The Catch (2 page)

She picked up her handbag, a big heavy Gucci, crammed with all manner of junk that she was definitely going to clear out
any day now
. Even though she could plainly see the envelope, wedged between her purse and a packet of wipes, she felt the need to reach in and hold it for a second, the contents yielding slightly as she squeezed them between her fingers.

This was
so
unethical. And never mind that, if Mum ever found out ...

Cate became aware of her heartbeat, a dryness in her mouth. This felt like the moment before she had to stand up in court, tense but excited, eager to do it if only to have it done.

The last favour
, she reminded herself, and at that second the door of the saloon bar was flung open and in he strode. The client.

****

His name was Hank O’Brien. The first time she’d heard it, Cate had made a face and said, ‘Hank?’ and Robbie had said, ‘He’s not American. He’s just a twat.’

She had a horrible feeling that her brother was spot on. Hank O’Brien was in his fifties, short and round and bustling with self-importance. He had wispy brown hair and the complexion of a dedicated drinker. A little rosebud mouth that might have been engineered for disapproval.

He came in, wincing at the music. His gaze took in the couple finishing their dessert, then lingered for half a second on Dan and Robbie, who were hunched over the table, conversing in a grinning, blokey manner designed to exclude everyone else.

It worked a treat. Dismissing them as irrelevant, the gaze moved on, and when it alighted on Cate something changed in O’Brien’s face. He looked like he’d sucked on a lemon only to find it infused with sugar.

Cate’s heart sank. Her job had just been made easier, but almost certainly at a cost.

She stood to greet him but he waved her down with an imperious flap of his hand. ‘Miss Gilroy?’

‘Mrs,’ she said. A lie, but only a tiny one. ‘Call me Cate.’

They shook hands. His grip was firmer than she’d expected, but a little damp. He reached inside his jacket and produced a slim wallet. ‘To drink?’

‘Nothing for me, thanks.’

‘Go on. I’m sure I can tempt you ...’ When Cate shook her head, those rosebud lips tightened a fraction. ‘One minute, then.’

He greeted the barmaid with the same bluff, over-familiar air and, oblivious to the girl’s indifference, updated her on his progress in a local golf competition. He returned holding a double of something, raising the glass in a toast as he sat down.

‘Can’t beat a fine single malt at the end of a busy day.’

‘Quite,’ said Cate, thinking:
Probably more than one, in your case
.

‘I was delayed by a conference call with a major supplier. CEO was in Aspen and the finance chap’s holed up in bloody South Korea!’ The tone was one of mild exasperation, but it was obvious that he intended for her to be impressed.

‘What is it that you do, exactly?’

He hesitated, as if suspicious of the question. ‘You name it. Number crunching. Problem-solving. Public-private partnerships and what have you.’ A chuckle. ‘I could spill out acronyms until your ears bleed.’

‘Sounds fascinating.’

‘No, it doesn’t.’ He was watching her closely. ‘Anyhow, we have more important things to discuss.’

Cate nodded. ‘We’re glad this can be resolved amicably.’

‘I bet you are. Director of Compton’s, are you?’

‘I’m freelance. I advise them on legal matters.’

‘A lawyer? Huh. Got a law degree myself. I suppose that little prick thought I’d be intimidated?’

‘Not at all. Mr Scott is keen to see this settled to your satisfaction.’

O’Brien grunted. Cate couldn’t tell if his reaction meant:
Glad to hear it
, or:
You’re talking bollocks
. Right now she hardly cared which. She wanted to grab the envelope and throw it across the table at him, then leave at once – a feeling that intensified when she caught him ogling her breasts.

‘I know why they sent you, my dear. Done it myself often enough, deploying the totty for a charm offensive.’ He rubbed his chubby palms together. ‘Mother Nature certainly poured you into a tasty little mould, didn’t she?’

‘Mr O’Brien—’

‘My error not to have anticipated it. I’d have arranged to meet at my place.’ A gulp of Scotch, then he hefted his belly tight against the table, squeezing in as close as he could get. His voice became low and seductive. ‘A ten-minute stroll, or two minutes if we take your car. I’ll give you the full tour.’

‘No. Thank you.’

