Lucas mused for a second over his use of the word culprits, a strangely innocent-sounding word for the people he was talking about. Then he said, ‘I don’t see it, but even if it’s true, don’t you think it’s understandable?’
‘Maybe. Look, I’m sorry, call me shallow, but my life doesn’t have to be that complicated, not yet. Ella’s a great person, and I’m really sorry this happened to her, but it happened to her, not us, not me. What can I say? I hope she gets her life back.’ Lucas sensed that maybe he was meant to say something in response but wasn’t sure what. After a pause, Chris filled the gap himself, saying, ‘You have any idea who did it?’
Lucas shrugged nonchalantly and said, ‘Not yet. But a hit like this shouldn’t be too hard to trace.’ Chris nodded but looked like there was something he needed to get off his chest, something he was nervous about sharing.
‘You think it’s the uncle.’
Chris looked shocked. ‘How did you know?’
‘Wild guess.’
‘I don’t have any real reason to think it’s him. It was just, when I met him in the summer . . . I don’t know. He seemed phony, like someone covering up.’
‘You could be right. I’ll kill him.’
‘Jesus, no, I only . . .’ Lucas smiled and he sputtered to a stop. ‘You have the weirdest sense of humor I’ve ever encountered.’
‘You’re still young.’ Lucas stood to leave and said, ‘Nice meeting you. Good luck.’ He hesitated as he walked towards the door, drawn to an array of photos on the wall. Ella was in quite a few of them but no more prominent than a number of other repeated faces, a bunch of kids messing around, doing stupid stuff, at the beach, skiing.
‘Will I see you again at all?’
Lucas turned, trying to work out whether he was nervous or hopeful, and said, ‘Wouldn’t imagine so.’ There was the answer; Chris was relieved.
And in a strange way, he was hurt by that, because he’d liked Chris. He’d have happily killed him for blowing their cover in Florence but he’d truly liked him, even envied him. He’d turned his back on Ella, an act of weakness that wasn’t a million miles from the one Lucas had performed fifteen years before with Madeleine, but apart from that he was the kind of kid he would have liked to have been himself.
He hadn’t been that kid, though, and if her life hadn’t been destroyed Ella Hatto would never have needed him. But here he was, preparing to guide her through the wreckage to the dark core of her family. Chris was probably right about who they’d find there, too.
Lucas had thought about suggesting it to her himself. For all he knew she was still in danger. Worse still, she could force her uncle’s hand if she let him know what she was doing. He’d said nothing, though, aware of the emotional impact it would have on her, aware too that they could be wrong.
And something told him that she wouldn’t tell her uncle. She was probably in denial, refusing to believe that the man who’d taken her in had also tried to kill her, but somewhere deep within her she had to suspect him, a suspicion that would keep her cautious. Maybe that was the real reason she’d checked into a hotel. She knew. Deep down, she had to know, and he was confident that she wouldn’t put herself in danger, that she’d be vigilant.
He was confident too that if the trail did lead to her uncle, her need for vengeance would be all the greater for having denied it, her wrath intensified by the acts of kindness he’d shown her in the past three months. If Simon Hatto was behind it, no amount of smiles and sympathy would help him now; his only hope was to do what he should have done in the first place, and finish the job he’d started.
Chapter Twelve
The guy at reception was polite, obsequious even, but in a way that managed to be cold and vaguely condescending. It was clear too that Lucas didn’t look at all familiar to him, even though he’d stayed in the hotel for a couple of nights just over a week ago.
He’d almost finished checking in when something stirred in the receptionist’s memory and he picked up a note from behind the desk, saying, ‘Oh, Mr. Lucas, there’s a gentleman waiting in the bar for you.’
‘What kind of gentleman?’
‘Young, Australian, wearing a suit.’ The final words somehow managed to convey a disapproval of Lucas’s casual dress. ‘The bar’s just through there.’
‘I know. I’ve stayed here before.’
‘Of course.’
He walked through to the bar, where Dan was sitting on a stool, deep in conversation with the barman. When he saw Lucas, he stood up, smiling as they shook hands.
‘Good journey?’
Lucas nodded.
‘How about a drink? They’ve got an eighteen-year-old Macallan.’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ll have one too. Rico?’ The barman nodded and the two of them sat down at a table, Dan saying, ‘Rico’s from Brazil, shoe designer for catwalk shows.’ Lucas laughed to himself, that Dan had been there maybe twenty minutes and already knew the barman’s name and story. The next time he went in there he’d probably get his drinks on the house.