Code Red Lipstick (8 page)

“When did you see him?”

“About three p.m. on October thirtieth.”

Jessica raised an eyebrow. How could she possibly be so precise?

“I'm not making it up!” Mademoiselle Dumont folded her arms crossly. “It was the day before my son's birthday and I had to pick up his cake after I finished my shift. That's how I remember it.”

“OK, I believe you. So what happened?”

“I was doing my afternoon rounds. Just as I got to his door, Mr Bishop came out with his bags. He gave me such a surprise.”

“Did you notice anything strange about him?”

“Not really. He looked shocked to see me too and excused himself. He got into the lift. I went into his room and found he'd packed everything up. That struck me as odd. He was our only long-term guest and housekeeping hadn't told me he was checking out. After that, I never saw him again.”

“Did my dad ask you anything else?” Jessica said, peeling off a few more notes.

“He wanted to know if I ever saw any syringes or drugs lying around the room. I said absolutely not. I'd remember something as bad as that.”

This was an interesting snippet of information. AKSC had accused him of failing a drugs test. He'd either been careful not to leave traces of his addiction or the allegation wasn't true. Could the French police have been covering something up, as Sam's mum had claimed in her letter?

“I must get on with my rounds now,” Mademoiselle Dumont said. “I'm running late.”

“Of course.”

Jessica was standing up to leave when something beneath the wardrobe caught her eye. She knelt down and fished out a tiny scrap of paper. There were more pieces pushed further back but she couldn't reach them.

“It's rubbish the vacuum missed,” Mademoiselle Dumont said. “Here, let me throw it away.”

“I don't think it is rubbish.”

Jessica looked closer. The paper had been intricately pleated and folded. She carefully tweaked it and a figure took shape.

“It's a swan!” she exclaimed.

“Monsieur Bishop always made things like that,” Mademoiselle Dumont said. “He used to leave them scattered across the floor, along with everything else. Like I said, the man was a
cochon
. Some of the girls got fed up with picking up the bits every day, so they probably just brushed them under there.”

“I'll keep it, if you don't mind.”

“As you wish.” She led her out of the room and closed the door.

“One more thing.” Jessica fished into her bag and pulled out the copy of Sam Bishop's photograph. “Is this the man you saw that day?”

She stared at the picture and shook her head.

“No. I already told your father, Monsieur Bishop was much older than this. He was a large man with dark hair. I also told that model all about him too. What was she called now? Laura? No, Lara. She said she was a cousin of Sam's and was trying to find him while she was here for Couture Week.
Très, très
beautiful but a terrible tipper.”

Jessica stared after Mademoiselle Dumont as she wheeled the trolley down the corridor. Ohmigod. Lara Hopkins had been here too. Was that why she'd been strangled and Jessica's dad was missing? They'd both discovered someone else had emptied Sam's room. It certainly weakened the French police's theory that Sam had gone on the run. If he had, he'd left with the clothes he was standing in and nothing else. But it didn't explain who was in his room that day, removing all his belongings. What did the man with fair hair have to do with Sam and why did he have all his stuff?

She ran back along the corridor and down the stairs. The foyer didn't have any CCTV cameras but the mystery man wouldn't have left through the front entrance anyway. He'd probably found another way to slip out, unnoticed, maybe through the kitchens. That was where she'd go if she wanted a quick, discreet getaway. As she walked past the front desk, she noticed Mademoiselle Girard finishing a phone call. She was alone. Jessica had to make one final stab at getting info.

“Thanks for all your help today,” Jessica said breathlessly. “I don't suppose you could do one more thing for me, could you?”

“That depends,” Mademoiselle Girard said. “What is it?”

“Can you call up some information on another guest for me?”

Mademoiselle Girard frowned and stared at her computer screen. “I'm sorry, I can't. I'd get into a lot of trouble if my manager found out.”

“I promise I won't tell anyone. I need to find out about a man called Sam Bishop. My dad was trying to find him. Can you see when he last used his key card? It won't take a minute. Please.”

Mademoiselle Girard hesitated and shot a furtive look over her shoulder. “You mustn't tell a soul what I'm doing.”

