Free A Place of Safety by Natasha Cooper Page B

contaminate him.

Chapter 6
    When Trish reached the Carfields’ huge penthouse flat at ten past eight, she found that she was the first of the guests to arrive. She handed over her present – a beautiful glazed jar of red Camargue rice, and left her coat on what was obviously the spare bed, an uncomfortable-looking brushed-steel platform covered in pristine pale-grey suede. That didn’t do anything for her, but the amazing living room made her writhe with envy.
    It was nearly twice the size of hers and furnished with the kind of perfect simplicity that must have cost nearly as much as the flat itself. She was glad she was wearing her one plain black designer dress this evening, instead of her usual trousers, and had even put on some mascara.
    Standing at one of the enormous, uncurtained windows beside her host a few minutes later, she looked out at the inky river, and the jewel-like lights strung on garlands along the edge.
    ‘God, London’s gorgeous.’
    ‘Isn’t it?’ Jeremy Carfield sounded warmly approving. ‘Angelique yearns for Paris. She’s always on at me to move there, but I couldn’t bear to leave all this.’
    ‘It may look pretty,’ his wife said in charmingly accented English, ‘but it is violent beyond belief. The sooner we leave, the better.’
    ‘Oh, nonsense, Angelique. London’s as safe as any European city. Now, Trish, champagne or a margarita?’
    ‘Champagne, please,’ Trish said. She loved margaritas and might have found it difficult to pace herself safely if she’d started on them. Champagne didn’t do nearly as much for her and she could usually make a single glass last all evening.
    She hoped George would arrive soon. It wasn’t that she needed his support or would let herself talk to him for more than about two seconds at someone else’s dinner, but these were his clients and she knew nothing about them. It would be all too easy to pick a tactless subject if she had no guide.
    ‘Of course, London is more violent than Paris,’ Angelique said, with a stubbornness that belied her delicate prettiness and breathy voice. ‘Only this morning they have found a body in the river, just by the bank there. With a bullet in its head.’
    ‘You’re not serious,’ Trish said.
    ‘But yes,’ Angelique said. ‘They picked it out at seven-thirty this morning. I heard the police boats coming, so I watched them to see what was happening.’ She waved to a beautiful antique brass telescope, which provided the only ornament on a deep window seat that ran under the windows. ‘I couldn’t see anything, but later I heard it on the news.’
    ‘I saw the boats myself,’ Trish admitted, thinking so much had happened since this morning’s walk with David that it could have taken place a week ago. ‘But that was later. About half-past eight. If they’d already found the body, what were they looking for then?’
    Angelique shrugged. ‘Evidence to identify it – it was naked, you see – and for the gun.’
    ‘I wish I’d had time to listen to the radio this evening.’ Trish thought of everything she knew about the shortage of police officers and about all the incident rooms that were dealing with three or four murders at once. How could they have spared all those officers and boats and divers to look for something to
identify a single body? They must believe this death was part of something much bigger than that.
    She saw both Carfields looking at her in surprise, so she quickly said: ‘How awful!’
    ‘Except that if they were searching for a gun it sounds much more like suicide than murder,’ Carfield said, returning with a glass of champagne for Trish. ‘No killer would throw away a useful weapon.’
    ‘How could it possibly have been suicide?’ Trish said without thinking about the effect of her sharp question on George’s client. ‘No one’s going to be able to walk naked through London to shoot himself on the edge of a bridge without being stopped – or at least seen on a