Murder on the Hill (2 page)

I wondered if Ivanov had decided to call in his threat early. I was about to turn and dash back toward the train station when my phone rang.

Cole again.

“Hey,” I said, “I’m near the jeweller’s. There’re cops outside.”

“Hey, sorry for earlier, I had to deal with something. Don’t worry; the cops aren’t after you. They’re just dealing with the break-in.”

I didn’t particularly dislike the police, but I had on numerous occasions found myself on opposing sides as I tried to make my way through an unforgiving life, so this situation made me uneasy.

“I don’t like this,” I said. “You’re being tight on details. What are you getting involved with?”

“It’s quite the mystery. You’ll love it, I promise. It’s right up your street.”

I found myself responding to his words, turning towards the end of Portobello. My feet betrayed me, carrying me closer to the jeweller’s and the police. “What kind of mystery?”

“Someone broke in last night, but they didn’t take anything.”

“Wow, that’s quite the puzzle. We better call Columbo and the Mentalist. Perhaps get the dude from
CSI
to deliver a one-liner and look off into the middle distance. Is that it?”

“Hah, you’re a funny girl. No, the thing is, although nothing was taken, something was left behind. Who does that?”

“What was it?”

“Some antique thing. I didn’t get a chance to really inspect it before Silvers and the cops turned up.”

“Who is this Silvers? One of your many women?” My voice carried more jealousy than I intended. Cole didn’t notice and carried on.

“Your new prospective employer, if you get a move on. She’s the ex-wife of a guy on the force who I occasionally help. She’s legit, runs a finding agency, and needs some help after her elderly aunt packed up the job. Go see her. Trust me. It’ll help you stay out of trouble and earn you some money for a while. Good luck!”

He hung up before I could respond, as he usually did.

I sighed and ignored the nervous feeling in my guts.

He’d never sent me astray before and always looked out for me. I decided to trust him and go find this Cordelia Silvers as soon as I finished sending Sapphire a text explaining what had happened to her place.

I just hoped she would forgive me. I had left some items that I’d like to return for some time… without them being thrown out of a fourth-storey window.

CHAPTER 2

Standing outside Bellman & Phines, the jeweller’s, I spotted a tall, elegant woman. She was in her late thirties, wearing a professional grey trouser suit. She looked just the part for Notting Hill. She even had the wide curled brunette locks of a movie star.

She was talking with one of the policemen, nodding and making notes.

I’ll be honest. As I approached, I felt a little jealous of Ms. Power Suit. She had clearly made quite the impression on the young policeman and exuded class.

With my short-black-bob haircut, biker’s jacket, and heavy boots, I looked like a film extra from an ’80s cyberpunk film. But it wasn’t like I had time to dress up for a job interview.

Beyond those two, another police officer was taking notes from a portly gentleman. His pot belly made him look like he was eight months pregnant.

His bald head, adorned with just a few wisps of white hair, only added to his egg-like resemblance. A sheen of sweat glistened on his podgy, red face as he answered the police’s questions. I assumed this was the owner of the shop.

Yellow police tape, tied around a couple of bollards, flapped in the summer breeze.

A dozen or so passers-by stood on the opposite side of the street, watching what was going on. Traffic filtered by, slowing down to see what the fuss was before accelerating off after realising there was no accident.

Not yet anyway.

“Erm, Ms. Silvers, excuse me, I’m Harley. You were expecting me?” I said, my voice artificially chipper. I held my hand out, trying to be at least somewhat proper and decent.

“Oh, hello. I’m sorry for the short notice and lack of information. I’m glad you could make it.”

She took my hand and smiled genuinely.

Taken aback by her friendly greeting, I dropped my eyes, accidentally noticing her nails. Surprisingly, they were in need of a manicure. Her cuticles and polish could really use some work. Now I was a little closer, her hairdo wasn’t quite up to scratch either, and the collar of her suit frayed a little at the edges.

Perhaps all wasn’t as it seemed in the rich folks’ world, after all.

“How do you do?” I said with my best posh voice, which, given my East End accent, wasn’t entirely convincing.

“I’m well, thank you. Mr. Lockland has told me so much about you.”

