Masters & Lovers Box Set Three

An hour later, he accompanies her to the offices of Hofferman and Partners.
At the main door, uniformed guards stand. Theo displays ID, offers his briefcase for search to one guard. The other points to
Mitch’s bag. “That too please, miss.” Then he waves across a woman in dark blue uniform.
“Arms and legs apart, please.” Mitch stands as hands frisk up and down, patting at arms, legs, hips and torso. Theo gets the
same treatment from a male guard.
“Is it always like this?” she asks as her bag is returned.
“Romani case. High security.”
In the reception, secretary nods Theo through to an office, then with a chill glance at Mitch, points her to a seat. “Wait there,
please.”
After only five minutes, the phone buzzes. The secretary answers then, “Go through please, Miss Kimberley. Mr Devlin is waiting
for you.”
The office is huge, plush and darkly traditional. Theo sits to one side, ankle cocked onto a knee, poised with notebook and pen.
Max Devlin, whom she normally meets in less formal circumstances, sits behind an acre of green-leathered desk, face propped
on thumb and forefinger. He doesn’t look friendly.
“Miss Kimberley. I have agreed to see you because what you have said to Mr Aldred here suggests a link to organised crime.
That is the only reason. You have ten minutes of my time.”
She sucks inside her cheeks, trying to raise saliva. “Max... Mr Devlin... You see... I met a man; a client... Lawrence Klempner...
*****
Devlin relaxes back into the studded leather of his seat. “On your honour, Mitch, is all this true? If I take you at your word on this
and follow it up to find you’re lying to me, I’ll throw you to the dogs.”
Considerably more than the ten minutes has passed. The secretary has served coffee which Mitch drinks as her porcelain cup
rattles against its saucer. Theo puts down his pen, stretching aching fingers open and closed.
“Max, I promise you, it’s true. All of it.”

“Why didn’t you report it immediately?”
“I didn't know what to do, who to talk to. I didn't want to go to the police because...” She curls in on herself, turns small...”
He picks at a hangnail. “Because the police are usually unsympathetic towards prostitutes.”
“Yes.” She cringes inside. “I thought too, that to have gotten it so far; to have something like Blessingmoors running... so large,
so prominent, Larry must know someone. Maybe someone important...” Max nods slowly... “I was trying to decide what to do
when the police arrived. I’d already thought I might call you. Ask your advice...” Her voice splinters. “Max, I was so frightened. I
still am. They just kicked my door in and...” Her fragile veneer cracks and the tears come. The shakes come. Face dropping, she
shudders terror and grief and helplessness into her hands.
Awkwardly, the two men watch her.
After a minute, Max scratches at the bridge of his nose, then sighs, thumbing towards the door. “Theo, go find something else to
do for ten minutes.”
As the door closes again, Max moves from behind his desk, perches a hip by Mitch and takes her hand, weaving his fingers
between hers. “Mitch, I’ll help. The first thing I’ll do is see what I can learn about your Lawrence Klempner. Do you have a photo
of him?”
Her head swings. “No. He was a client...”
“And the clients of courtesans don’t like photos...” His brow cocks, mouth quirking... “Or if they do, I’m guessing they pay extra?”
She raises the ghost of a smile.
He continues, “It’s not a problem. There was a lot of publicity around opening Blessingmoors. I’m sure I’ll track something down I
can follow. Meanwhile...” His fingers tighten around hers. “Meanwhile, we’re going to get you out of sight. Book you into a hotel.
I’ll get you taxi’d there, then you keep your door locked. Don't let anyone in unless you are very sure of who they are. I'll make
some checks and see what I can learn.”
*****
Michael
Book-keeping and accounts...

I bloody hate the job.
I have someone in for a few hours a week to do the day-to-day work; booking in receipts, sending out invoices and quotes, all
that stuff. But once a month, like it or not, I go over the figures. It’s the only way to be sure I have my finger on the pulse.
And now having both the spa hotel and the City centre, there’s twice the work.
*sigh*
The accounts software does most of the heavy lifting of course, but I still prefer to do some parts of it manually, ensuring the
numbers pass through my brain, not just my eyes. So, I check the ratios: overheads cost per client, number of staff per client,
mark-up on purchases versus sales in the restaurant...
Feet up on the settee by the fire, laptop propped on my knees, I work through it all. And, if I’m honest, there’s worse ways to
work.
Warmth. Comfort. My own home. My own boss...
I take a sip of the excellent malt which sits on the small table by my side.
Calculator...
“Calculator. Calculator...” I sit up, spin, repeating the word as though it’s some feat of magic that will conjure up the object if I say
it often enough.
Damn!
Must have left back at the office...
James’ll have one...
I pad through to James’ study; a quick scan of the visible... No calculator.
Desk...
Top drawer...

I scratch through stapler, note pads, hole punch, pins, memory keys, assorted computer cables and connectors, a couple of old
floppy discs that can’t be useful these days for much more than cup mats...
Gotcha...
The calculator is jammed at the back of the drawer between a scrum of sticky notes, erasers and pencil stubs, and something
flattish trapped underneath.
Prising the whole mess backwards, I free the calculator and am about to slam the drawer shut on my pilfering...
... when I see what the flattish object is.
James had a photo of Georgie; old, poor quality and blown-up beyond any sensible quality, but that photo followed him, in his
wallet and on his desk for years; all the time I have known him
And now, here it is, face-down, tucked away and out of sight.
He's buried his daughter.
Crap...
*****