Free Never Coming Home by Evonne Wareham Page B

happened when you were twelve?’ he prompted.
    ‘When I came home from school, Mum was in the hall, with our bags packed. She wouldn’t tell me why, just that we were leaving. I heard later that Oliver had brought another woman home, to the château. As his fiancée. She was supposed to be the daughter of an exiled Russian count, but I never found out whether that was true. He married her shortly after, in New York. They were going to found this incredibly talented artistic dynasty. We left that night.’
    ‘I can see how your mother might want to do that.’ Devlin nodded. ‘But Oliver didn’t get what he wanted. No dynasty,’ he elaborated, as he met her eyes.
    ‘No Russian countess either. She left him after six months, for a racing driver. The divorce was messy and expensive. He’s steered clear of marriage ever since.’ Kaz smiled in acknowledgement as the waiter put a plate of risotto in front of her.
    ‘But you’re not his only child.’ Devlin picked up his fork.
    ‘Not now.’ Kaz shook her head. ‘My half-sister, Chiara, was born a couple of weeks before I discovered I was carrying Jamie. So Oliver has another chance at his artistic dynasty.’ Devlin watched, interested, as the smile got a little crooked. She skewered a shrimp and held it up. ‘This is delicious. How is your tagliatelle?’

Chapter Seven
    Philip Saint ambled down the corridor, sipping coffee from a takeaway mug. Nothing in the nondescript passageway gave any clue as to what the building was. It could be any office block, in any city.
    At this time of day Scotland Yard was as quiet as it ever got. Behind a closed door someone was yelling into a phone. In the room next to Phil’s three officers were crowded around a screen, intent on some grainy CCTV footage. Phil raised a hand as one of them looked up, but kept on walking.
    In his own office he slumped down heavily behind his desk. There was no one else about. He’d been out for – what? An hour? The pile in the in-tray was stacked and toppling. Again. Sometimes he was sure that all that paper bred, right there in the tray, while he wasn’t watching it. Was that the answer? Sit and watch it?
    It couldn’t be more useless than spending half the day interviewing witnesses who’d suddenly been taken blind or deaf. Those that weren’t suffering from total amnesia, that is. He swilled down the last of the coffee. The current case had reached a brick wall. Frustration was mounting, shortening tempers within the team. Sodding CPS. In the old days   –
    Phil crushed the carton, pitching it into the bin. He needed a break in the case, and he really needed to make time to see Kaz, to find out how she was doing. That bloody Yank, stirring up trouble, just when she’d begun to come to terms   –
    He shifted restlessly, slumping further into his chair.
    The row of post-it notes, next to the phone, had to be more interesting than the admin crap in his in-tray. He peeled off the top one, frowning at the number scrawled on it. Underneath, the message-taker had scribbled Lyon .
    Abruptly something clicked in the back of Philip’s mind. He hauled the phone towards him and began stabbing in numbers.
    Fifteen minutes later he replaced the receiver with a low whistle. He hadn’t known what to make of Devlin – except that he was disturbing things that were best left alone, but he’d never imagined Jeff – what the hell did he do now? Kaz   –
    His hand was still on the receiver when the phone rang again.
    ‘Hello?’
    ‘I want a meet.’
    ‘Who is this?’
    ‘You don’t know me. I know you. I was in the pub, lunchtime. You weren’t asking the right questions, or the right people. You’re looking for the shotgun, right? I know where you can find it.’
    Phil sat up, heart accelerating. ‘If you have information   –’ he began carefully.
    ‘Not over the phone. I know other stuff. You want it, you come and talk. In the Park, bench in Birdcage Walk, Queen Anne’s Gate