Her long, scarlet nails tapped on the keyboard.

“I've already told the
gendarmes
this information,” she muttered. “He left his room at seven thirty a.m. on October thirtieth. He re-entered the room at two forty p.m. and departed again at three p.m. That was it.”

“Did he check out?”

Mademoiselle Girard shook her head. “The police arrived to question him the next day, but he hadn't returned. His account was closed later that week.”

“Who closed it?”

“AKSC,” she replied. “The company had already paid upfront for the room and simply terminated the account. Now you must leave. My manager's coming back from his break.” She nodded at the tall, dark-suited man walking towards them.

Quickly, Jessica pulled out the picture. “Is this Sam Bishop?”

“
Oui
, that's him. Now please go before you get me into trouble.”

Jessica flashed a grateful smile and left. It had been worth taking the risk; it wasn't cheap but it'd paid off. Outside, she hailed a taxi and jumped in. As it pulled away, she spotted Nathan and Margaret walking briskly into the hotel. She sank down into her seat. That was close. They hadn't seen her.

She was one step ahead of them yet again.

Jessica laid out the green silk vintage tea dress she'd found in an antiques shop next to the metallic Stella McCartney number a stylist had loaned her. Which one would give her the confidence to get through tonight? Margaret had rung her room shortly after she'd arrived back after taking a detour past the café her dad had visited. That had drawn a blank. If only she'd hung around longer with the waiters, she'd have missed Margaret's call, ordering her to attend an early dinner at a nearby restaurant. Had she and Nathan found out about Jessica's trip? Mademoiselle Girard or Mademoiselle Dumont could have spilled the beans. She'd be in big trouble if they had. But wouldn't they just pack her off to London straight away? Then again, it could always be a ploy to try and catch her out. They were good at mind games.

Next time – if there was a next time – she'd have to think of an excuse quicker. She plumped for Stella. Her designs had helped spur the British Olympic team on to win fistfuls of gold medals in London. Hopefully the designer's shimmering shift dress would be a lucky talisman tonight and help her fly below MI6's radar at dinner. She slipped on the crystal-studded silver Alexander McQueen pumps another Primus model had discarded in the agency.
Her
feet were too big for them, but they fitted Jessica perfectly.

She curled her eyelashes and then applied black liquid eyeliner and mascara. A dab of cherry lipgloss and she was done. She examined her reflection in the mirror. Perfect. Her armoury was just right. She'd look like a fashion-conscious teenager who was more interested in designer labels and a night out in Paris rather than one who was intent on defying MI6.

She grabbed her vintage black velvet evening bag and black sequin shrug and took one final look in the mirror. Something was missing. She slipped on her mum's necklace, which she'd removed before she took a shower, and the blue crystal flower ring her dad had bought her for Christmas.

“You can do this,” she told her reflection. “Becky would tell you to put on an Oscar-worthy performance. You just have to get through tonight and you're home free.”

She closed the door behind her, checking it had locked properly. She declined the concierge's offer of hailing a taxi and instead followed directions to the Champs-Élysées. Walking helped calm her nerves until she approached the restaurant, which was tucked in between a couple of bars with outside seating. Her heart beat rapidly as she pushed open the door.

Blast.

She'd mistimed it. She'd dawdled but still arrived first. Maybe they were deliberately late, just to unsettle her. She wouldn't put it past them. A waiter checked the reservation and showed her to their table at the back of the darkened room. He handed her a large menu and disappeared. She read the menu, nibbling her nails, which she'd painted in Chanel's Blue Rebel. They'd never get the message.

She didn't know how she'd get through the evening pretending nothing was wrong when she'd discovered such potentially explosive information about Sam. Who was the mystery man in his room that day? Could it have been Vectra, the terrorist Nathan had talked about, or one of his henchmen? Were Lara and Jessica's dad targeted because they'd found out about him? How would she manage to keep a poker face for the next few hours?

She couldn't. She rose to her feet, almost knocking over her water glass. She tried to catch her waiter's eye. She'd get him to explain to Margaret and Nathan that she felt ill and had to leave early.

