Private London

Chapter 59

It was quiet in the hospital.

But somehow it was still full of sound. Machines in the background. Monitoring equipment beating out a steady rhythm. Life going on. Footfalls in distant corridors. Snoring.

I opened the door to the intensive-care room and walked in. The woman sitting on the chair at the head of the bed looked up at me and smiled. She was pleased to see me, at least. The smile made me feel good for a moment, but only for that instant. The sight of my unconscious god-daughter kind of took the fun out of it for me.

‘Mister Carter,’ the woman said.

‘It’s Dan, please, Professor Weston,’ I replied.

‘In which case you had better call me Annabelle.’

She smiled again but I couldn’t smile back. The young woman lying on the bed deserved my entire focus. And Annabelle could prove to be too much of a distraction. Maybe when things got back on an even keel I could try the full Dan Carter charm offensive on her. But for now I had to be all about business. Strictly professional. No time for romance.

I was wrong about that, as it turned out. But not in the way I expected.

I looked down at Chloe. Her eyes still closed. Her breathing even. ‘Have there been any developments?’ I asked Annabelle.

The professor shook her head. ‘The registrar was just here with Chloe’s mother. Chloe is stable but still in a coma.’

‘Where is Barbara now?’

‘She’s gone to get us some tea.’

Barbara Lehman, nee Smith, had driven down overnight from North Scotland, where she had moved a year ago. She’d set out as soon as she had heard what had happened to her daughter. Her new husband Martin Lehman worked in the petrochemical industry and was moved around the country every few years or so. Martin Lehman didn’t like me and I wasn’t, to tell the truth, too disappointed that he hadn’t accompanied his wife.

‘I just thought I’d check in on Chloe.’ Annabelle gestured sadly at some fruit in a bowl on the bedside cabinet. ‘Bit of a cliche, I know.’

‘I’m sure she’ll be grateful when she wakes up.’

The professor nodded and stood up. She was still dressed casually in jeans and a jumper. Still looked a million dollars.

‘I’d better leave you to it. I don’t think the ward sister will like a crowd in here.’

‘It was good of you to come.’

Annabelle shook her head. ‘Chloe’s one of our students. I’m her tutor.’

‘Even so.’

‘She’s a very bright girl. Very brave too, from what I hear. She nearly fought them off.’

‘They weren’t playing by the Queensberry Rules.’

‘No.’

She leaned down to smooth Chloe’s hair.

‘I take it you have no news yourself,’ she said.

‘No,’ I said. Lying as smoothly as a politician. ‘But Hannah Shapiro’s father will be here tomorrow morning. Maybe the kidnappers will make contact then.’

‘Annabelle looked at me, a little surprised. ‘You still think that this is what it was, then? A straightforward kidnapping? Why haven’t they been in contact? Made a ransom demand?’

‘I don’t know.’

That’s the trouble with lying: once you start you’ve got to keep doing it – and I didn’t like lying to Annabelle. I could see how distraught she was.

‘What?’ she said.

I guess I had been staring. ‘Her father has got money,’ I said. ‘That’s what it usually comes down to. Money.’

Money or sex, I thought to myself but didn’t articulate the thought.

‘I didn’t realise she came from a wealthy background.’

Saying Harlan Shapiro had money was a bit like saying a forest has a tree or two in it. ‘Yeah. Her father is pretty well off,’ I said, not telling her that he had already agreed to pay the ransom and I had the diamonds already stashed in the safe at our offices.

‘That’s good, then, isn’t it? Like we said. I mean… better that the motive is money.’

I couldn’t keep the image of Hannah Shapiro stripped to her underwear out of my mind and couldn’t help agreeing.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s better than the alternative.’

‘You’ll keep me posted if there are any developments?’

‘Of course I will.’

Annabelle seemed to hesitate, looking up at me with those almost fey turquoise eyes. There was a definite charge. Then she seemed to catch herself, blushing just a little, but on her alabaster skin it made her look almost unbearably vulnerable.

‘Tell Barbara I’ll come back tomorrow,’ she said and hurried out of the room, leaving behind a faint trail of a sweet floral perfume. I looked back at my comatose god-daughter and told myself to snap out of it. Like I said, I didn’t have time for distractions.

A few minutes later the door opened again and Chloe’s mother walked in. Barbara Lehman was in her early forties and still had the figure of a woman half her age. She was slim, tanned, beautiful. Her hair every bit as dark, curly and lustrous as her daughter’s. Her large expressive eyes brimmed as she saw me.

She put the cups of tea she was holding down on a side table and rushed into my arms.

‘Oh, Dan,’ she said unable to hold back the tears.

I pulled her to me, hugging her as tight as I dared, patting my arm on her back as she sobbed against my shoulder.