Читать книгу The Girl Who Walked in the Shadows - Marnie Riches - Страница 19

‘My Lord,’ the chauffer said, holding the door of the Rolls Royce wide. He touched the brim of his cap.

Gordon Bloom shook his head. He looked longingly at the plush cream and truffle interior of his car; he knew that the heated leather seats would offer some measure of comfort in these infernal sub-zero temperatures. Last night on the TV, the weatherman had been bleating on about Arctic Sea ice melts causing high-pressure weather systems over the Barents Sea and northern Russia, icy wind blasting mainland Europe and the UK as a result. Nobody had seen off-the-charts temperatures like this in England since the big freeze of 2012. Global warming or some bullshit. Whatever the cause was, he was sick of it. Sick of having to wear uncomfortable thermal underwear. Tired of having to be driven everywhere. Bored with being under constant scrutiny since Rufus’ death.

‘Thanks, Kenny, but I’ll walk,’ he said, stamping his feet. The snow at least a foot deep, even in EC1 where his meeting had taken place. Strange, to sit at the head of a boardroom table, discussing a major acquisition and then having to change back into skiwear in the men’s. A man like him shouldn’t be inconvenienced by this nonsense. Though he may not quite have all the money in China, his assets bettered many a country’s GDP. He was an übermensch, after all. A Titan from a long line of Titans. Shame then, that those like him blessed with demigod status couldn’t control that insane bitch, mother nature. ‘It’s not far. You can pick me up afterwards. Go and treat yourself to a hot coffee and a cake or something.’ He unfurled a twenty from his wallet. ‘You need a break. I need some air. This weather is making fools of us all.’

Kenny touched the brim of his cap again, and pocketed the twenty. ‘Mental, isn’t it, my Lord?’ he said, his breath steaming on the air as he blew uselessly into gloved hands. The broad, older man wore a smart coat in thin fabric – far too flimsy for this weather. His wind-burned face and bulky build gave him the appearance of a builder nearing retirement, at odds with the dapper uniform of someone who drove a Rolls Royce for a billionaire.

Bloom remembered his father’s driver. Jenkins, wasn’t it? He had been cut from similar cloth. Poor old bastard. He made a mental note to furnish Kenny with a better coat. And a gun. Definitely time he had a gun.

‘It never snows in central London,’ Bloom said, pulling the fox fur flaps of his Russian hat down over his ears, obscuring his peripheral view of this blinding winter wonderland. The chrome pipes and corkscrews of the Lloyds building towered above him like a bartender’s tool kit, thrown into an ice bucket. ‘People skating on the Thames! How is that even bloody possible?’ The icy air made his filled tooth sensitive. He winced.

‘It’s a long way to Southwark Cathedral, sir,’ Kenny said, closing the car door with a thunk. ‘You sure? Police said you shouldn’t go anywhere unescorted.’

Bloom nodded. Squeezed his eyes shut. Showed he appreciated Kenny’s concern for his employer. But inside his gloves, he balled his fists at the thought that the police should dictate to a man like him what to do and where to go in his city. ‘I need a bit of space. Especially today. You know?’

Kenny cocked his head to one side. Narrowed his eyes. A gap-toothed half smile whispered uncertainty.

‘Don’t worry. I’m a big boy.’ He patted the driver’s arm.

‘Of course, sir. As you wish.’ His formal, stilted turns of phrase always sounded stiff and superficial, with that horrible east end accent. Bloody performing monkey.

Sighing deeply, Bloom turned towards Leadenhall Market. Trudging through the snow, he headed through the brief, dry respite that the gaudy red and gold Victorian arcade offered. Glum in the post-Christmas slump, where all the Yuletide tat was now 75% off, hanging unwanted on rack after rack.

He looked up through the vaulted glass ceiling, blurred around the edges by his halo of grey fur, and saw that the sky was perfectly white. Then, peering through the opening at the far end which led in the direction of Bishopsgate, he could see fat flakes start to come down again. Unrelenting. Forcing the grey-faced denizens of the City of London to hasten home early before public transport ground to a halt. Ice on the roads. Wrong kind of snow on the train lines. Broken-down, blizzard-blinded this and that.

