Lilies on Sand Read online

  Table of Contents

  * * *

  Title

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

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  1

  * * *

  It was a Friday morning in mid August; Big Ben had just struck eleven. There had been no rain in London for over two weeks, and an unusual sultry heat bore down on the city. Afternoon temperatures climbed over thirty degrees and, as assiduously as most Londoners grumble about bad weather, they were now complaining about the heat. The high temperatures didn’t bother me. My office window stood open and a light breeze wafted into the room. At this time of day, the heat had yet to reach its peak and there was still a hint of fresher night air. My feet on the windowsill, I looked out over the Thames, sipping a glass of iced tea.

  I had concluded my last case ten days ago; since then I had been more or less unemployed. One of the quirks of being a private detective is that it’s hard to go looking for work yourself. You put an ad in the Yellow Pages and wait for the phone to ring, or a knock at the door. Sitting around now and then, musing on anything and everything, is part and parcel of the life. A few days of it can result in astonishing insights; after a few weeks, you come to more idiosyncratic conclusions. By the time all the files have been updated and put away, properly ordered, in the right drawers, any squeaking doors have been oiled and dripping taps repaired, and every window closes perfectly, a strange loneliness can creep in, even in the middle of this huge city. You sit in your office, watching the tourists on Westminster Embankment, having already read the paper from front to back, and drink another glass of iced tea, while the telephone remains obstinately silent.

  The telephone rang.

  I removed my feet from the windowsill and turned to face my desk, reaching for the receiver:

  ‘Nea Fox, how can I help you?’

  ‘My name is Marlee Fynn; I need your help,’ said a young woman’s voice. ‘I think I’m being followed!’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘By two men,’ replied Miss Fynn.

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘In a phone box on Piccadilly Circus.’

  ‘Then I suggest you come to my office,’ I said. ‘It’s right by the Thames, no more than ten minutes from Piccadilly Circus.’

  ‘OK, thanks a lot,’ she said. ‘Shall I try to shake them off?’

  ‘No, please don’t do that,’ I replied. ‘I’d like to get a look at your followers myself.’

  ‘Right.’

  After describing the route to my office and getting a rough description of Marlee Fynn and the men following her, I hung up, packed a few things in my rucksack and made my way downstairs. I left my office door unlocked so my potential new client wouldn’t have to wait in the corridor when she arrived.

  On the stairs of the old building, I shivered. Even the extraordinary heat of the last few weeks hadn’t quite been able to penetrate these thick stone walls. As I stepped outside, I put on my sunglasses, enjoying the warmth for a moment, before crossing the road and hurrying towards Westminster Bridge. I took the route Miss Fynn would come, only in the opposite direction. About two hundred yards from my office, I sat on a bench between a statue of Admiral Jellicoe and a large plane tree. I opened the rucksack and unpacked my disguise: a black New York Yankees baseball cap, a bottle of water, a map of London and my camera. After half unfolding the map across the bench and weighing it down with the water bottle, I took the camera, leant against a low wall near the pavement and pretended to be interested in the statue of the Admiral.

  Barely five minutes later, I recognised Marlee Fynn on the other side of the road. She was in her early twenties and had short, dark brown hair which made her look almost boyish. She was hurrying towards my office and, as she drew roughly level with me, she glanced over the road in my direction. At first I thought I could see fear in her eyes, but then a definite smile crept across her face, as if she’d recognised me. Although I’d asked for a rough description of her followers on the telephone, I hadn’t mentioned that I was planning to come and meet her. Was it that easy to see through my disguise? I didn’t think so, and I was also pretty sure that we’d never met. Such contradictions automatically set off an alarm in my mind – not loud screaming sirens, but a little red light flashing somewhere.

  Miss Fynn carried on walking towards my office. I watched the handful of pedestrians heading in the same direction, also keeping an eye out for slow-moving cars, but noticed nothing unusual. She had mentioned two men between thirty and forty, one small and thickset, the other taller and thinner. The description fitted nobody out and about in the street. All the same, I took a few photos. Sometimes on closer inspection later on, you spot something you missed the first time around. After five minutes, I packed up my things and made my way back to my office.

  2

  * * *

  Miss Fynn was waiting on the third floor, outside my office door. She had obviously either not noticed that it was unlocked or thought it inappropriate to just walk in. When she saw me, she came towards me saying: ‘Hi, I’m Marlee Fynn; I saw you just now on the street.’

  ‘I noticed that,’ I said, opening the door and stepping through. ‘How did you recognise me?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘When you were down there taking photos of the statue and watching me at the same time, you looked kind of nice, but smart at the same time. That’s how I imagined you. Like a guardian angel, secretly watching out for me.’

