“Yes sir,” I said, sarky. But I went back to the kitchen and fed the dogs and messed about with the cafetière as I was told. As I waited for the water to heat I leaned against the sink and absently rubbed at the bruise on the side of my arm where Eamonn had hit me, and tried not to think about Sean’s ultimatum.
That I loved him wasn’t in doubt. I’d admitted as much to myself when I thought I’d lost him for good in America. But the reality of Sean was more complicated than the idea. He brought out the best and the worst in me and confirmed my darkest fears about what I was capable of. In the end, it wasn’t Sean I was scared of.
It was me.
When I took the filled cafetière through to the study, Sean was still up against the wall in a half crouch with his ear pressed against the safe door, inching the lock dial to the right with those long agile fingers of his. His movements slowed and finally stopped. He reached for the handle and I was aware of holding my breath.
It opened.
“Et voila!” He turned and grinned up at me, one of those breathtaking smiles that made him look young and carefree. One that made my heart flop over in my chest.
I grinned back. It was hard not to.
The safe turned out to be much smaller on the inside that it had first appeared.
“Data safe,” Sean said, as though I’d voiced the question. “There’s a canister of coolant in here that goes off if the temperature rises too high. Stops your computer disks getting corrupted if you have a fire.”
Sure enough, there were two boxes of floppy disks and several recordable CDs inside, together with a bundle of papers. He slid the whole lot out onto the nearest chair and started leafing through it.
“Sean,” I said, uncomfortable. “Are you sure we should be doing this? I mean, we don’t know Isobel knew the combination to—”
By way of answer Sean passed across a single sheet of paper. I took it reluctantly. It was a withdrawal slip from the local branch of a bank in Lancaster, for the sum of ten thousand pounds.
“Ten grand?” I echoed blankly. “Jacob might have taken it with him to Ireland. Supposing he wanted to pay cash at an auction—”
“He would have taken euros,” Sean interrupted. “And look at the date.”
I found the stamp and checked it. The slip was dated three days previously. Friday. The day Jacob had caught the ferry to Dublin. Even if he’d had time to get to the bank before he set off, why would he have taken the wrong currency with him?
“I don’t suppose there’s any sign of the money?”
Sean moved to run his hand round the inside of the safe, just to be certain, then shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “So either Clare went on a serious shopping bender on Saturday, or she had it with her on Sunday when she and Slick crashed.”
“Or someone’s been in here since and taken it,” I finished for him. I sat down heavily on the edge of the desk. “Shit,” I muttered. “How the hell am I going to explain this one to Clare?”
He put the disks and papers back into the safe and shut the door again. Gloomy, I pressed the plunger on the cafetière and poured two coffees. As I handed one across I saw Sean’s face go tense, like he’d been steamrollered by a sudden thought.
“What is it?” I said.
“Come with me.”
I almost had to run to keep up with his long stride down the hallway. He paused only to duck into the kitchen, quickly scanning the keys hanging on the rack behind the door and selecting a set.
“Sean?” I said. “Come on, talk to me!”
But he was already outside and halfway across the forecourt towards the coach house. I caught him up again as he was unlocking the door.
“Why did Clare say she accepted a lift with Slick Grannell in the first place?” he asked then.
“Because,” I said slowly, as it dawned on me what line he was taking, “she said the Ducati wouldn’t start.”
I glanced past him to where Clare’s beautiful scarlet 851 Strada sat on its paddock stand, looking like a refugee from a racetrack. Clare loved that bike and Jacob maintained it regardless of expense. Without another word I took the keys out of Sean’s hand and stuck one into the ignition, twisting it to run and turning on the fuel tap. I pulled the choke out a notch, flicking my eyes to Sean’s. He was watching me without expression. I hit the starter button.
The Ducati fired on the first spin and revved up without any hesitation. The exhaust note reverberated gruff and loud inside the old stone building.
I let it run for a moment or two, then cut the motor and pulled the key out again. I handed it back to him with a deep frown.
“You might want to look at it this way instead,” Sean said. “How the hell is Clare going to explain this one to you?”
***
An hour later, completely unexpectedly, the police turned up. Superintendent MacMillan in his usual unmarked Rover, plus two pairs of uniforms in a couple of full-dress squad cars.
Sean and I were back in the study, trying to make some sense out of the disorder and clearing up after Isobel’s destructive intervention.
We heard the drive alarm go off three times in quick succession. The first thought that went through both our minds was that Eamonn was back and he’d brought reinforcements. After that, MacMillan’s arrival came almost as a relief.
We met them on the forecourt just as they were getting out of their cars. MacMillan nodded gravely to me, then he and Sean locked gazes like a pair of rutting stags.
The two of them had run up against each other before and the collision had caused more sparks than a foundry. MacMillan had wanted Sean for murder and it had taken some fast talking to persuade the policeman to let us go after the real killer. The fact that we’d achieved our purpose had done little to inspire friendly feelings on either side.
“We’d like to do a search of these premises, Charlie, if you have no objections,” he said coolly, not breaking eye contact with Sean while he spoke.
“Do you have a warrant?” Sean asked.
“Do I need one?”
“Not necessarily,” I said carefully, moving between them and passing Sean a warning glance. “Not if you tell me what you’re looking for.”
MacMillan turned and rested his gaze on me, murky like canal water and just as difficult to see the bottom of. “A motorbike,” he said at last.
“Well, considering Jacob deals in the things, it won’t come as any surprise to you to find lots of those here,” I said acidly. “Try being more specific.”
MacMillan stilled for a moment, the only outward sign of his disapproval at my attitude. I was struck then by the similarities between the policeman and my father. And both of them made me nervous.
“Oh, we’re looking for something very specific,” he said then, moving over to join us. “We’re after a customised machine based, so I’m told, on Suzuki mechanicals and, I believe, a Harris frame,” he went on. He raised an eyebrow as he spoke, as though he was trying out words from a foreign language and was surprised that they were understood.