Rhys shivers and follows his family inside.
A bundle of post has arrived from Fleur, and Rhys feels a surge of optimism for the future. He imagines recording again, touring proper venues instead of small-town theaters. He opens the contacts on his phone and sends his new personal assistant a text message.I’ve got a couple of hours’ work for you if you can fit it in this week.
Rhys could process the post himself—there’s little else to do—but there’s something pathetic about licking an envelope in which you have placed your own signed photograph. It hardly says “Celebrity.” When Rhys’s career was at its peak, he had a full-time assistant working from an office on High Holborn. First the work went, then the office, then the PA. Rhys misses the kudos, likes having an assistant again, even if only for a few hours. A few quid is a small price to pay for self-respect.
She comes the next day, taking over Rhys’s desk to sort the mail. She discards the outer envelopes and attaches each competition entry to its accompanying stamped addressed envelope along with a photograph ready for Rhys’s autograph.
“This one wants a personal dedication.”
Rhys shakes his head. “We don’t do that. It’s in the Ts and Cs.”
“The woman’s got terminal cancer, Rhys.” She hands him a photograph and a pen. “Write a nice message, yeah?”
An hour later, Rhys has written messages on well over half the photographs, including anything that arrived with a note or appears to be from a child.You could be inspiring the next generation of singers, he is told when he complains.
“Would it inspire you?” he says.
His assistant laughs, standing and gathering the letters to take to the postbox. “Not really. I can’t sing.”
Rhys opens his wallet to pull out a tenner, then recklessly pushes twenty into her palm. “Everyone can sing.”
She looks up at him through her eyelashes, deliberately provocative. “Maybe you could teach me sometime?” Before Rhys can answer, she’s halfway down the stairs.
He catches up with her in time to open the front door in an act of chivalry, his free hand resting briefly on her arm. “It would be a pleasure to teach you,” he murmurs. He feels a stirring in his groin and parks it—parksher—for another time. He has never really looked at her before—not like that—but now he lets his eyes run over her curves and wonders what they might look like out of those jeans.
A white van is coming up the drive, and Rhys is just about to close the door when it stops and Huw Ellis jumps out. “Still got the use of your hands, then?”
“What?”
“You seem to be having trouble answering your phone, so I thought I’d pop over and check you weren’t incapacitated.” Huw walks toward Rhys. “Where’s my money?”
“I’ll get it to you. It’s just a bit tied up. Offshore accounts, you know?”
“I want it today.”
“I can’t get that sort of money today. Don’t be absurd.”
Huw takes a step forward, and then another, till he’s so close, Rhys can smell his aftershave. “Pay me what I’m owed, Lloyd. I’ve still got the keys to this place, remember.” His eyes rove across the lodges. “Be a shame if anything happened to it, wouldn’t it?”
He gives a slow smile, then turns his gaze back to Rhys.
“Or to you.”
Twenty-Seven
January 6
Leo
“What the fuck,” Crouch says, each word carefully enunciated, “were you thinking?”
Leo stares at a spot just to the right of the DI’s head. “It’s a time-critical situation, sir. Yasmin Lloyd’s in custody and we can only hold her for a few more hours. If she planted an envelope with ricin amongst her husband’s mail, we—”
“If?” Crouch’s face is bright red as he bangs on the desk. “If, if, if.For fuck’s sake, Brady, you’re supposed to be a detective. Where was the evidence for spanking my forensics budget?”
“The pathologist said—”
“Ah, but it wasn’t the pathologist, was it?” Flecks of white appear at the corners of Crouch’s mouth. “The CSI plays golf with Izzy Weaver, as it happens, and she checked with her after you called. Weaver was somewhat surprised to hear that speculative tests were being run to show any kind of poison in Lloyd’s system. Do you know why?”