After they had exchanged gossip about who was marrying whom, who was two-timing whom and with whom, and who had the best chance of getting foxhunting made legal again, the journalist cut to the chase.
"Tell me," he said with a sly smile, "how's the Colombian marching powder trade?"
The earl blanched. "What?" he said in a faint voice, his unprepossessing features twitching.
"Don't worry, I'm not going to write a story about you," Andrewes lied. "I'm only interested in the people you do business with. I know you wouldn't be foolish enough to set yourself up against them." He was pretty sure he'd been provided with the information to ensure the earl's good behavior-whether Jeremy exposed him or just hinted that he might do so in the future, the effect would be the same.
"What were you doing?" the journalist continued. "Buying or selling?"
"Selling, of course," the earl said, glancing around the wood-paneled room. "I.I happened to, em.come across a quantity of the drug and I wanted to get rid of it as soon as possible."
"For what would appear to be a substantial amount of money." Andrewes grinned. "That should help with the maintenance of the castle. As well as with your other pursuits."
The older man's expression was grim, but he didn't speak.
"All right, tell me who you sold to," the journalist said.
There was a long pause. "You promise you won't refer to me? These people were pretty…unpleasant."
You must have felt right at home, Andrewes thought. "My word is my bond. I'm working on a big expose of the drugs trade in London. This will only be a small piece in the jigsaw."
The earl dabbed a napkin to his damp lips. "Very well. It would be a good thing if the people I sold to were cleared out of this country."
The journalist made no comment, even though that was hardly the Daily Independent's line on immigration. "Let me guess," he said, trying to make things easier for the other man. "Kurds? Turks? There's been some messy stuff between them recently in East London."
"Has there?" the earl said indifferently. "No, no, these people were Albanians."
"Really?" Jeremy Andrewes was impressed by the older man's nerve. The Albanians were the up-and- coming force and they were even more ruthless than the Turkish Shadows. "I don't suppose you got any names?"
"Nobody introduced themselves, if that's what you mean."
The journalist tried to disguise his disappointment.
The earl gave a twisted smile. "But I'm not a complete idiot. I did do my homework. They're a family called Shkrelli." He struggled to pronounce the name and spittle flew from his mouth.
Andrewes felt like a runner who'd just broken the hundred meters world record. A member of the peerage selling coke to the most violent gang in the country-his editor would kiss his feet. He managed to end the conversation and get out of the club, without, he hoped, making the earl suspicious. He thought about going back to his flat to write the piece, but he wanted to be in the office when he submitted it.
He hailed a taxi, took out his BlackBerry and started on a first draft. He was so engrossed that he didn't notice the figure in black leathers to the rear, weaving through the traffic on a powerful motorbike. It was still there, fifty meters behind, when he got out and went into the Daily Indie building.
Pete was squinting at the computer screen as he scrolled down the plastic surgery clinic's records. Rog had got into them, but he needed a break from his laptop so Pete had taken over. There were drops of sweat on his bald head. The only problem with Rog's cousin's flat was that the central heating control was jammed at twenty-five degrees Celsius. Even though the window was open, the room was like an oven.
"Gotcha!" Pete said. "Get a load of this, Dodger." He pointed to the screen.
"Are you sure?" Rog said. "You've only been looking for a few minutes."
"Oh, I never take long," Bonehead said archly.
Rog went over and leaned toward the screen. "Lauren May Cuthbertson, date of birth 23/5/1972, address Flat 15, Gannett House, Ambledon Street, Stoke Newington." He turned to Pete. "What's the big deal?"
Bonehead clicked on the link titled Pretreatment Photo. "What do you reckon?"
"Jesus." Rog stared in horror at the face that appeared before him. The nose was bent and flattened. There were also large and pendulous tumors on both sides of the mouth. "It's the Elephant Woman."
"Near enough." Pete clicked on the Post-Treatment Photo.
They watched intently as the image recomposed itself.
"What happened to her?" Rog said.
The tumors had gone, but the skin around and below the mouth was swollen, heavily bruised and scarred. But that wasn't the worst feature. Although the patient's nose had been straightened and reconstructed, something terrible had happened to her upper lip. It was split open, the pink gum and front teeth visible. Lauren Cuthbertson was staring straight at the camera, her expression dull-eyed.
"Scary woman," Pete said. He clicked off the photo and on to her patient file. He moved through it slowly so they could both get the gist. It seemed that the tumors, though not malignant, had grown substantially in the year before the operation. The nose had been damaged in a fight when Lauren Cuthbertson was a teenager. The surgeon, James Maclehose, the man whose body had been found by Pete and Andy in the house in Oxford, had been successful in removing the tumors and in fixing the nose. However, the upper lip had been damaged during surgery. Furthermore, skin grafts placed over the wounds left by the removal of the tumors had not been successful. The patient had been advised to undergo further surgery, but she had refused, claiming that Maclehose was incompetent. The surgeon's notes stated that she had been abusive, and had threatened him and his staff. The last time she was in the clinic, the police had been called after she smashed an antique vase over Mr. Maclehose's computer.
"What do you think?" Pete asked.
"What was the date of the operation?"
"January 21st. And she was last in the clinic on February 29th."
"Under a month ago." Rog ran his hands through his hair. "You think she killed Maclehose?"
Pete nodded. "She's five foot ten and twelve stone three. If she works out-and the notes say that her level of physical fitness was high-she could have overpowered him easily. You saw the most recent photo. She didn't exactly look friendly."
"Mm." Rog moved closer and hit the keys until he found the payment records. "I tell you what puzzles me. She lives in Stoke Newington, in what doesn't sound like high-end housing. How did she afford a Harley Street surgeon?"
"Good point."
Rog brought up a statement of account. "Look," he said, pointing. "She paid by cheque. Twelve thousand, four hundred and thirty-seven pounds."
"And seventy-three pence," Pete added. He shrugged. "Maybe she inherited the dosh."
"Or she's protected."
Pete looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"All those murders in East London-she lives in the vicinity."
"You mean she's in one of the gangs?"
Rog nodded. "Could be. They're not all from abroad, you know. And, as far as I can remember, no one in the home-grown gangs has been murdered."
"Bloody hell, Dodger, you're using your imagination a lot there. Anyway, why was the body of the surgeon left in a house owned by Sara Robbins?"
"That I don't know." Rog smiled. "Yet. I'm going to get into this Lauren's bank account and find out where the money came from."