Read Online False Alarm by Veronica Heley - Free Book Online

she really meant was that she was cross with him and didn’t want to lend him her car.
    He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll walk round there then; it’s probably the quickest. See you at the weekend, right?’
    She made one last effort. ‘Before you go; I may be quite wrong about Lucas – I hope I am for your sake – but he can afford the very best lawyers and you can’t. If he asked you to sign something, anything, would you get CJ to vet it first?’
    â€˜Oh, really!’
    â€˜I’m serious. Also, I think his office is bugged, probably so that he doesn’t need to take notes of any conferences he has there, so—’
    â€˜You’re way off the planet!’
    â€˜Keep your eyes open, that’s all I ask. And keep your eyes open at Lady O’s. Remember there’s a killer about!’
    He wasn’t listening. He was off, and she was left to think how badly she’d handled the interview. For instance, would it really matter that she didn’t like Lucas if he was prepared to further Oliver’s career? Working for a man didn’t mean you had to like him. Loads of people didn’t have a choice in the matter of their boss; he existed, and they toed the line or else.
    But she could imagine a scenario in which Oliver was demoted for some reason or other and ended up at the bottom of the anthill, staring at a computer in a prescribed space . . . rather like a battery hen. Feed, sleep, produce. Die.
    She shuddered. Decided she didn’t want to drink any of the coffee she’d made, put Oliver’s mug in the dishwasher and rummaged in the freezer for a frozen meal. Cauliflower cheese. It would have to do. Microwave it. Tidy the kitchen while it cooked. Eat it at the counter. Fend off their big, black, hairy cat. ‘Winston! No!’
    Winston gave her a fat grin and lifted one paw in a begging movement. He was as full of charm as Oliver.
    She fed Winston and removed herself to the living room, which ran from front to back of the house. Large sash windows at the front overlooked the street, while at the back a pair of French windows let out on to a cast-iron balcony with a spiral staircase leading down to the courtyard. Because of the slope on which the house was built, the agency occupied semi-basement rooms at the front of the house while her office at the back led straight out on to the garden.
    She checked that all the windows were locked and the curtains tightly drawn against the damp, chill night. There was an almost full moon over the spire of the church.
    She was restless. Eventually, she sat down at the table by the windows at the back of the living room and took out her patience cards. Her dear husband Hamilton had been accustomed to sit there of an evening, his hands moving the cards around while he pondered this and that . . . or prayed in silence.
    Now his portrait looked down on her. Round-faced, wise . . . she missed him so much. He seemed to be saying, ‘Patience.’
    She threw the pack of cards down, halfway through laying out a game.
    Patience. Ugh. Not her scene.
    But necessary, perhaps? If she couldn’t alter what was happening . . .?
    There wasn’t anything she could do about it, was there?
    Hm. Well. Perhaps there was, though it was a long shot and probably wouldn’t get her anywhere.
    Why bother, then?
    Because even if it didn’t get her anywhere, at least she’d have done everything she could to avert what seemed to her to be a looming catastrophe.
    She went back down the stairs and into her office. Switched her computer on. She’d saved the information on the memory stick in a document. Accessed it. Now . . . where was that name she thought she recognized?
    Mm. Mm. No? No. Ah, there!
    She ran the names through the agency’s client list. No, the name she thought she’d remembered didn’t match. She nearly gave up. This was the sort of thing which Oliver excelled at. There was,