Keep Your Eyes on Me Page 6

  The detective, who had far too much hair for a man of his age, was actually a magician. Vittoria had smiled the first time she’d met him. He’d towered over her, although most people did, and had that solid, dependable air that came with the confidence of years of experience. He had only been retired from the Met a year or so, was still very much in contact with his police colleagues – but had obviously found his niche as a private detective. He’d done some more checks and found out Stephanie Carson’s appointment at the hospital had been with a consultant. And it wasn’t for Botox.

  Still in bed, Vittoria reached for her glass, the freshly squeezed orange juice deliciously sweet. She’d slept through breakfast but had discovered room service offered all sorts of delights, including pancakes with piles of fruit and maple syrup, orange juice and English breakfast tea. She’d been sorely tempted by the pancakes. A million things were going wrong in her life and she knew the only way she was going to keep her head together was to make sure there were moments to enjoy in each and every day. But she was having lunch later, and even an extra session in the gym wouldn’t cancel out that much food.

  Perhaps it was being in New York, but she was feeling calmer today than she had in a long time. Perhaps it was because she had something to focus on that didn’t repeatedly break her heart.

  Pregnant. How could Stephanie Carson be pregnant? Marcus had always said he didn’t want children, and let’s face it, sleepless nights really wouldn’t fit in with his social life, but had he been lying all along? For a long time, Vittoria had been so busy rebuilding her life and finding a new career, dealing with the loss of professional dance in her life, that she hadn’t let herself think about that aspect of her injuries. It was only as she got older that it had started to weigh on her – she’d begun to think about all sorts of things, about legacy and age and … and then the detective had told her about Stephanie.

  If there was anything that made you want something so much you felt like it could kill you, it was someone else having it.

  Jealousy wasn’t a positive emotion but it had got her to the top of her class in London – she couldn’t bear not being the best, and it was the same now. Stephanie had something Vittoria could never have. And that made her hate her even more. Almost as much as she hated Marcus for everything he’d done.

  As well as jealousy, Vittoria had found that anger made her perform at her absolute best, on every level, whether it was on stage or at a dinner party. And, as well as her own problems, Vittoria was angry about Lily’s situation.

  Vittoria moved the pillow behind her up a bit and hit Enter on her phone. There was a full page of search results for Edward Croxley. The more Vittoria had thought about it, the more puzzled she was about why Croxley would want the shop at all. Lily had said it on the plane too. Vittoria had a feeling that if she could get to the bottom of that she’d be able to find a way to reverse the problem. She’d done some googling and then a lot of thinking about it in the bath. This morning she planned on some more research and then, if she didn’t get far enough, she was going to call the detective and see what he could tell her.

  Last night she’d gone online and established that Lily had been exactly right about Croxley’s playboy status. He’d gone to a private boys’ school and his social media was full of society events. Film premieres and parties. Beautiful women. He seemed like a younger, albeit less handsome, version of Marcus. Now Vittoria clicked back onto his Facebook page. She wanted to understand his world. She would need some sort of leverage to get the shop back – his friends might give her some pointers. Picking up the notepad and pen that the hotel had thoughtfully left on her bedside table, Vittoria started to work through his Facebook friends.

  Edward Croxley certainly had a big network. From what Vittoria could see, he partied a lot but didn’t seem to have any serious gainful employment. His LinkedIn profile suggested he was an event planner, but he didn’t have a website, so what sort of business was that? He had almost model looks, his hair highlighted and swept back in what looked like a high maintenance cut, but wasn’t quite attractive enough to get paid for it. Did these social types get paid to attend openings? Vittoria checked Twitter and Instagram. He didn’t have a substantial following on any of the platforms, so perhaps not. He was, she clicked back to his Facebook page, thirty-two. That was a bit old to be living off your parents.

  He had a flashy car and, Vittoria switched back to Instagram, a rather nice apartment, assuming it was his. As she went through the pictures, it certainly seemed like it was. He had a rather ridiculous looking dog, a fat pug that looked like it would roll if you tripped over it. She chewed the end of the pen. No visible means of support and plenty of money. Trust fund? Surely that would have been mentioned in one of the interviews he’d done? She opened a new search tab and scanned the results. There were several social items, one longer interview – she opened it and speed read. Nothing about trust funds. The emphasis seemed to be on his pushing his services as an event host, but she hadn’t found a company that he was part of or owned.

  So what did he do for money? Lily had said something about art. Perhaps that was it.

  Vittoria felt her back twinge and shifted to sit up straighter, leaning over to take a sip of her orange juice, almost forgotten beside her. She opened another tab and tried a new search. It certainly seemed Edward Croxley had an interest in modern art. He dealt with both Beaufort Fine Art and Trafalgar’s auction houses in London. That was very interesting. She’d been wondering how she might track him down but she was quite sure that the right enquiries there would give her what she needed.

  Would his commission be enough for this type of lifestyle, though? Maybe. Some paintings sold for millions if you had the right contacts, so perhaps that was it.

