking to interview the husband. They left when they discovered he was not at home. But the moment Millie closed the door, the living room window opened and Michael Gillanders, instantly recognisable by his blue suit and paisley cravat, climbed in. It soon transpired that Jack was a bank robber who was dispersing his loot, hidden inside the dolls, prior to laundering it. While Millie was making coffee in the kitchen, he rang his various mistresses telling them he was sending them presents. The timing of his one-sided conversations with the women was superb and, despite her dislike of Gillanders, Von found herself admiring his acting.
Jack stayed the night with Millie. The transition between night and day was effected by the hands of the large wall clock moving rapidly round to 8.00am. The detective arrived while Jack and Millie were still in bed. Jack scrambled to his feet and hid inside the wardrobe.
‘He’s come without the assistant, boss,’ whispered Steve,
scribbling. He glanced at her. ‘You’re not writing.’
‘Sorry, I’ve been watching Gillanders.’
The detective told Millie he was looking, not for her husband, but for Jack. As Gillanders poked his head out of the wardrobe, a look of shock on his face, the curtain came down on the first half.
‘Brilliant,’ said Von.
‘Was it?’ said Steve petulantly. ‘I was too busy writing to notice.’
‘Oh, don’t be like that. You’ve a much better eye for detail,’ she added guiltily. ‘Come on, let’s get a drink.’
The foyer was packed with people queuing to buy the Jack in the Box dolls. Dexter and his mates, clearly harassed, were stuffing them into plastic bags and thrusting them at the buyers. Von caught his eye and gave him a sympathetic look. He grinned and held out a doll, lifting his eyebrows questioningly. She shook her head.
‘Not buying, boss?’
‘A bit steep at £49.99.’
‘Aye. And I’ll bet good money they’ll be a one-month wonder. After the show’s run is over, they’ll be consigned to attics.’
‘I thought you said they became collectors’ items.’
‘And the collectors have thousands in their attics.’
The crush at the bar was so great, they took their drinks into the corridor.
‘Did you notice something odd?’ she said, sipping. ‘Once the lighting dimmed, it didn’t change. It was the same level all the way through.’
‘I’ve seen that technique before. They sometimes use music.’
‘There was music only at the start.’
He took a swig of beer. ‘Maybe it’ll all happen in the second half. That’s when the action takes place.’
‘What action?’
‘You’ve never seen this type of play before, boss?’
‘I rarely go to the theatre.’
The creases round his eyes deepened. ‘Then I won’t spoil it for you.’ His expression changed suddenly. ‘Hey, isn’t that Kenny?’
She spun round in time to see a man in a dark jacket slip out of the corridor. ‘Hold this,’ she said, thrusting the glass into Steve’s hand. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
In the foyer, she scanned the area rapidly.
He was standing lolling in the queue for the dolls, his weight on one leg.
She clutched his arm. ‘Kenny!’
The man turned, and she realised her mistake. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she breathed. ‘I thought you were someone else.’
He smiled suggestively. ‘I’m sorry I’m not,’ he murmured.
She released his arm. Reluctantly, she returned to Steve.
‘It wasn’t him,’ she said.
‘Sorry I got your hopes up, boss.’ He handed her the glass. ‘We’re not going to this reception afterwards, are we?’