Bad Boys of London: The Complete GYPSY HEROES Collection (43 page)

I get a more muted reception from Dom’s mum: outwardly kind and friendly, but sometimes I catch her looking at me warily. I guess I can’t blame her. I
’
m the dreaded tax investigator. In some ways their kindness makes me feel like an impostor. Someone who
’
s come to hurt one of them while enjoying their hospitality.

Shane was right—his mother’s roast is wicked!

And thanks to Shane and Layla, lunch is a great laugh. I look at Dom, and realize I
’
ve never seen him as relaxed as he is with his family. He catches my eyes and smiles at me. A real, genuine smile.

After the meal, I join the women in the kitchen. Layla opens the freezer and brings out a tub of gin and tonic ice cream.

She looks at me and shakes her head. ‘When I was pregnant I never had any cravings because I was so worried about my baby, but since I gave birth, I can’t stop eating this stuff. I have it made specially. It’s really delicious. Want some?’

‘Uh, no,’ I refuse politely.

‘Just have a little taste,’ she insists, coming to me with the spoon.

‘No, really. I couldn’t. I’m so full.’

‘OK. But if you change your mind, I keep a tub in Dom’s house, too,’ she offers with a smile.

‘Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.’

While Layla stuffs the spoon of ice cream into her mouth, Lily pops her head behind Layla’s and shakes it as if warning me never to try Layla’s ice cream. Hiding a smile, I turn to Dom’s mother. ‘Can I do anything to help, Mrs. Eden?’

‘No, child. Everything
’
s already done. We all just come in here so my daughter can eat her ice cream.’ She looks out of the window and then back at me. ‘It
’
s such a beautiful afternoon, I think we’ll have coffee out on the terrace.’

I smile at her. How lucky this family is. I think of my poor parents stuck in their dark, poky flat and feel a little sad for them. And then Rob is in my head, saying how life is unfair. One child born with a golden spoon in its mouth, and another born starving.

‘I really liked your family,’ I tell Dom as we make our way back to London.

He glances at me. ‘Yeah, I think they really liked you too.’

‘I especially liked Layla. She
’
s so sweet and childlike.’

‘Hmm … Don’t be fooled. Underneath all that sweetness are nerves and determination made of solid steel.’

‘Really?’

‘Absolutely. She’s very special.’

‘You’re really lucky to have them all.’

He doesn
’
t turn to look at me. ‘I know.’

There
’
s silence for a few seconds, then he says, ‘You never talk about your family.’

‘I didn’t think you’d be interested.’

His head swings around. ‘Tell me about them.’

‘Well, we
’
re four: my parents, my brother and me. My parents live in London. My father took early retirement because he
’
s plagued by all kinds of diseases, and my mother
’
s his full-time caregiver. My brother
’
s just graduated from uni and is now traveling around Asia with his girlfriend.’

He nods. ‘Are you a close family?’

‘I’m close to my parents, but my brother and I don’t get on.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t like the way he treats Mum and Dad. They have so little, and he
’
s constantly asking them for money.’

‘Do they survive on their pension alone?’

‘Not really. I help them with bits and pieces, groceries and stuff.’

His eyes swivel around. ‘On your salary?’

I shrug. ‘I manage.’

And again he looks at me as if he
’
s seeing me for the first time.

FOURTEEN

I
have exactly three opportunities to trip up Nigel Broadstreet. Not because he sucks at his job—at full flow he is brilliant in a totally slippery way—but because of the things I have seen and heard while I’ve been with Dom.

However, I don’t take them.

I just sit back and let Rob get more and more frustrated and lose more and more ground while Nigel puts forth more and more ‘evidence’ to support his claim that it was all an honest clerical mistake. No matter what Rob says or does, Nigel is impossible to faze. He is as cool as someone on a deckchair on the
Titanic
the day before the disaster, who had a helicopter ride off the ship that evening. Smooth. Confident. Secure. Unshakeable.