He would definitely be better off crossing London on foot. Catching sight of himself, reflected in a men’s suiting shop window, he decided that he looked like an Inuit. Unrecognisable with the hat on and the glasses. On the periphery of the reflection, he barely registered a shuffling figure several paces behind him.

But never mind that. He was thinking about Rufus.

The memorial service was a nice idea, in light of the fact that the police were still refusing to release the body. Everyone would be there, of course. Rufus’ widow, sobbing, no doubt. He had always wanted to fuck her. Maybe now, he would have his chance. Hadn’t Harpers named him as Europe’s most eligible bachelor? Yes, he would enjoy sliding his hand between her gym-honed thighs. Riding her throughout the night, innocently comforting her throughout the mourning.

Rufus’ beleaguered children would be there too, wondering what the hell they had done to have their father taken away from them. Squalling, snot-nosed pug-faced little fuckers of ten, six and three. Jesus. The fallout the murder had caused was unimaginable, the most unfathomable injustice being his own loss of a trusted super-lackey and friend of old.

The press would be gathered outside, no doubt, snapping the staff of Bloom Group plc, as they entered the hallowed cathedral to bid farewell to their Chief Executive, dabbing at their eyes to show their commitment to the company, whether they had ever met Rufus or not. Nobody had liked him, that’s for sure.

Gordon Bloom allowed himself a wry chuckle as he neared London Bridge. He looked into a café window at all the city office workers, trying to thaw themselves out by wrapping their gloved hands around cups of steaming coffee. He caught sight again of the shuffling figure, some way behind, entering the reflected scene as he exited, huddled up in clothes that seemed too big for him. Perhaps a homeless man, making his way towards a shelter. Nothing to worry about, though Bloom did pick up his pace. Tripped on a kerbstone as he crossed the slush-logged street onto the Bridge itself. He had difficulty with his depth perception these days. The surgeon had said the ocular nerves were too badly damaged. At least the glass eye was the finest money could buy. Couldn’t be helped. If the worst thing that ever befell him was visual impairment, he was doing reasonably well. Better than Rufus, at any rate.

As he crossed London Bridge with snow whirling around him, settling on his hat, drip-dripping freezing water onto his tingling nose where it melted, he imagined himself trapped inside a snowglobe. No escape from this claustrophobic scene. Just falling snow and the same chain of events replaying in his mind.

He and Rufus had had lunch. They had parted company. Now, Rufus was dead. Drowning by snow. Holes in his neck like the Devil’s stigmata.

Who was this Jack Frost that the press referred to? Why had he wanted Rufus Lazami dead? Was he, Gordon Bloom next on the hit list?

Glancing behind, he was pleased to see the homeless man was no longer on his tail.

‘Stop being so easily spooked, you bloody idiot,’ he counselled himself, clutching the handrail as he made his way down the gritted stone stairs to Southwark Cathedral, where he would say goodbye in public.

Cameras flashing, as anticipated. Paparazzi pests, swarming like unseasonal flies on a frozen carcass.

‘Lord Bloom! Aren’t you worried that Jack Frost will come after you?’

He was careful to maintain an air of sobriety. ‘I am here to bid adieu to a dear friend and longstanding business partner. Thank you. Good day.’

Their voices rang in his ears, as he stood in the threshold of Southwark Cathedral’s great stone hall.

‘Are you taking measures to protect yourself, Lord Bloom?’ they shouted.

Inside, an organ ground away at a hymn he didn’t recognize. The place was packed with mourners wearing snowboots and colourful ski-jackets that were at odds with the sombre occasion. All eyes were on him. He nodded to the young man with the plucked eyebrows who stood in the aisle, ushering family to the left and business colleagues to the right. Recognised him as one of his rising stars.

At his back, the journalistic hordes continued to bay for a response.

‘Is it true that the killing was ordered by someone in the criminal underworld? Did Rufus Lazami have many enemies?’

Their questions bounced off him thick and fast; those cadaverous flies throwing themselves against a sealed window. He would not answer. He would not give them the satisfaction. Let the press and Scotland Yard keep digging. They wouldn’t find a fucking thing.