“All good, I hope,” I replied, hoping she would expand on what she had heard about me. There were a number of potential things: thief, or as I liked to call it, procurement specialist, specialist cupcake baker, pool shark, urban athlete… or really good at running away in boots. You get the picture.

“Well, if you’re half as good as your friend suggests, then I think we could do some business together. Mr. Lockland tells me you’re an expert finder and keen antiques dealer.”

That was a blatant lie.

The only antiques I had dealt with were those that needed rehoming.

“Yes,” I said, keeping a straight face. “That’s right. Is that related to this job? I’m afraid Cole, I mean Mr. Lockland, was a little brief on the exact details of what would be required of me.”

“Of course, let me just get Mr. Bellman, and all will be explained.” Silvers turned to the jeweller. He had finished talking to the police, who had since returned to their car and driven off.

Bellman was about to go back inside his shop when Silvers caught his attention. “Martin, I have someone here I think can help with your problem.”

“Oh?” he said, his double chin wobbling over his tight, starched white collar. “You better both come in, then, and see the object.”

Cordelia Silvers headed inside. I hesitated for a moment, still wondering if this was some kind of setup. Cordelia poked her head out of the door. “Are you coming in, Harley?”

“Sure, be right there, Ms. Sil—”

“Call me Cordi, there’s a love,” she said with a quick smile before returning inside.

With a great deal of trepidation, I entered the shop and started my adventure with the Silvers Finding Agency.

Mr. Bellman stood behind a glass counter filled with rings and bracelets and diamonds. His large frame pressed up against the counter, making his tie fold in the middle beneath his straining waistcoat.

I expected the buttons to pop off and fire out like champagne corks at any moment. I wished I had eye protection on hand.

On top of the counter sat the object.

“Those who broke in left this behind,” Cordi said. “The police have no clue what it is and, frankly, neither do I—not without further research.”

“That makes two of us,” Bellman said.

I stepped closer and inspected the object. I recognised it instantly and wished I hadn’t. “Has anyone you know died?” I said to the jeweller.

He shook his head and his chins followed.

“I think you ought to lock up for the day, Mr. Bellman, and keep the police on speed dial.”

“Oh, I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Miss. It’s probably just a prank.”

“It’s a doru,” I said. “An antique Japanese doll. They’re normally just decorative, but if nothing was taken, I’d say it’s a warning or a message. Do you have any enemies?”

“None that I know of. Even the police think it’s probably just some kind of joke. But I would like you both to look into this further.”

I did not have a good feeling about this.

During one of my recent escapades, I had come across a Japanese hacker called Henzo, who had related a story to me: a dark tale of a Tokyo executive on business in London. One morning, he didn’t wake up. He was dead. On his nightstand was an object left behind from a break-in. Nothing else was taken. The object was exactly like this one—a doru.

I instantly regretted taking Cole’s so-called opportunity.

***

I didn’t enjoy the ride back to Cordi’s home and place of business. For one, her Mercedes had seen better days and the AC was busted, making me sweat like a pig in a butcher’s shop. And for two, that damned object was in a box on my lap.

“So you really think this is the same thing?” Cordi asked.

“Time will tell, but I don’t have a good feeling about it,” I said.

She expertly swung the Mercedes around parked cars and kamikaze pedestrians as we headed through the narrow London streets. Her hair blew crazily with the window open. I got the impression she was more carefree than I had given her credit for.

I had to shout to be heard when we stopped at a traffic light.

The road ahead narrowed to a single lane due to roadworks.

The familiar London soundtrack of drilling and builders yelling at each other over a blaring radio drowned my words out. Of course, it all had to stop the moment I said, “I think it’s only a matter of time before we find a body.”

A shrivelled raisin of a granny in a tiny car stared over at me. The builders looked up from the hole they were digging. I slunk down in the seat and waited for the light to turn green as my cheeks reddened.

Cordi chuckled and throttled the engine, lurching us forward into the throng of traffic.

My outburst generated enough tension that we didn’t say anything until we arrived at her house. She pulled up outside, placed a parking permit on the inside of the windscreen, and escorted me up the stone steps.

From the outside, the townhouse cut an imposing sight.