  ‘Thanks for the compliment,’ I said in embarrassment. ‘Can I get you anything? Tea? Orange juice?’

  ‘Do you have a coke?’ she asked, sitting down. ‘And please call me Marlee. Miss Fynn makes me feel about thirty.’

  Ouch. I must
be getting old.

  ‘OK, Marlee, then I’m Nea,’ I said. ‘Now we’ve got that cleared up, we can focus on your problem. I’ll just fetch the drinks – I’ll be right back.’

  I went into the lobby and fetched a can of coke and a bottle of orange juice from the little fridge near the door. When I returned to my office, Marlee was looking at the two photos on my desk. Entirely unselfconsciously, she stared at the people who were strangers to her, but meant so much to me. After having a look at the photos, she turned her attention to a colourful toy pistol that David once gave me. I’d barely begun to move again when Marlee whirled around and, before I could say a word, a pink foam ball bounced off my forehead.

  ‘Gotcha!’ cried Marlee triumphantly. ‘I hope you’ve got a real piece too!’

  She definitely knew how to make me feel old. I handed her the can of coke, sat down behind my desk and said: ‘OK, can we get to your problem now?’

  ‘Sure,’ replied Marlee, putting the toy gun on the desk and opening her drink. ‘Did you see the guys?’

  ‘No, I didn’t spot anyone,’ I said. ‘I don’t think anyone followed you here but I’ll check the photos I took in the street later on.’

  ‘Weird – I could have sworn those guys were shadowing me since I landed at Heathrow. Yesterday they almost followed me into the ladies’ restroom at the National Gallery.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me the whole thing from the beginning?’ I suggested.

  An hour later, Marlee had told me everything – not just about her alleged pursuers, but half her life-story. She was twenty-one, American and had only been in London for three days. From her only relative, her paternal grandmother, she had inherited a house in London. The old lady had died three months earlier, at the age of ninety-one, which according to Marlee had ‘totally messed her up’. They had obviously been very close. Marlee had graduated from college in the spring and was now planning to study art history in London. It was all arranged – she’d given up her apartment in LA and in three weeks she’d start lectures at London Metropolitan University. Until then, she had time to make herself at home both in her grandmother’s house and in London. She was reasonably comfortable financially. She had inherited a bit of money from her father, who’d died two years ago of heart failure, and her grandmother had also left her a little money, as well as the house, so that, at least until the end of her studies, she’d have no money worries, so long as she was reasonably sensible.

  Marlee had first noticed the two men when she’d gone shopping two days earlier. She thought she remembered seeing them at the airport. When Marlee had visited the National Gallery a day later, they’d turned up again, and this morning she’d come across them again on Piccadilly Circus, after which she’d phoned me.

  ‘And you’re sure that it’s always the same men?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Marlee. ‘OK, so they were always wearing different clothes, but they can’t fool me that easily.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘What are your plans for this afternoon?’

  ‘I’m at home – there’s loads to do in Grandma’s house.’

  ‘And what about tomorrow?’

  ‘I was going to go to a hardware store and buy paint and brushes and all that stuff. I want to repaint my bedroom.’

  ‘So, you’re going home now, and not going out again till tomorrow?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Marlee.

  ‘Then I suggest following you unobtrusively on your shopping trip tomorrow and keeping an eye out for your pursuers. And if I catch sight of them, I’ll ask them casually what they want from you.’

  ‘Sounds good, thanks!’ said Marlee. ‘Do I have to pay some kind of deposit now?’

  ‘No need,’ I said. ‘Let’s see what happens, first.’

  After Marlee had given me her address, she went on her way. As she stepped out onto the street and walked along the Thames towards Westminster, I stood at the window, watching her. She looked like a teenager rather than a grown woman, and I felt an urge to protect her and take care of her. Just like me, she had no living relatives. I had good friends who I could depend on, who were much more than mere family to me, and I had grown up in London – I was at home here. Marlee, on the other hand, was entirely alone in a strange city, which I knew, despite everything, could be extremely savage and cold.

  Once she was out of sight, I knelt down and fished out the pink foam ball from under the cupboard, an involuntary grin creeping across my face.

  3

  * * *

  Just before one o’clock I knocked on the door of Hope’s flat. When I stepped inside, the tempting aroma of melons and port wafted towards me. We were supposed to be meeting for lunch at twelve-thirty, but Marlee’s detailed explanation had made me late. Hope had been my best friend since our student days. She had only moved into the next-door flat six months ago; before that, she had lived in Rotherhithe, in an old-fashioned flat that had been far too small for her huge array of computers and other technological gizmos. Hope is a freelance IT security specialist. She advises firms on planning networks, carries out security assessments and tracks down the source of attacks. She’d helped me out a few times when I’d needed to get at hard-to-access information for a case.