“Jessica!” Margaret weaved in between the tightly packed tables, dressed in a black velvet trouser suit. She smiled warmly, making dimples appear on her cheeks. Jessica had never noticed them before.

“I'm so glad you turned up. I thought you might have had second thoughts and thrown a sickie.”

“No, of course not.” Her cheeks reddened.

“I'm afraid you'll have to excuse Nathan. He has an urgent matter to attend to.”

“About Dad?”

“No. Something on the domestic front.”

She sat opposite and picked up a menu. If she'd found out about Jessica's visit to the hotel, she wasn't letting on.

“I'm starving,” Margaret said. “Shall we order?”

“Yes, please.” Jessica dived behind her menu, glad to avoid any probing questions. Just because Margaret hadn't mentioned her visit didn't mean she hadn't discovered her secret.

“Nice nail polish, by the way,” Margaret said. “I love Chanel.”

Jessica sank down lower behind the menu.
No way
could she know the make. She was practically a hundred.

After a few minutes, Margaret opted for a rare fillet steak and frites with a half bottle of Pinot noir while Jessica ordered a plate of asparagus ravioli with a side salad and sparkling mineral water. As soon as the waiter disappeared, Margaret whipped out photos of her grandchildren. Ben was two and Matilda, four. Her eyes sparkled as she talked about them.

“They keep me young,” she said, chuckling. “Although you must think someone my age is positively ancient.”

“Not at all,” Jessica said.

“You're a good liar!” Margaret threw her head back and hooted with laughter. “I can see why you're so useful to your father. So why don't you fill me in on what you've been doing today?”

Jessica smiled back. “Sightseeing.”

Margaret was far friendlier than yesterday, but Jessica had to keep her guard up. However, Margaret could prove useful to
her
. She topped up her empty wine glass as their waiter returned, carrying two large white plates.

“So have you found anything out about my dad yet?” Jessica asked.

“I'm afraid not,” Margaret said, slicing through the steak with a razor-sharp knife. Blood pooled on her plate. “The trail's gone cold for him and Sam. Sorry.”

Jessica bit her lip as she prodded her ravioli with her fork. Her appetite had deserted her.

“But you'll be glad to hear that I've managed to persuade my boss, Mrs T, to look at this from a whole new angle,” Margaret said. “I have a totally different theory to Nathan's.”

Jessica looked up. “How do you mean?”

Margaret placed her knife and fork down. “I've known your father for a very long time. I don't believe he's a murderer or a traitor. I agree with you. I think he's been set up, possibly by someone he's crossed in the past. He'd have made plenty of enemies during his time with MI6. We all have.”

Jessica took a sharp intake of breath.

“It's OK,” Margaret said, placing a hand on hers. “I'm on your side.”

Tears welled in Jessica's eyes. “Thank you. I just needed to hear someone say that. What made you change your mind? You and Nathan seemed so certain yesterday.”

“The evidence against your father is a little too convenient for my liking, including the encrypted computer file you found.” Margaret examined the label on the back of the wine bottle before pouring herself another glass. “I'm still working on Nathan, but he'll come round to my way of thinking.”

Jessica started to tuck into her buttery ravioli, which melted in her mouth. “Do you have
any
new leads?”

“Possibly.” Margaret chewed a piece of steak slowly.

“I can help,” Jessica insisted. “I speak French and Dad's taught me a lot of useful stuff.”

“I know,” Margaret said, arching an eyebrow. “I read your file.”

“So you know I can handle myself.”

“I do, but there are too many risks, and realistically, I'm not sure what a teenager can achieve when
we're
hitting a brick wall.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I shouldn't really be telling you this, but we're not sure if Vectra's got Sam already or if either of them are still in Paris.”

“Why does he want Sam, anyway? He works for a beauty company.”

Margaret dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. After the waiter cleared away their plates, she ordered a crème caramel and Jessica a pot au chocolat.

“Truthfully, we don't know what Vectra's after, and that's what worries us,” she continued. “Somehow we don't think a terrorist wants to find a cure for the bags under his eyes or his crow's feet.”

