Chelsea Wives

You could tell a lot about a person by the books they owned, he thought, as he threw back the cognac in one hit. Somehow he hadn’t had Sebastian Forbes down as a Jane Austen man. Must be his wife’s, he thought, smiling as he came across Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Exhaling softly as he pulled it from the shelf, it immediately evoked a strong memory of her; her long, dark hair, shyly falling over her face like a silk curtain as she pretended not to notice him looking at her …

‘Detective Inspector McLaren?’ Sebastian Forbes’s clipped tones sliced through Mitch’s thoughts with all the subtlety of an axe as he stormed into the library, his face a crimson colour, veins protruding in his neck in what looked like protest.

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Forbes,’ Mitch said, his hand outstretched in greeting.

Sebastian did not take it.

‘The Commissioner said you’re the best he’s got,’ Sebastian said, matter of fact, casting the Inspector a rather disdainful glance. ‘Well, I hope for your sake he’s right because I want this case solved pronto, do you understand me, Inspector? I said pronto.’ Sebastian poured himself an extra large champagne cognac and threw it back without offering Mitch one.

‘It’s a fucking disaster, that’s what this is,’ he growled, pulling his lips over his teeth as the alcohol hit the back of his throat. ‘That diamond is worth more than the national debt, and somehow those bastards knew exactly how to get inside my bank and get their thieving hands on it.’ Sebastian was incandescent, his hands shaking with rage. ‘I want them found, Inspector. I want you to find the scum that did this and I want you to throw the bloody book at them, do you hear me?’

Mitch watched Forbes carefully. It was immediately obvious that the man was a tyrant. It was written right through him like a stick of Blackpool rock. He hadn’t even asked about the unfortunate security guard, currently fighting for his life in hospital.

‘Mr Forbes, I need to ask you a few questions if that’s OK.’ Mitch cleared his throat. ‘Questions you might find impertinent, but are necessary nonetheless.’

Sebastian didn’t care much for the DI’s abruptness but given the circumstances had little choice but to comply.

‘You say you were the only one who knew the codes to the security system, that is right isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Sebastian snapped back, the irritation in his voice tangible. ‘I changed the codes myself, a few hours before leaving to catch the plane. Look,’ he said tightly, ‘that system is infallible, Inspector; it’s one of a kind, pioneering technology from America which I helped create.’ He thumped his chest, indignant. ‘Only I knew the codes to gain access to the vault and only I have access to the room where the diamond was kept. The Interlocking System has an in-built scanner that relies on facial recognition. My face, Inspector, is the key that unlocks it.’

‘Is there somewhere I can play this?’ Mitch asked, producing a CD from his inside pocket. ‘I think it might be of some interest to you,’ he said as Sebastian nodded towards the flat-screen on the wall. ‘It’s CCTV footage taken from last night. I want you to look carefully at it, Mr Forbes,’ Mitch instructed him. ‘Tell me if you recognise any of the men.’

Sebastian downed another cognac, squinting at the images as they came into view.

‘Good … good God …’ he said after a moment, taking a step back in alarm, pointing at the screen in shock and confusion. ‘That man … it’s … it’s me! But … it isn’t me … that’s impossible. I told you, I was on a plane to Rio last night. I was on a goddamn plane!’ Sebastian’s voice was high-pitched in protest. ‘Surely you’re not stupid enough to think this really is me? A hundred or more people can vouch for me!’

Mitch nodded. ‘We will have to check all your alibis, of course,’ he said with an even smile.

‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ Sebastian slammed his glass down onto the antique desk with such force that it was testament to the quality of the crystal that it didn’t break.

‘I’m going to need to speak to your wife, Mr Forbes,’ Mitch said after a moment’s pause. ‘Ask her a few questions, if that’s OK.’

Sebastian looked up.

‘My wife?’

‘It’s merely a formality,’ he reassured him.

Sebastian sighed heavily, his temper dissolving into self-pity.

‘As you wish. Though I can’t imagine she’ll be of much help.’ He picked up the internal line. ‘Jalena, ask Mrs Forbes to come down to the library immediately will you? What? I don’t care if she’s still sleeping, goddamn it, this is important!’ he bellowed, slamming the telephone down.

Muttering under his breath, Sebastian reached for the cognac decanter once more, this time having the decency to pour the Inspector one.

Accepting it, Mitch turned away from him and wandered towards the bay window, looking out onto the pristine terrace at the pruned topiary and expensive Lloyd Loom furniture.

He was still looking out of the window, cognac in hand, as he heard the door to the library open. It was only as he slowly turned round that he felt the glass suddenly slip from his fingers and his heart stop dead.