  ‘Hi, sorry I’m late!’ I called towards the sitting room, slipping off my shoes.

  ‘Hey Nea, no problem,’ came Hope’s voice from the kitchen. ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Of course – aren’t I always?’ I replied. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘No, it’s all ready.’

  I entered the sitting room. Hope was already sitting at the breakfast bar that divides the kitchen from the living area. She had prepared asparagus with bread and butter, and there was melon in port for pudding. Just the thing for a hot summer’s day. As I joined her, Hope poured iced tea.

  ‘I might have a new case.’

  ‘Oh, great,’ said Hope, absently, which puzzled me. She normally wants to hear every last detail of my cases and, as I’d been sitting around moaning about my lack of employment for days now, her indifference was really surprising. I laid my cutlery on the plate and looked at her. Only now did I notice that she looked pretty upset. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes and her hair was dragged up into a messy ponytail.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘I didn’t get much sleep,’ replied Hope.

  I looked enquiringly at her, but said nothing.

  ‘It’s Rick,’ she continued, before taking another long pause.

  I remained silent. Hope and Rick had been together for eight months. He was a photographer and lived in a large loft apartment in Greenwich.

  ‘I think he’s seeing somebody else,’ said Hope.

  I swallowed. Since meeting last December, the two of them had been inseparable.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ I asked.

  ‘I was at his place yesterday evening. He was having a shower when the telephone rang. I answered and it was a woman. She said she must have got the wrong number, but I’m pretty sure she was lying.’

  ‘Is that all?’ I asked.

  ‘No, after the phone call, I looked around Rick’s flat and found two tickets in the bin, for a concert in the O2 on Friday. He told me he was working that evening – in Woking.’

  I said nothing. That was definitely odd. I was still trying to come up with a harmless explanation for the tickets when Hope said: ‘I want to hire you. I want you to follow Rick and find out if he’s seeing someone.’

  The request came completely out of the blue. I couldn’t stand jobs like that and, whenever possible, tried to avoid making a living by photographing lovers.

  ‘I can’t do that,’ I said. ‘Since you got together, Rick and I have got to know each other. It wouldn’t be right – and anyway, he’d recognise me straight away if I followed him.’

  ‘I need your help, Nea,’ said Hope, looking beseechingly at me.

  ‘OK, I’ll ask Harry if he’s got time to help me,’ I agreed. ‘He and Ric
k have only met two or three times. I’m meeting him this afternoon anyway.’

  Harry Moefield was a fellow detective; we had often helped each other out, and he was a good friend. Although Harry was almost twice my age, he was still undoubtedly one of the best private detectives in town.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Hope, lowering her gaze. ‘Rick is supposedly working away again tomorrow, in Dartford. He’s leaving this evening and not getting back till Sunday.’

  ‘OK, I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. I’m sure there’s a completely innocent explanation for the concert tickets.’

  ‘I’ve got such a bad feeling about this,’ said Hope, blowing her nose. ‘There’s something very wrong here.’

  I reached for Hope’s hand and watched her. Although she still looked rather upset, the expression in her eyes told me that she shared my hope.

  4

  * * *

  At half past two, I took the Emily-Ann from the windowsill, packed my rucksack and called a taxi. I was meeting Harry at the lake in Regent’s Park. Like many other Londoners, Harry launched his model sailing yacht there. It was a fantastic place to spend a few lazy hours on a warm summer afternoon, reading a book or chatting with a friend. Last spring, Harry had helped me build a yacht of my own so as to actually get the chance to sail his boat himself this summer.

  When I reached the lake, Harry was already sitting in our favourite spot by the water, adjusting the sail of his yacht, christened Narnia in honour of C.S. Lewis. I had found it very difficult to come up with a name for my boat, but in the end I had decided on Emily-Ann. My mother’s name had been Ann. She and my father had been killed when their light aircraft had crashed in eastern Venezuela. Neither their bodies nor the wreckage of the plane had ever been found. Their last resting place was the inaccessible wilderness of the Guiana Highlands. I had been twelve when my mother died and, nineteen years later, I still missed her. I missed Emily too.

  I was still a good twenty yards from Harry when Frankie spotted me. The young West Highland Terrier hurtled towards me like a small avalanche. Harry had only had him for a year, but the white furball had made good use of the time to conquer my heart. After I’d greeted him, Frankie circled me like a small, furry satellite as I walked towards Harry.