The Last Party (DC Morgan #1)(79)

Dee makes a final decision. What she knows about Rhys is very powerful indeed: the sort of information his wife – and indeed the police – would be very interested in. The sort of information she could use as collateral; perhaps in exchange for shares in The Shore, which she can see has the potential to be an excellent investment.

More than anything else, Dee wants Rhys to know that he hasn’t got away with it.

‘Number 36,’ she says, eventually.

Rhys stares at her, his face slowly paling beneath its sheen of perspiration.

‘I own it.’

‘But—’ Rhys looks as if he’s struggling to breathe. ‘But you’re—’ He stops, his gaze falling on Dee’s stick, on the crêped skin on the back of the hand holding it.

‘Old?’

Rhys flushes.

Dee had opened Number 36 in the early eighties, after a brief stint as a call girl. The industry had been almost entirely led by men, when it should surely be dominated by women? Moreover, the brothels in which so many of these women worked seemed to be dark and dingy places, making the whole affair – pun entirely intended – rather sordid.

Number 36 itself was a tall, thin townhouse in Soho, bought when it was still possible to snap up a bargain. Dee had renovated the ground floor and two bedrooms, and gone into business. Over the years, as Number 36 became more successful, she’d completed the work on the rest of the building. The result was a stylish, aspirational club, with roaring fires and cocktail cabinets, staffed by elegant, intelligent women working on an excellent commission rate.

‘God.’ Rhys croaks out the word. He’s sweating profusely, now, a streak of damp down each side of his face.

His membership had been revoked, of course, after the assault. Dee was out of town when it happened; the woman concerned in hospital by the time she’d rushed back.

‘You can press charges,’ Dee had said. Number 36 – and Dee’s involvement – was protected by a series of Russian-doll holding companies, and the welfare of her staff had always come first. But the woman had shaken her head.

‘I want to forget it ever happened.’

Afterwards, Dee had sat in her office for a long time. Incidents like this were rare, but they left her shaken and angry. She had enough information on enough high-profile men in London to bring down the government, scandalise churchgoers and collapse what was left of public confidence in the police, but, if those men were doing nothing wrong, why would she? As long as they were polite and respectful, as long as her staff were happy and in control . . . where was the harm?

‘What do you want?’ Rhys says. He’s thinking of the headlines, Dee knows: the tabloid exposé of his fall from grace.

‘I don’t want anything.’ Yet, she adds privately. Dee has expensive tastes, and isn’t above the occasional bit of blackmail.

‘Why are you here?’

Dee looks around, taking in the polished floor, the big windows, the view. ‘For this.’ Dee has always been able to separate business from pleasure, and she’s always had an eye for investment. The first row of lodges at The Shore will always attract a premium, and, if Dee ever chooses not to use the property herself, she knows she’ll get an excellent return. In the meantime, what’s not to like about a lakeside cabin?

‘If my wife ever finds out—’

‘Oh, there’s no one better at keeping secrets than Dee Huxley. Although . . .’ She keeps her gaze on him, enjoying seeing him squirm. ‘Now I’ve seen that lovely wife of yours and your two beautiful daughters, I’ll be keeping a close eye on you.’ She leans closer to him, lowering her voice even though no one’s here to listen. ‘And you’d better treat them better than you treated my staff, or I might forget how to keep a secret.’





THIRTY-SIX




JANUARY 7TH | FFION


Ffion’s heart hurts as much as her head. She’s raw. Exposed. Ripped open before this man she hardly knows and yet who knows more about her than every one of her friends. Her eyes are pressed against Leo’s shoulder, but she can’t shut down the images in her head.

They had gone outside for the champagne Rhys brought especially for you, and for a while it had been fun. Ffion had laughed as the bubbles went to her already light head, and stumbled when they wobbled her legs. She could still hear the voices of the others at the party, still see the light from the school hall windows. She was still safe.

Then Rhys offered his arm – extravagantly, with a little bow, as though they were in a costume drama – and suggested they finish the bottle somewhere more comfortable. Ffion knew what that meant, and she knew, too, she didn’t want to be more comfortable. But, in making a joke of the escort, he had unseated her. A part of every girl is poised to defend herself, long before she knows why she might need to. If Rhys had grabbed her, or dragged her from the hall, Ffion would have known what to do. She would have fought him. Kicked and bitten and screamed her way out.

Instead, she—

‘Curtsied.’ She turns her head to speak, shame falling out of her in choking sobs. ‘I bloody curtsied.’

She had dropped her head and pulled wide an imaginary skirt, grateful for the excuse to stare at the grass and blink away her fear. I want to go home now. She’d stared at the toes of her trainers, at the mud Mam would go mad about. I want to go home, she said silently, as she straightened and heard herself laugh even though nothing was funny.