CHAPTER 1

Imogen Forbes looked at her Cartier watch: 3:03 p.m. Shit, she was late. No doubt the photographer would be cursing her blue by now. Pressing her foot on the accelerator of her brand-new Bentley Continental, she revved the engine impatiently, absentmindedly checking her reflection in the interior mirror. Tired eyes hidden underneath lashings of Touche Éclat blinked back at her as she wearily inspected a new rash of fine lines that had seemingly appeared overnight. She turned the air con up to maximum and sighed deeply. It was a warm Friday afternoon in June and the King’s Road was thick with rush hour traffic. Summer stretched out before her, full of promise and potential, giving her a fleeting feeling of hope and excitement.

Leaning over, she began rifling through the glossy store bags that were piled high in a heap on the passenger seat, souvenirs of that morning’s trip to Harvey Nichols, via a little breeze along Sloane Street: Seb’s dry cleaning from Jeeves of Belgravia, Lime, Basil and Mandarin candles from Jo Malone, a gorgeous silk dress from Stella McCartney – perfect for between seasons – and a divine pair of knotted platform pumps from Christian Louboutin. She wondered whether the shoes might be a little overstated with the rest of her outfit for today’s photo shoot or if the stylist already had something in mind for her.

Momentarily forgetting any sense of urgency as tissue paper rustled satisfactorily between her fingers, Imogen looked past the traffic and out onto the bustling high street. People were out in their droves, dropping cash in the spring sales faster than they could earn it. Designer bags swung on the crooks of lithe, suntanned arms and the clips of Bugaboo prams. Tourists stood on street corners, maps in hand, pointing at the sugared almond-colour mews houses that were tucked away from the throbbing masses. Glamorous yummy mummies dressed in Diane von Fürstenberg wrap dresses and young, fashion-forward teenagers sat crossed-legged outside the myriad cafés, sipping their skinny soya macchiatos, people-watching from behind their oversized designer shades, hoping they might be noticed.

The King’s Road still had that buzz, that style and vibrancy that had made it famous in the 60s, Imogen thought. Regardless of how commercial it had now become, it was by far her favourite London high street.

Her phone rang, dragging her from her thoughts.

‘Where the bloody hell are you?’ Calvary snapped, irritation thick in her voice. ‘Sophie Montgomery-Smith has already let me down so now there’s just going to be the three of us and the photographer is having a hissy fit. You’re holding everything up.’

‘I’m sorry, Cal,’ she apologised. ‘The traffic …’

Calvary sighed impatiently. ‘You’re beginning to look like a terrible diva, Ims. Put your foot down, will you? Anyway,’ she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, ‘I’m dying to see what you’ll make of the journalist. Can’t make my mind up about her …’

Having been the fashion editor of the once highly successful, but now defunct, pretentious fashion tome that was Dernier Cri magazine, Calvary Rothschild knew all about hidden agendas of the press and the need to make a name for oneself.

‘Seems a little big for her shooboots. Mui Mui by the way. This season,’ she added.

‘And the stylist?’ Imogen inquired hopefully. ‘I suppose everything decent has been snatched up already.’

‘Well, if you will be so bloody late …’ she shot back, defensively. ‘But I’ve saved you a purple Alberta Ferretti shift and a Lanvin necklace,’ she added begrudgingly.

‘Oh Cal, thanks.’ Imogen was touched by her friend’s rare display of fashion altruism.

‘I’ll be there as quick as I can.’

Imogen threw her phone into her open Zagliani python bag in the well of the passenger seat. It was bad form to be late, especially since Calvary had been good enough to ask her to take part in the shoot in the first place.

‘Chelsea Wives,’ she had squealed with excitement down the phone to Imogen just a few days earlier, eschewing her usual cool composure. ‘ESL magazinewant to do an insightful lifestyle piece on women who live in Chelsea. Fabulous women, darling, like us! Say you’ll do it.’

Imogen hadn’t needed asking twice. Even after all these years she still missed the buzz of being in front of the lens. Her phone rang again and she snatched it up.

‘What now?’ She rolled her eyes.

‘Now that’s no way to talk to an old friend, is it?’ The gravelly female voice sounded familiar but she couldn’t immediately place it.

‘Who is this?’ Imogen asked tentatively.

‘Oh darling, it hasn’t been that long … surely you remember?’ the voice said, full of mock offence. There was a pause. ‘The bench at Hersham station? You were wearing the most ghastly stone wash denim jacket I’d ever seen in my life and you had a home perm, but even then I could see you had something special.’

Imogen gasped.

‘Cressida? Good God, Cressie Lucas. Is that you?’

‘The very same, darls. The very same,’ she said, snorting with laughter.