‘I insist.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I can’t imagine you’ll object to being plied with the best champagne?’

‘I’m afraid your imagination’s faulty. I don’t drink champagne.’

Mild as it was, the insult made O’Brien flinch. He narrowed his eyes and leaned back until his chair groaned in protest.

‘Of course, you hardly need a tour of my house. You and the whole world have seen inside it. And that’s why you’re going to do as I say, lady, and show me a damn sight more respect into the bargain.’

On the face of it, Robbie’s justification was simple enough: it had seemed like too good an opportunity to resist. Up to a point, Dan could see the truth in that.
Never look a gift horse in the mouth
, as his aunt would have put it.

Robbie’s mother, Teresa Scott, owned a company called Compton Property Services. Launched in the mid-1980s, the core business involved the purchase and renovation of large old houses to sell on at a profit or convert into student lets. From that came a subsidiary operation that managed rental property on behalf of mainly high-net-worth clients.

Hank O’Brien had placed his sumptuous converted farmhouse on their books three years ago, following an acrimonious divorce. Tenants were found and signed up to a long-term lease, but a death in the family meant they had to terminate after less than a year.

While the house was still vacant, Robbie happened to get chatting to the friend of a friend of a location manager, scouring the south of England for a large rural property, needed for several weeks of filming. A quick guided tour later and Robbie had secured himself a nice little bonus: five grand straight into his pocket. The film people were done within a few weeks, and then the house was taken on a new short-term let; O’Brien himself moved back in just under a year ago, with nobody any the wiser about Robbie’s deal on the side.

Except that the movie, a mid-budget Brit-flick comedy, proved to be an unexpected hit. Not to Hank O’Brien’s taste, particularly, but three weeks ago it happened to be the least worst option on his British Airways flight from Tokyo to Heathrow. Waking from a brandy-induced slumber, Hank had opened his eyes to find two vaguely familiar actors engaged in a passionate clinch on what was unmistakably his living-room carpet.

For Robbie, the only saving grace was that he’d intercepted O’Brien’s complaint before it reached his mother’s ears. But even the briefest of conversations convinced Robbie that he lacked the diplomacy to massage Hank’s wounded ego. Robbie didn’t do grovelling apologies.

In desperation he had enlisted his sister’s help. Cate had taken over negotiations and swiftly agreed to pay Hank three thousand pounds in cash, with an undertaking that neither party would breathe a word to the taxman.

Robbie had correctly sussed that O’Brien would have an eye for the ladies: another reason for Cate to conduct the handover. But his sister would do it only on the condition that she had backup close at hand.

Hank had never met Robbie face to face, so that was fine. Dan was roped in to make Robbie’s presence less conspicuous, and once he’d learned that Cate had been saddled with the most difficult role Dan had felt obliged to go along with it.

A messy business, but at least O’Brien was here now. Soon it would be over and they could all go home.

****

‘Has she given it to him yet?’ Unwilling to turn and look, Robbie was relying on a running commentary from Dan, who had pulled a face when he saw the way O’Brien was leering at Cate.

‘They’re talking.’

‘What is there to talk about?’

‘I think he’s coming on to her.’

‘Christ, he must be desperate.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

Robbie made a crooning noise. ‘Ah, you’ve still got the hots—’

‘Sshh. Just leave it.’

At the other table O’Brien abruptly leaned back, his expression hostile, while Cate drew herself upright and crossed her arms. There was only one explanation for such negative body language. She had rebuffed him.

Dan felt glad, as well as relieved that Robbie had no way of influencing the conversation. To save his own skin he’d want Cate to flirt shamelessly with the man.

‘He’d better not try renegotiating,’ Robbie muttered.

Cate was talking in a low, steady voice, O’Brien scowling as he listened. She produced the envelope from her bag and handed it over. Hank lifted the flap and peered inside. His eyes widened greedily.

‘She’s given it to him.’

‘Good. He can take it and piss off, and I’ll have a drink to commiserate.’

‘You’re still two grand up.’

‘Technically, yeah. But it was spent eighteen months ago. I had a nightmare getting that lot together.’

‘Oh well. Put it down to experience.’ Dan found it hard to be sympathetic. When Robbie was flush he could cheerfully blow in an evening what Dan took home in a month.

