Forget Her Name(85)



‘Pronto?’

A husky male voice. Rather gorgeous. Very Italian.

‘Hello. Are you Bianca’s brother, Giacomo?’

‘Yes, who’s this?’

‘I’m a friend of Bianca’s. From La Giravolta bistro.’

‘Is Bianca in trouble again?’

I smile.

‘No, it’s nothing like that. But I’m in a bit of trouble myself, and she gave me your number. She said you might be able to help me.’

‘What kind of trouble?’

‘I’ve locked myself out of my office.’

Slight pause. ‘Whereabouts?’

I tell him the building address, and he changes his tone, asks me to wait. I hear frantic whispering in the background. Definitely female. I wonder if it’s Bianca, or if he has a wife.

‘I’m sorry,’ Giacomo says, coming back to the phone. ‘It’s late, you know, and the kids need their bath.’

‘I’ll pay double.’

Another pause. More urgent whispering.

‘Okay.’ He takes a moment to write down my name – in a moment of inspiration, I tell him I’m Joyce Wainwright, the investigator’s late wife, which will fit the name on the door when he arrives – and the address and my mobile number. ‘I’ll meet you there?’

‘Thanks.’ I can’t resist adding, ‘Bring your tools.’

He laughs and disconnects.

I set my phone alarm to go off in forty-five minutes. That should be enough time for a quick nap.

I should really stay alert, in case someone comes along. But I’m a bit ragged with exhaustion now, and all I can think about is lying down. Sad old lady, or what? I check my reflection again in the darkened glass of the microwave door. Hair all over the place, which isn’t necessarily bad. But there are distinct shadows under my eyes too, and a weary look in my eyes.

I used to be able to pull all-nighters, no problem. But I suppose all that frenetic rolling about with Dominic in the early hours used up my reserves of energy.

I grin at myself, and flick back my messy hair. Too much sex is always an acceptable excuse for fatigue.

There are two shapeless fabric chairs in the dining area of the kitchen.

I study them, then pull down the window blind as far as it will go, which is only three-quarters of the way. I push the two fabric chairs together to make a rough sort of bed. Not desperately comfortable, but it will do for a nap.



Forty-five minutes later, my phone buzzes.

As I sit up on my makeshift bed, surfacing from a confused dream, my stomach rebels and I feel suddenly nauseous.

Bloody hell.

I groan, closing my eyes and clutching my belly. Something I ate? Though I haven’t eaten since breakfast, I realise. Low blood sugar, perhaps. No wonder I was so tired before.

I shake off the sickness with an effort and reach for my phone. It’s a text from Giacomo.

I’m outside your building. Where are you?

I text back, Down in five, and splash my face with cold water a couple of times, then pat it dry with kitchen paper. Finally, I reapply my lipstick, and blow my reflection a kiss.

I feel better after that, if a little unsteady on my feet.

Weird though.

It’s only as I’m heading down the stairs to let Giacomo in that I think of another, more horrifying possibility for my moment of sickness.

I can’t be. Am I . . . pregnant?

I push the thought away, unable to cope with it.

Downstairs, I open the front door to the building and Giacomo looks at me, toolbox in hand.

He’s broad-shouldered and broad-chested, but tall with it, like his sister Bianca. He looks strong, too. A guy who can handle himself. With thick black hair and the typical olive complexion of the Mediterranean region.

‘You okay?’ he says.

‘Bad tummy.’

He looks me up and down, incredulous, even a little mocking. I glare back at him without smiling. I’m seriously beginning to regret my outrageous outfit now. Though maybe he’s amused because I’m holding my heels in one hand rather than wearing them.

‘My feet were hurting,’ I say.

He shrugs. ‘No problem.’

The third floor is dark and silent. The lights come on automatically the second we leave the elevator.

I come to the door. ‘This one’s mine,’ I say.

Giacomo stops and looks at the door plaque. Jason Wainwright, Private Investigator. I half expect him to ask for ID. But without even waiting for an answer, he crouches to open his large blue toolbox and search through it. ‘Yale lock. Shouldn’t take long. You’re paying double, yeah?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Cash?’

I nod to the office door, my expression nonchalant. ‘You know where to find me. Why not just invoice me?’

‘What do you take me for?’ he asks drily. ‘A fool?’

I don’t know what to say.

‘Bianca was there when you rang tonight,’ he continues, looking at me quizzically over his shoulder. ‘My sister? She said she doesn’t know any Joyce Wainwright, and she certainly never told any woman to phone me today. Then we checked the name and address on the Internet.’

I hold my breath, thinking fast.

‘Okay, signorina. Time for the truth.’ Giacomo straightens and stares into my face, an aggressive look in his eyes. ‘I know you aren’t Joyce Wainwright. She died in August. And this guy, he’s dead too. So who are you, and why the hell are you trying to break into a dead man’s office?’

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