She wondered if Mulholland was right and it was possible that someone looking for him had killed Felicity, mistaking her for the man. However, she’d had some experience with the Russian mafia—at the points where they intersected with financial crimes—and didn’t think this was their style, at least not in Switzerland. They were more likely to either wait for Mulholland to leave the country and make a spectacle of his death, or lure him away and dump the body somewhere. They wanted to be able to bank in Switzerland and would keep a low profile in the country. At the same time, a clean kill with no grand gesture wasn’t their style either.
“You don’t know what it’s been like.” Mulholland placed a palm flat on his chest and pressed. “I swore that once this was over I would get a job in a bank, or an insurance company, working nine to five, or whatever people do. But it never ends.” He closed his eyes and breathed through his mouth. “I’ll never set foot on a yacht again, or ski, or borrow money.”
Agnes watched him fumble for another cigarette and was moved to pity. He inhaled deeply, his hand no longer shaking.
“That day was one dismal failure after another. Every minute I was one step farther down the path of no return. Jesus, I was starting to have dreams that the police would arrest me. Bad dreams that ended with a cold dark jail cell. And that day, the day she was murdered, was the worst. That fucking, filthy recluse of a man could save me with a word as easily as most people ordered water in a restaurant, but wouldn’t take the time to see me. Driving me to ruin. Fucking foreigner.”
Agnes didn’t point out that Mulholland was also a foreigner in Switzerland. The young man spat out a fleck of tobacco, weighing the hand-rolled cigarette on his palm. Agnes saw his eyes dart to his gold case. For a moment he weighed the case in his hand, delaying. She could sense him estimating.
“Who else could I ask?” he continued. “Someone who wasn’t a fucking Slav. Someone who understood what a gentleman needed and how hard it was to have a name like mine. Fucking Norman conquerors and our legacy, name and land but no money and now not even land. Still, a chap has to order champagne—vintage stuff, not California sparkling wine, and send flowers and fly first class.”
“Your parents didn’t leave you with any funds?”
“The last time I saw my mother she was exclaiming about their new airplane. That it was simply darling, perfect for skimming over the plains. Her new Leica camera in its custom leather case, film hanging in canisters from the woven strap. She thought she was a modern-day Isak Dinesen … without the trouble of having to actually live in the country for years or write anything more than a postcard.
“When the headmaster called me to chapel and told me they’d crashed their second day in Africa, he forgot to mention that I wouldn’t be back after winter break; there was no money to pay the fees and my parents already owed the school for two years. Like the fucking Duke of Edinburgh: proud name, no money, and too many rich connections. Someone should have said sorry old boy but you’re poor and you will have to go to the local comprehensive. Tough luck. Instead, I was sent to my new guardian’s school, expensive but they paid the bills, vacationed on yachts, learned to ski, and maintained my birthright.” He slumped. “At the least the Duke of Edinburgh had the sense to marry a rich woman.”
“Am I interrupting?” Vallotton asked from the darkness.
Mulholland pressed back against the wall and Agnes thought he would run if he could only push past them. She explained quickly, sparing none of the details.
“How much?” Vallotton asked.
Mulholland mentioned a sum that made Agnes queasy, but Vallotton only looked thoughtful, then repeated his question. Mulholland’s hands shook so hard he couldn’t hold his cigarette to his lips. He tripled the figure, faltering as he spoke. Vallotton raised an eyebrow and looked satisfied this time.
“You had a long way to go raising the money at that rate.”
“I only took a few things, enough to show them I intended to pay.”
“Enough to pay the interest, maybe,” Vallotton said. “How were you selling them?”
“I didn’t have to, I would hand over whatever I had and they would credit me for it.”
“Why didn’t you say something to Daniel?”
“Not bloody likely he’d be able to help.”
“But a good problem for him to tackle. Might have thought of something. At least he’d understand. My father bailed him out enough times. He’d be sympathetic.”
“I was going to ask Arsov. That’s where I was the day she was killed. I asked to see him, but he didn’t have time for me and I waited around, thinking I’d catch him outside. I had to do it then, I had my nerve up and couldn’t wait; they’d been threatening for weeks, well months, but lately they seemed serious.” Mulholland sat and placed his head in his hands. “I thought it was me they were after, then I saw the police and found out she died, and saw the coat she was wearing. It was mine. With the storm I thought they were aiming for me and got her instead.”
“Good lord, at least Daniel borrowed from a bank or friends.” Vallotton stood silently for a moment. “I’ll take care of it.”
Mulholland looked like he would faint with relief. “They’re desperate men. Russian mafia, and they’ve threatened to kill me.”