From the other bar, a song ended on a wave of heartfelt applause. It only diverted Dan’s attention for a second, but by the time he looked back it was already too late to do anything.

****

The timing was ironic – just as Cate dared to believe she could wrap this up without any great unpleasantness.

O’Brien seemed happy enough as he examined the contents of the envelope. She’d been worried that he might insist on counting it out, note by note. If he did, they would have to go somewhere more private, and Cate couldn’t bear the idea of being alone with him.

But Hank merely slipped the envelope inside his jacket and offered his hand. It was only as she went to shake it that she spotted the malevolent gleam in his eyes. He grabbed Cate’s wrist and hauled her towards him.

‘The price just increased.’

‘What?’

‘I want the other two thousand. And a kiss.’

‘Let go of me.’

‘You’re coming back to mine. We’ll talk about it there.’

‘I’m not going anywhere with you.’ Twisting away from him, she tried to wrench her arm free but he was too strong. He swooped in on her, his pink lips puckered, the large pores on his nose glistening with sweat.

Filled with revulsion, Cate acted on pure instinct: she punched him in the face. She had to use her left hand, so it lacked the power of her dominant arm; the noise he made when her fist connected with his cheek was more an exclamation of surprise than a cry of pain.

But his retaliation was brutal. Releasing her arm, he shoved her backwards, putting all his weight behind the move. Cate hit the side of her chair and tumbled over it. As she fell she glimpsed the middle-aged couple bolting for the door. Beyond them, the barmaid’s hand was clamped over her mouth. In the other bar, the band had struck up a new song, a jauntily inappropriate soundtrack to the brawl.

Hank growled a threat as he came round the table: he wasn’t done hurting her yet. Cate tried to curl into a protective ball but the overturned chair was jabbing into her side, impeding her movement. She was conscious of her brother on his feet, but he kept his back to her, reluctant to get involved.

O’Brien was lining up to kick her when Dan wrestled him away, allowing Cate to wriggle clear of the chair. In the calm that followed Robbie turned, surveying them with a kind of bemused detachment, as though the whole display had been staged for his entertainment.

‘Glad to see you’re enjoying it!’ she shouted, and Robbie glared at her, no doubt because she’d broken cover.

Sure enough, Hank was turning to inspect him. As he did, Dan gripped his arm. ‘You need to leave.’

Another voice broke in. ‘That’s right, Mr O’Brien.’ It was the barmaid, gesturing towards the public bar. ‘Lance won’t stand for any trouble.’

Dan said, ‘It’s sorted. He’s going.’ He regained O’Brien’s attention. ‘After you apologise to this woman.’

Hank gave Dan the same suspicious appraisal. ‘What’s your part in this? Do you know her?’

‘Just leave it and fuck off,’ Robbie said. ‘You’re outnumbered.’

‘Are you threatening me?’ O’Brien took a step forward, his face blazing with fury, and Cate saw the moment it dawned on him.

****

Dan saw it too: the man’s eyes narrowing, his brows dipping together.

‘You’re Robert Scott. You’re the scrote that cheated me.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘I recognise your voice. You made a major mistake, buddy, thinking you could swindle me. The film-makers paid you five thousand, not three.’ Puffing himself up, he jabbed a finger at Robbie. ‘I’ll see to it you lose your job over this.’

‘I dunno what you’re on about, mate. You’re pissed.’

Affecting disdain, Robbie turned away. Hank lunged at him and once again Dan thrust himself into the gap. He caught a faceful of the man’s sour, booze-sodden breath and nearly gagged.

‘I want you out,’ the barmaid shouted. ‘Otherwise you’re gonna get barred.’

At this, O’Brien faltered, giving Dan the chance he needed.

‘You’re mistaking him for someone else. My friend’s name is Gary. The only reason we got involved is because I saw you hit this woman. We don’t know her, and we don’t know you, but unless you leave right now we’ll call the police.’

‘Just go,’ Cate added as she climbed to her feet. ‘Please.’

Hank glowered at them for a few more seconds while he summoned up some dignity. ‘I will,’ he told Cate. ‘But you mark my words, lady. You haven’t heard the last of this.’