“Perhaps Sam's created an explosive mascara or a face mask that detonates in thirty seconds,” Jessica suggested.

“I doubt it's as James Bond as that. Sam was highly regarded at Cambridge and published research that could have piqued someone's interest. We're looking into that possibility.”

“Do you know what he was working on at AKSC?”

Margaret's eyes gleamed as her dessert arrived. She dipped her spoon in straight away. “That's where we've drawn a blank. Allegra Knight isn't exactly forthcoming with us. Again, it's highly confidential – we're trying to get an agent planted in there, but it's taking time.”

“That's where I could help,” Jessica said eagerly. “AKSC held castings this week. A model from my agency's been called back for a job. If I get a casting I could have a look around for you.”

“That's an idea,” Margaret said slowly. “But you're not trained up like our agents.”

“I'm still pretty good.”

“How good, exactly? I've told you what we know. What have
you
found out?”

Jessica fiddled with her spoon. Could she trust her?

“Don't pretend you haven't been doing any snooping. I wouldn't believe it for a minute. You're Jack Cole's daughter, after all.”

She took a calculated risk and outlined what she'd discovered at the hotel. “So you see, AKSC closed Sam's account after someone else cleared his room. He didn't return that day.”

“I'm impressed,” Margaret said, sipping an espresso. “I'll make sure Nathan re-interviews Mademoiselle Dumont and takes a full statement.”

Phew. It wasn't a trick. She didn't seem about to frogmarch her to the station. Nathan wouldn't have reacted so calmly. That was a dead cert.

“Can your agency get you a casting at AKSC this week, do you think?” Margaret said.

“They've tried already but I haven't heard back.”

“I may be able to pull some strings.”

“You could do that?” Jessica asked.

“You'd be surprised,” Margaret said, laughing. “MI6 has fingers in a lot of pies. It'd be a question of getting your portfolio on the right person's desk. It wouldn't guarantee you the job, though. The rest would be up to you.”

“I understand. Let's hope they're looking for a blonde.”

Margaret paused. “There's also Nathan to think about, of course. He doesn't want you anywhere near AKSC.”

“He doesn't have a problem with me staying in Paris as long as I'm just modelling. He wouldn't be able to stop me if I get a job there.”

“That's true,” Margaret said. “Leave AKSC with me and I'll see what I can do. I'll handle Nathan too. At the end of the day we're all on the same team. He'll realize that, eventually.”

“Thanks, Margaret. I really appreciate it.”

“You don't have to thank me. I'm just doing my job. In the meantime I need to track down Starfish before MI6 has any further leaks.” She beckoned to the waiter for the bill. “If your dad isn't Starfish, we urgently need to find out who is.”

 

Jessica got straight on to her dad's iPad when she returned to her room. She did a quick search on Sam Bishop and Cambridge University. It brought up lots of hits. Sam had published papers and given lectures around the world before he left Cambridge. She clicked on the list of his research. It all involved nanotechnology, whatever that was. She did another quick search on the word to find out its meaning.

“The making of tiny particles, about one-millionth the size of a pinhead,” she read aloud.

She flicked back to Sam's research. He was interested in nanotechnology and medical science issues. She pulled up the outline of a lecture he'd given in the United States five years ago, entitled “Nanorobots: A Cure for Cancer?”

It sounds like science fiction, but we believe tiny nanotechnology robots that are invisible to the human eye could be programmed to attack cancer cells,
he'd written.
These robots would be inhaled through the nose and travel to the site of a tumour in the colon, stomach, lungs or bowel, simply by attaching themselves to the red blood cells. Nanorobots could be programmed to fight all diseases known to man – AIDS, tuberculosis, cholera. They could even be used for heart attack victims. A nanorobot could monitor the heart, replacing the need for invasive surgery and pacemakers.

 

It sounded like worthy stuff, so how on earth had Sam ended up working for a beauty company? It was hardly the same as finding a cure for cancer. Why had he sold out? She clicked on an interview he'd given to Cambridge University's student newspaper a couple of years ago. She scanned down. He was hitting out at the funding crisis in British universities.