Watching Nigel in action isn’t like watching a cheetah kill. There’s no dazzling speed, claws, teeth, clouds of disturbed dust, or flying fur. It’s more like watching a python wrapped around a goat. Every time the goat exhales, the python squeezes tighter until the last breath is gone. At which point the python, at its own leisure, swallows the goat whole.

As we leave the restaurant I pretend to be disappointed with the outcome even though I’m actually feeling very satisfied. It is rare that someone gets the better of Rob, and he’s such a jumped-up, pompous ass that the pathetic side of me quite secretly enjoys seeing him brought down a peg.

In the car he fumes impotently. ‘I hate these oily bastards. I’d love to investigate his accountancy firm. I’m sure there are more than a few skeletons rattling in there.’

Wisely, I say nothing.

As soon as I’m out of Rob’s sight, I text Dom.

You might want to give your accountant a huge bonus this Christmas. X

I chat for a bit with the receptionist. She tells me her dog swallowed her ring so she has to dig through its poo with a stick. I make the appropriate noises of sympathy mixed with revulsion. When I leave her I take the lift upstairs and go straight to my desk.

I sit down and pull up the Integrated Compliance Environment (ICE) desktop interface. I bring up the original search request I made for Lady Marmalade. Scanning through the form, I notice that, under ‘Reason for Request and Any Additional Information’, I’ve input all his brothers as additional associated persons that I wanted researched. Even BJ’s name is there.

Leaning back, I gaze at the entry.

Every name on the list means something to me now. They’re real people. They live, they breathe, they have hopes and dreams, they love their families, and they hurt when I go after them. I remember how emotionlessly I had compiled the list. How proud I used to be of the impressive responsibility I had, to make a decision on whether to challenge a declared tax return, and at what level that challenge should be made. How powerful it used to make me feel.

I was a different person then.

My mobile pings. I pick it up and look at it.

Want to celebrate with me?

I type back:

Obviously.

The answering ping is immediate.

Pick you up at 6. Wear a bikini under your clothes. Or don’t.

Still smiling, I click out of the form and pull up the ICE Feedback Form. I complete it and click ‘Send Form’. There. Case closed.

I sit for a while with my hands in my lap and then I open a fresh Word document and begin to type into it.

We drive out to his country house, which takes us about two hours. We turn off a main road and drive for another couple of minutes on a much narrower country lane before we come upon a rather nondescript steel gate, which he opens with the touch of a button on his key fob.

We then travel through about a mile of woods, which Dom tells me he has turned into a bee, bird and deer sanctuary. And as we drive slowly through, I start to see colorful birds everywhere.

‘Oh my God,’ I cry with delight, when Dom points out two sweet little deer hidden among the trees They do not scamper away, even at the monstrous sound of the V8 engine, but they gaze back at us, their large, moist eyes totally unafraid.

‘Are they tame enough to be petted?’ I ask, turning my head to stare at them.

‘They come up to the house looking for food in the mornings. You can hand feed them then.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really,’ he says and there is an indulgent look in his eyes. He obviously cares very much for his deer.

The sun is setting, but the air is still deliciously warm, and I’m almost struck dumb by the unspoilt beauty of the woods, and the thought that one man owns all this while people like me cannot even afford to buy a matchbox apartment. But I don’t think these thoughts with the resentment I would have felt in the past. Instead, it is with a confused sadness. Is the world really just an unfair place where people have been arbitrarily made poor or rich by the accident of their birth? And does that mean that there is nothing I can do to make it a better place?

As we drive up to the house, I have to gasp. It is so beautiful. With two stately stone pillars and a frontage utterly covered in ivy, it is like an enchanted mansion straight out of a fairy tale.

Dom turns to me. ‘Like it?’

‘Like it? Dom, it’s absolutely fabulous,’ I enthuse. I turn to him. ‘Does it remain empty while you are in London?’

‘No, I have a housekeeper, and her husband doubles as the gardener. They stay the nights in the house when I’m not around, but when I’m here they live in that lodge there.’ He points to a small cottage covered in wisteria and climbing roses. Nothing could be more English than that pretty little country home.