no fight left in her, Lucie did as he bade. To his credit, Mr Hazeltine took a slightly circuitous route to the restroom area which also contained staff lockers in an anteroom between the two sets of bathrooms and they only passed a couple of people she knew on the way. Neither spoke when it would be normal practice for both to say at least hello, and Lucie felt her insides cringe. The gossip mill was already churning, which was hardly surprising giving the volume of Carl’s earlier yelling.
Mr Hazeltine checked the anteroom then nodded for her to enter. Lucie’s low heels sunk into the plush carpet as she crossed to her locker, then paused key in hand. ‘Did you want to search this?’
‘I’ll also require the keys to your office, and your access pass.’ His voice was so bland, like they were discussing something as neutral as whether he took his tea with milk, rather than whether she’d got a load of stolen contraband stuffed under her spare pair of tights. ‘Of course.’ Lucie unhooked the lanyard dangling around her neck then sank onto the velvet banquette lining the wall before catching her slumped posture and forcing herself into an upright position. Body language and appearance were everything. It was the Witherby’s way, after all.
It took about ten minutes to go through the meagre contents of her locker, and though he hadn’t suggested it, Lucie took the opportunity to empty out the contents of the small rucksack she used to ferry her belongings back and forth to work. Laying out her trainers, a selection of old receipts, a spare pair of tights, two books—both of which were recent bestsellers—and a small cosmetic bag containing a few bits of make-up and a handful of tampons, she tried not to think about what it said about her life. It could be the contents of any woman’s bag. There was nothing amongst the items that said anything about her, who she was, what she thought, what she felt. She’d tried so hard to present the perfect front, and yet it seemed there was no escaping the past.
‘Right, I think I’ve got everything I need for the time being.’ Mr Hazeltine closed the door to her locker with a decisive click then pocketed the keys. ‘Now, before you go home, I should remind you about the non-disclosure clause in your employment contract.’
Bewildered, she could only blink at him. ‘I’m sorry?’
If the smile he gave her next was supposed to be reassuring, it was anything but. ‘When you signed your contract, you agreed not to discuss any matters which could harm or in any other way bring the reputation of Witherby’s into disrepute.’ The words tripped off his tongue in such a way she could tell it was a direct quotation. ‘Until this matter is satisfactorily resolved, you cannot discuss it with anyone—legal counsel permitting, of course—outside these four walls.’
‘L…legal counsel? Do you honestly think it might come to that?’ And how the hell was she going to be able to afford it, if it did? ‘I haven’t done anything wrong. This is all a horrible mistake!’
There was that smile again, all teeth and no warmth. ‘We’ll be in touch in due course. Try to be patient, these things can take time.’
Lucie found herself thanking him, when she wanted to throw herself at him and beat her fists against his chest in frustration. Not the Witherby’s way. Clenching the scraps of her pride together, she clamped her mouth tight against any further protests and gathered her belongings. As Mr Hazeltine escorted her out the rear entrance, Lucie knew she’d never be crossing the threshold of Witherby’s again. Not now they’d found out who she really was.
‘Yes, yes, I understand.’ Arthur spoke into the phone as he stared across the wide oak desk in what was now his office and met his brother’s eyes. ‘And there’s no chance of recovering any of it?’
‘I’m sorry, Sir Arthur, we tracked the funds as far as the Cayman Islands, but they’re notorious for withholding cooperation.’ Inspector Dillon sighed. ‘Even if we could get them to let us inspect their records it’s highly unlikely the funds are still in situ. It’s taken us the best part of eighteen months to get Masterson’s case to a verdict. We assume he’s not acted alone, though he’s not said as much. Hasn’t said anything beyond “no comment” since his arrest, slippery sod.’
The very last of his hopes sinking, Arthur shook his head at Tristan’s enquiring glance. ‘Well, I want to thank you, Inspector, for all your hard work and diligence in bringing him to justice. Please pass on our gratitude to your team, also.’
‘I will, Sir Arthur, I’m just sorry we couldn’t get the justice you and all the other innocent victims deserve.’ He sounded exhausted, poor man, which wasn’t surprising considering Masterson’s case had been splashed all over the tabloids. Ponzi schemes were nothing new, but it was the calibre of people who’d been caught up in Masterson’s fraud that had the press pack slavering. Arthur’s father hadn’t been the only notable name to lose a fortune. From members of the peerage to pop stars and actors, the roll call of the duped and deluded had been a gossip columnist’s dream.
‘Not at all, and you have our profound thanks for keeping us up to date with developments in the case, I’m sure you have enough on your plate.’
‘Well, the times I met your father, I was touched by what a decent man he was. I was very sorry to hear of his passing, and it seemed the least I could do under the circumstances.’
So, Arthur wasn’t the only one who suspected the stress of the case had contributed to his father’s demise. ‘Thank you. I know he held you in very high esteem, Inspector, as do we all.’ Having ended the call, Arthur dropped the handset into the cradle then let his head fall back. As he studied the brilliant crystal droplets of the chandelier hanging above the desk, he acknowledged how much hope he’d been clinging to—hope that Masterson would have a change of heart and enter some kind of plea bargain deal. The money was gone. And that was all there was to it.
‘What are we going to do?’
Tristan’s question made Arthur sit up straight once more. ‘We’re not going to do anything, little brother. You and Iggy are going to get the hell out of Dodge while you still can. No point in all three of us going down with the sinking ship, is there?’
Swiping the dark curls of his fringe out of his eyes, Tristan glared at him. ‘Don’t start that nonsense again, or you and I will have a serious falling out.’
‘Stubborn fool.’ Exasperation and affection filled the words in equal measures.
‘Takes one to know one.’
He had a point. The two of them were similar in far more than looks, Arthur thought as he smoothed a hand through his shaggy hair, which was well overdue for a cut. He was looking more like Tristan every day, though Arthur was broader thanks to years spent rucking on a muddy rugby field. With his taller, more slender build, Tristan had been better suited to the cricket pitch. It had relieved them both to find their own sport to excel at, as people had tried to pit them against each other for as far back as he could remember. There’d never been any sense of competition between them, though. Their father and uncle had set an example which they’d been only too happy to follow—regardless of whose shoulders the family title rested upon, the Ludworths would succeed, or fail, together. Just lately though, Arthur had begun to regret this, desperate as he was to spare his siblings the pain of witnessing their family legacy collapsing before their eyes.
Frustrated, Arthur shoved his fringe from his eyes, an unconscious mirroring of his brother’s earlier action. He’d never really bothered much with