  She needed more information. Vittoria opened her email but hesitated for a moment. One thing she and Lily had agreed on was that, for any of their plans to work, not only did they need to distance themselves from each other, but also their circle of trust needed to be tiny, as small as possible. The minute that others started getting involved, things could go wrong.

  The one person she felt sure could tell her about Croxley was Phil the detective. Vittoria bit her lip, thinking. She trusted Phil and he knew her well at this stage. And it would be completely logical for her to contact him to find out more about Croxley if she was going to do business with him – in fact, it would be remiss of her not to contact Phil to check him out. She fired off an email to him. Let’s see what he could tell her.

  A few minutes later her phone rang.

  Vittoria looked at it in surprise, for a moment thinking it was Marcus checking up on her, but he’d hardly have realised she wasn’t at home in Dublin yet. It was a London number. She let it go to voicemail. A few seconds later the message came through.

  ‘Mrs Devine, Phil here. Sorry to call so late. I have some information on Edward Croxley. Could you call me as soon as you get this message?’

  Vittoria’s eyebrows shot up. Interesting. She rang Phil back on his mobile.

  ‘Phil, it’s Vittoria Devine. Thanks for your message – isn’t it the middle of the night there? I’m in New York.’

  ‘Oh, very nice. And, yes, almost morning, actually, but I’m on a job. I just got your email.’

  ‘What can you tell me?’

  Vittoria sat up again in bed, trying to stretch away the pain in her lower back, her curiosity piqued. This type of instantaneous reaction had to be significant. Either that or he was doing surveillance and was very, very bored.

  ‘Several of my colleagues have been interested in Mr Croxley for some time. He was a small-time drug dealer for elite clients, but he seems to have expanded that network and is dealing in art now.’

  ‘That’s what I gathered online.’

  ‘Have you met him, Mrs Devine?’

  ‘No, no, not at all.’ Vittoria thought fast. ‘Marcus mentioned him in connection with his father’s paintings. I wanted to make sure this Croxley wasn’t some
con man.’ She kept her voice light. ‘We both know my husband’s judgement is a little flawed.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Vittoria grimaced to herself. Only an ex-policeman could make a comment that sounded so loaded yet so non-committal.

  Phil continued, ‘I’m not sure he’s someone your husband should be doing business with, to be honest. He’s in the picture business alright, but Croxley was questioned over the death of a young lady called Arabella Smyth. She drowned in a swimming pool at a birthday party in Berkshire a few years ago.’

  Vittoria frowned. That sounded familiar – he was right, it had been a few years ago she was sure, but the girl’s family was Irish and the papers had covered the investigation for what felt like weeks. Arabella had been found naked at the bottom of the pool, everyone had taken cocaine and nobody could remember how she’d ended up there.

  ‘Was Croxley there? At the party?’

  ‘Yes, my colleagues reckoned he was a witness at the very least. He could have been involved directly, but they believe he knew exactly what happened and was covering up for his friends. He’s one of these that thinks he knows the law better than we do. He rubbed a lot of people up the wrong way. If you come across anything that could help, I know the DCI on that job would be very interested in a chat.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll find out from Marcus what Croxley’s doing now.’

  ‘Appreciate that. If I hear anything this end about his interests in the art scene, I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you very much.’

  Vittoria ended the call and pursed her lips, thinking hard. Edward Croxley had been questioned over a high-profile death. It sounded a lot like Phil thought Edward Croxley should be firmly behind bars right now. Vittoria could think of a couple of other people who would agree wholeheartedly with him on that.

  The more Vittoria thought about it, the more she remembered of the case. That poor girl. You had to be so careful around water when people were drinking – Aidan was always saying it whenever he and Marcus had friends on their boat, and particularly when Marcus had insisted on throwing a party to celebrate the building of their pool at home. They’d had a huge row about that – it was her private space that she needed to train, to get her strength back, but of course he’d wanted to show it off. Vittoria sighed, putting her phone down on the bed. The last thing she’d needed when it was finished was a public reminder of why she’d had the pool house built in the first place.

  But she didn’t have time to dwell on the past now. This art angle was intriguing. That was something she could use to get to know Edward Croxley very easily. The Irish papers had been full of Marcus’s father’s collection and the stolen paintings after the burglary they’d had a few months ago. Croxley would only have to google her name to see she was genuine. Vittoria glanced at the time on her phone. She still had a lot more thinking to do but she needed to get out of bed and seize the day before she met Lily for lunch.

  It was looking a lot like she really did need to spend a few days in London.

  Chapter 8

  ‘IT MUST HAVE been absolutely terrifying.’ Stephanie Carson leaned across the scrubbed pine table in the centre of the open-plan kitchen in her Notting Hill home and topped up Marcus’s coffee, pushing her thick blonde hair back over her shoulder as it fell forward. Her face was serious. ‘Is she OK now?’

  Marcus looked up from his phone for a moment and grimaced. ‘Vittoria’s pretty tough. She seems to be fine. Reckon she frightened him more than he did her – she can be pretty fierce when she loses her temper.’