In this part of Notting Hill, these places would easily command a few million each.

The façade, however, had seen better days, with its paint peeling, showing the stone beneath.

“Let’s get inside and have a proper chat about this, shall we?” Cordi said.

She unlocked the door. It creaked open to reveal a hallway made exceptionally narrow by two rows of bookshelves either side, jammed with catalogues, directories, and old books.

I breathed in the scent of dusty libraries and mould as I stepped inside the dark, oppressive house.

From the outside I was expecting lots of open space and top-class interior design. High Victorian ceilings, sash windows, and original features. Maybe Laura Ashley drapes and wallpapers with abstract floral designs.

But no, this place was a hoarder’s delight. It shocked me so much I just stood there in the hall, looking through into the lounge, fully expecting to see the presenter of a reality TV show.

Every corner and available space was filled with junk.

“Are you preparing to move?” I asked, calling out to nowhere in particular.

Cordi had disappeared somewhere in the rat runs of this old place.

“No, it’s always like this. Through here, love,” Cordi shouted back.

I followed her voice, descending deeper into the house like a miner delving farther underground. All the while, I carried that damned object.

I’m not a spiritual person, really, but I couldn’t help but feel that I would be better off not being so close to this thing. It felt portentous in light of Henzo’s story.

I eventually came through the jungle of books and catalogues into a clearing that normal people would call a kitchen.

Unlike the rest of the house, this was almost bare in comparison.

White cabinets and a large, chunky pine table gave it an airy feel.

The smell of coffee made my mouth water.

Cordi pulled out a chair, indicating for me to sit. Before I could sit down, an fluffy, grey cat with yellow- eyes hopped up in my place and fixed me with a stare as if to say, “This is mine!.”

“Don’t mind Monty, just nudge him off. He’s not always fond of new people but won’t bite,” Cordi said.

“Um… okay, actually, I’ll leave him. He looks kinda settled.”

Not wanting a trip to the hospital for a tetanus jab, I ignored the cat and sat down on another chair, placing the doru on the table.

Cordi sat opposite after pouring out two mugs of steaming coffee. I tried not to snatch it up and devour it like some kind of feral dog. My guts were already twisting, anticipating the delicious caffeine.

“Thanks,” I said after forcing my hands to place the mug back on the table and not down it in one like a rugby player on a stag night.

Cordi lifted a lid on a tin. Sweet mother of mercy, she had cheesecake!

I must have shook like a crack addict because my new employer laughed at my expression. “I take it you’re hungry? Would you like a piece?”

Politeness should dictate that I kindly decline while patting my stomach, saying something like, “Thank you, but I’m watching my figure.”

Screw that. Cake was my crack and I needed it. In my best polite voice, I said, “Please, it’s been a long day, and I can’t resist apple pie. Do you bake?”

While Cordi cut a slice, placing it on a chipped china plate and sliding it across to me, she shook her head. “Sadly not. I burn soup. I have an aunt who spends her days crafting cakes and pastries. She used to work for me, but I’m afraid the work got to be too much for her. That’s why you’re here, hopefully. Mr. Lockland said you’d be a good fit. And that you’ve worked as a freelance finder for a number of years.”

I swallowed the iceberg-sized piece and took a sip of coffee to clear my throat. The cake was so amazing I wanted cheer. But I kept my composure and answered, “That’s one way of looking at it. I work with Mr. Lockland on occasion to source items before they go to auction for private buyers.”

“How interesting. What kind of things?”

“You know, the usual, antique furniture, vases, diamonds, jewels.”

“Then you and I shall get on fine, I’m sure, Miss Harley…” Cordi left it open for me to fill in the surname, but up until now I hadn’t thought of one—Cole was waiting for me to confirm it too. I frantically looked around the room for something suitable. There was a letter on the table with Cordi’s address on it. Notting… “Hill,” I said. “Harley Hill.”

“Well, Miss Hill. I must apologise for whisking you away so suddenly and without giving you much information. I usually hold proper job interviews for things…” She broke away and pulled her hair behind her ear. “Okay, that’s a lie. I’ve never interviewed anyone before in my life. You’re the first person I’ve even approached about working for me.”