“Look at you! All you are is how you behave. That’s it. Nobody gives a crap what’s going on inside you, or what you’ve been through. All you are is what you do. And what you do is a disgrace.”
“Are you done?” Joel found himself saying. The blonde looked like she was going to hurl a shoe at him. Then she stopped herself and began to pull on her clothes in an affronted silence. Joel felt he shouldn’t look, but he’d forgotten how gorgeous she was. He blinked.
“Screw you,” she spat at him. Her skirt was incredibly short. She was very clearly going to be doing the walk of shame on the tube home to west London.
“Can I get you an Uber?” he said.
“No, thank you,” she replied stiffly. Then she changed her mind. “Yes,” she said. “Get me one now.”
He picked up his phone again.
“Where do you live?”
“You don’t remember? You’ve been there!”
Joel blinked. He didn’t know London very well.
“Yes, of course . . .”
She sighed.
“Shepherd’s Bush.”
“Of course.”
There was a pause.
“What goes around comes around, Joel. You’ll get yours.”
But he was already up, heading for the coffee machine, checking his e-mails, getting ready for the day. Something was nagging at him about a case but he couldn’t quite remember what it was. Something good. What was it?
Seven hundred miles due north, the men were coming down from the fields, stretching their muscles, the dogs scampering around their feet, rabbits scattering before them, the wind blowing in off the water as fresh as lemon sorbet under the soaring bright white sky. The first of the morning’s work done, they were looking for breakfast, as below them on the stones of the harbor the fishermen hauled in the catch and sang in the clear morning light, their voices carrying up the hillside and into the open air: And what do you think they made of his eyes?
Sing aber o vane, sing aber o linn
The finest herring that ever made pies Sing aber o vane, sing aber o linn
Sing herring, sing eyes, sing fish, sing pies Sing aber o vane, sing aber o linn
And indeed I have more of my herring to sing Sing aber o vane, sing aber o linn.
Chapter Three
Joel walked into his office with a look of concentration on his face. He knew what had been nagging at him: he had an early-morning meeting with Colton Rogers, another American. Famously wealthy, he’d made his money through tech start-ups. Joel had heard of him but had never met him before. If he was coming to London and bringing his money, then Joel was very pleased indeed to hear this. All thoughts of the unpleasant incident that morning had completely gone from his head.
He nodded at his assistant, Margo, to go and fetch Rogers’s people, and looked cheerfully out of his office window. They were just over Broadgate, in the heart of the City, overlooking the Circle and on to the towers beyond; he could see all the way down to the river. The streets were full of bustling people, black cabs in a line, even this early in the day. He loved the City, felt animated by it, enjoyed being a part of the big money-making machine. From up here it felt like his domain, and he wanted to own it. He was half smiling to himself when Margo turned up, ushering Colton Rogers and his team in and indicating a tray of bagels and Danishes, even though they both knew that nobody ever took one.
“Hey,” said Rogers. He was tall and rangy and wore the classic West Coast tech-guy outfit—jeans, a turtleneck, and white sneakers. He also had a slightly graying, exceedingly tidy beard along his jaw. Joel wondered if his own suit looked as strange to Rogers as Rogers’s outfit looked to him.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Rogers.”
“Colton, please.”
He came over and looked at the view.
“God, this city is crazy. How can you stand it? So many goddamn people everywhere. It’s like an ants’ nest.”
They both peered down.
“You get used to it,” said Joel, indicating a seat. “What can I do for you, Colton?”
There was a pause. Joel tried not to think of how much this man was worth. Bringing a client this size into the firm . . . well. It would go down very well.
“I’ve got a place,” said Colton. “A really beautiful place. And they’re trying to build wind farms on it. Or near it. Or next to it or something. Anyway. I don’t want them there.”
Joel blinked.
“Right,” he said. “Whereabouts?”
“Scotland,” he said.
“Ah,” said Joel. “You’ll probably need our Scottish office.”
“No, it’s got to be you guys.”
Joel smiled even more broadly.
“Well, it’s nice that we’ve been recommended—”
“Oh Christ, no, it’s nothing like that. I think you vicious bloodsuckers are all the same, and trust me, I’ve met a lot of you. No. I gather that you’ve got a local lawyer up there. Someone who can come and fight for me who’s actually visited the damn place.”
Joel squinted and racked his brains. He’d never even been to Scotland, didn’t actually know what Colton was talking about. He didn’t think they had anyone like that. Someone from Scotland. He didn’t want to admit it, though.
“It’s a big firm . . .,” he began. “Did they give you a name?”
“Yeah,” said Colton. “But I can’t remember it. Something Scottishy sounding.”
Joel blinked. He normally saved displays of impatience for his staff.
Margo started in the corner of the room and Joel turned to her.
“Yes?”
“Might be that Flora MacKenzie? The paralegal? That’s a Scottish name, isn’t it?”
This rang absolutely no bells with Joel.
“She’s from up there . . . somewhere really weird.”
“Weird?” said Colton, a smile playing on his lips. He gestured once more to the throbbing landscape on the other side of the glass. “Living all jam-packed on top of each other in a place where you can’t breathe or drive or get across town is probably what I’d call weird.”
“Sorry, sir,” said Margo, going bright red.
“She’s just a junior, though, right?” said Joel.
Colton lifted his eyebrows.
“It’s all right, I haven’t actually murdered anybody. I just want somebody local who actually has a clue as to what’s going on before they start charging me eight hundred dollars an hour. It’s called Mure.”
“What is?” said Joel.
Colton looked frustrated.
“The place I’m talking about.”
“Yes,” muttered Margo. “That’s her.”
“Well, get her then,” said Joel irritably.
“Yes, but anywhere we go, if it’s nice we won’t be able to sit outside and it’ll be overbooked and—”
“That’s al fresco living in London,” said Kai, who sat at the next desk. “You just have to squeeze in.”
Flora frowned. It always seemed to be such an effort to plan a get-together—everyone would bid out or in at the last minute or hang around for a better offer—but it was so hot. It seemed to her that being outside, rather than trapped in her stifling little bedroom at the end of the DLR, was the right way to go tonight. Plus, it was so hard to sleep when it was hot like this. She might as well go out . . . She glanced at the large pile of files in front of her and sighed. They’d figure it out at lunchtime.
The internal line rang and she picked it up, unsuspecting.