  Leaning back on the kitchen counter, shaking her head, Stephanie nursed her green tea, trying not to smile. It wasn’t the slightest bit funny but he was always so irreverent. The rules just didn’t apply to Marcus Devine and his world. She bit her lip. She needed to talk to him about Vittoria, about what they were going to do. She had been trying to move gently onto the subject but perhaps this wasn’t the time or the best way to bring Vittoria up.

  The whole thing was horrific. Stephanie knew Vittoria was still shaken by the intrusion – having someone walk into your bedroom in the middle of the night would, Stephanie knew, have left her paralysed with fear. But that didn’t mean Marcus had to stay with Vittoria now. Stephanie’s hand went unconsciously to massage her belly, straining against her white T-shirt, the silver stars across her chest catching the light as she moved. The whole break-in, so far removed from her bright, sunny kitchen, made her shiver with fear.

  When she’d called Marcus that fated afternoon, his clipped, ‘I’m in Dublin, can’t talk, there’s been an incident,’ had had her literally pacing the floor with worry. She’d thought it had been a car accident – despite almost killing himself and writing off his car all those years ago, he still drove too fast. Thankfully, an hour or so later he’d called back, calmer, more in control, and although he’d only given her the briefest of outlines, she’d begun to relax.

  It was a huge house, packed full of antiques, and had obviously attracted the wrong sort of interest. The one time Marcus had taken her there – Vittoria had been away on business somewhere – Stephanie had tried to hide her awe from the moment the high wrought-iron electric gates had started to slide back, revealing a sweeping drive and an uninterrupted view of the sea. She’d immediately understood why there were cameras on the drive and a state-of-the-art security system. He was only there a few days a week, when he wasn’t flying, and managed to find enough reasons to stay in London regularly, but Dublin was his base. His friends were there, his home. His wife.

  ‘The paper said she was lucky to be alive.’

  Marcus shot her a blank look. He’d gone back to scrolling through his emails. Then, as if he’d suddenly caught up with what she was saying, he shrugged. ‘There’s been a lot of incidents like it around Dublin recently. Robberies. Tiger kidnappings as well. They’ve a big problem with gangs in the inner city. And after the last break-in … The guards reckoned he was a real professional – no fingerprints, and he had his face covered so the CCTV is useless. They think he came back for something specific – probably had a buyer all lined up. It was ironic, really. If you hadn’t had that scare, I would have been there too. He could have shot us both.’

  He went back to his phone. Stephanie could see from the concentration on his face, the focus in his blue eyes, that now wasn’t the time to try and talk to him. She knew from experience that she needed to pick her moment. She felt her nerves flutter, anxiety opening a dark hole in her stomach. They had a lot to talk about, but timing was everything.

  From the moment they’d met it had all been about timing. It hadn’t taken her long to see that, while he might be almost twice her age, he absolutely lit up a room, had an inner confidence that was mesmerising. He’d seen her as Ophelia at the Old Vic and had sent the most enormous bouquet of flowers together with a handwritten card asking her to join him for a drink. As she had walked into the bar at Langham’s, he’d been chatting to the barman about how to mix the best Martini cocktails, and she’d realised that, as well as being wealthy and successful, he was also very attractive. As it turned out, the whole evening had been a win–win – she could have listened to his cultured Irish lilt all night.

  Even that first evening in the cocktail bar, he’d had his phone constantly next to him, keeping an eye on his stocks and shares. But she liked that. She understood drive and determination. She’d needed them both to get to RADA, and every time she went for an audition, even now, after the success of Lies, it was grit and focus that got her through. They had a lot in common.

  But Stephanie couldn’t help being curious about what had happened to Vittoria. Actually, about Vittoria in general. She was beautiful and successful but, from what Marcus had told her, very moody. One night he’d got a bit drunk and maudlin and told her he’d only married her because he felt so guilty about the car accident. What Stephanie couldn’t understand was why he stayed with her at all, why he didn’t just divorce her. He always ducked away from
that question whenever she got close, but the more she thought about it, the more she was sure it was because of the guilt.

  Things had to come to a head soon, when the baby came. Stephanie thought he’d have said something to Vittoria by now, but there seemed to be one drama after another since she’d discovered she was pregnant

  She knew about the initial break-in. Nobody had been home then, but Marcus had been so upset – no amount of insurance money would replace his favourite paintings. Vittoria had been very unsympathetic, apparently, reminding him that she’d been saying for ages they should have the originals replaced with copies and keep the real paintings in the bank. It hadn’t helped his mood in the slightest. And then the second break-in had happened. The Irish press had been full of it. It was almost like a real-life version of her hit series Lies.

  ‘I’m amazed she didn’t have the alarm on after the place had been broken into before.’ Stephanie turned to refill the kettle.

  Marcus looked up at her, the creases in his face making it slightly craggy, suiting the grey streaks in his carefully tousled hair, the nurtured stubble. ‘Babe, do we have to talk about Vittoria?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m just insatiably curious.’ She put her tea down and walked around the table, running her hand along the back of his shoulder and kissing his ear. ‘And I might write my own cop drama one day so I’ll need loads of stories like that.’ She frowned. ‘The house is so beautiful – you can’t risk anything happening when you’re not there.’