The Lost Relic

Chapter Forty-Seven

Richmond, London

Marshall killed the purring engine of his Bentley, took a deep breath and then got out and started walking towards the familiar red-brick Victorian house that featured in his nightly dreams. He could think of nothing but Brooke. Couldn’t sit still, couldn’t watch TV or read the paper. Britain could be at war, the prime minister could have been caught with a rent boy, and he wouldn’t have known or cared.

Marshall paused at Brooke’s door, cleared his throat and knocked loudly, twice, heart thumping under his Versace suit. He blinked in surprise when the door opened and there was a young Asian guy standing there holding a small watering can.

‘H-hello,’ Marshall stammered. ‘Hi. You’re Marshall, right?’

‘What?’

‘We met. Brooke’s party, a few months ago? You’re Phoebe’s husband.’

‘And you’re Amal. I remember now.’

Amal smiled, but he seemed a little edgy. ‘Listen, if you’re looking for Brooke, I’m afraid she’s not around.’

‘Oh,’ Marshall said, scrutinising him closely.

‘She’s gone away for a few days. I’m looking after her plants.’ He raised the watering can, as if to make his point.

Yup, Marshall thought. This young guy was definitely acting guarded. He wondered why that might be. ‘Off to France again?’ he said breezily.

‘No,’ Amal said. ‘I mean yes. Yeah, that’s it. Right.’

Marshall dealt with much better liars than Amal every day at the office, and years of practice had taught him he could get around anyone. He was known, and widely feared, for having a mind that stored information like a bank vault and the ability to retrieve instantly any shred of detail that could serve him, even years later.

He smiled warmly. ‘That’s a real shame about Brooke. Never mind. Hey, how’s the writing going? I remember you said you were working on a play.’

Amal looked surprised for a moment, then smiled back, the ice melting suddenly. ‘That’s right.’

Vanity. The most exploitable vice under the sun. ‘Actually, I was thinking about you just the other day,’ Marshall went on.

‘You were?’

‘Absolutely. One of my clients is just about to take over this big, big theatre. Guy’s worth a trillion quid. I can’t say too much about it now, not until the deal’s finalised. But I think he’s going to be on the lookout for talented playwrights. Top notch productions, big budget. I think your stuff could be right up his street. If you wanted, I could put in a mention. Could be a good opportunity for you.’

‘Wow. That’d be great. Thanks, Marshall.’

Marshall grinned his most generous grin. Once you softened them up, it was time to press your advantage. ‘Listen, the reason I’m here is that Brooke had this novel she wanted to lend me. I was in the area and thought I’d come by to pick it up. I know where it is, on the bookcase near her desk. Mind if I pop inside and get it?’

Amal was all smiles now, his guard completely dropped. ‘Sure, no problem. Be my guest.’

Seconds later, Marshall was making a bee-line for the door of Brooke’s study while Amal was safely out of the way watering the flower beds outside. Marshall was an expert snoop, and he knew exactly where to look for what he wanted. A quick scan of Brooke’s desk yielded no clues as to where she might have gone, so he fired up her Mac and went into her emails.

‘France my arse,’ he muttered as he found the ticket booking confirmation. She’d gone to Portugal.

And Marshall knew precisely where in Portugal. He thought back to the terrible week last May he and Phoebe had spent at Brooke’s rundown rustic getaway. The worst holiday of his life. No pool, no nothing, not even a mobile signal that he could use to keep in touch with the office. Phoebe had loved it, but he couldn’t leave the place fast enough. For some reason Brooke thought it was just heaven. That was where he’d find her, for sure.

Marshall quickly powered down the computer, snatched a book at random from her shelf to back up his cover story with Amal, and left the apartment.