‘That it exists?’ he countered. ‘Or that it would be the greatest addition to your collection?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I was just asking about your collection …’ Dwappa had continued, making for the door and then turning. ‘… in case I hear of anything you might be interested in purchasing.’
She had missed the trap and suddenly found herself teetering on its slimy brink. But Bobbie wasn’t a Feldenchrist for nothing, and she knew that one of the first rules of combat was to appear uninterested. All she had to do was to get the African out of her home. He had delivered everything she wanted from him, and she desired no more communication. If he persisted, Bobbie reassured herself blithely, she would call on her considerable money and legal power to make sure he backed off.
‘The Feldenchrist Collection is complete. I don’t think we need any more purchases.’
‘Don’t be too sure,’ Dwappa had replied, making for the door.
Through the glass panels Bobbie had seen him press the elevator button and wait for the light to go on above the floor guide overhead. Slowly, she had counted the elevator up, floor by floor, then exhaled when it had finally arrived at the penthouse and Dwappa got in. But at the last moment he had looked up, catching her eye through the glass panel separating them. And then he had pointed his finger straight at her, like a rapier, as the elevator door had closed on him.
That night sleep had been difficult to find.
‘Bobbie?’
She jumped as Ellen Armstrong came out of the penthouse elevator and walked towards her. ‘How’s the baby?’
Bobbie smiled warmly. ‘He’s good. The nanny’s taken him out for a walk.’
‘You’re a natural mother, Bobbie. We all commented on that at the baby shower.’ Ellen took a seat and crossed her plump legs. On her lap she clung to her Chloé bag, her fingers clawing into the pliable leather.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing,’ Ellen replied, but she was jumpy.
‘What is it? Are you in trouble? Need some funding?’
‘No! No!’
Surprised, Bobbie felt momentarily lost for words. Ellen shifted in her seat uneasily and then dropped her voice. ‘I know we aren’t supposed to talk about him—’
‘Who?’ Bobbie said, knowing already who she meant.
‘The African.’
‘What about him?’ Bobbie asked, but there was a catch in her voice and she felt her palms moisten.
‘We found out something. It’s not to be repeated. I mean, I didn’t know about it when I put him your way. How could I have done? I just heard that he could get a child for you. I didn’t know anything else—’
‘Know what?’
Ellen paused, biting her lip for a moment before pressing on. ‘He’s involved in some sordid things, Bobbie. Got a reputation for all sorts. He trades in a lot of things, and other stuff …’
‘What other stuff?’
‘Marty said he traffics children from Africa.’ Ellen smiled. A stupid woman out of her depth and trying to make the deadly sound trivial. ‘For people to adopt.’
Quickly, Bobbie rose to her feet and walked to the window, as though she could – even from penthouse height – see down into the streets to the nanny pushing her child below.
‘Hell, Ellen, how stupid d’you think I am? If this is some kind of trick to get money out of me—’
‘No, no!’ Ellen insisted. ‘I didn’t know about the man before. I just wanted to help you. You wanted a baby so much and I just wanted to help—’
Shaken, Bobbie sat down, thinking. The bond between herself and her adopted son had been immediate, her thoughts engrossed by the newcomer. The family name meant that Joseph would have the finest schooling and the family money would ensure a platinum life. But what really struck Bobbie was how, within days, he had consumed her whole life. No man, no husband, had inspired such love in her. Nothing on earth had ever meant as much as this child.
She had carried him round the drawing room, pointing out the pictures. Didn’t some specialist believe that a baby could absorb information from its first months? He would learn about the Feldenchrist artworks, about the importance of maintaining the Collection, and the name itself. Pride had flushed through every pore as Bobbie had talked to her baby, her own passion finding outlet. In time Joseph would run the collection, own it; in time he would inherit every drawing, sculpture and painting. He would go to the auctions, bid the other dealers down, wield the Feldenchrist money as all fortunes should be wielded – with unquestionable confidence.
Bobbie had learned that lesson a decade earlier, when her ruthless instinct made her tackle an important dealer from France. Later she bid against, and won against, Bartolomé Ortega. Their association then developed into an unlikely affair, their mutual interests and ambitions making them into a power couple. But the allegiance hadn’t lasted, Bartolomé ending the relationship when he met Celina. Within the year Bobbie was married too, but her ruthlessness had increased as she sought to make the Feldenchrist Collection ever more prestigious – some said in an attempt to show Bartolomé Ortega what he had lost.
Bobbie’s marriage hadn’t lasted, but her ambition had grown. And now she had a son she would be even more ruthless.
‘Ellen, we have to keep this little secret to ourselves, you understand?’ she said, with an edge to her voice. The African had threatened her – he could do the same to her son. And worse, he could tarnish the Feldenchrist name irrevocably.
‘I won’t tell anyone!’
‘Good … I’ve been thinking about that project Marty was interested in.’ She threw out the words like a fishing net. ‘I think I might invest, after all.’
Ellen caught the drift in a millisecond. ‘That would be marvellous. I wouldn’t know how to thank you.’
‘I just want your silence. You understand, Ellen? No gossip, no innuendoes, nothing. You can do that, can’t you?’
Ellen was all hurried agreement. ‘Oh, of course, of course—’
‘Not a word, Ellen. Not a single word.’ It was very late that night, just edging into morning, when Bobbie woke and flicked on the lamp by her bed. Half asleep, half awake, she glanced at the clock. Three thirty. Her first instinct was to go back to sleep, but she knew she wouldn’t rest and instead made her way to her study. In the apartment there was absolute silence, the nanny asleep, Joseph in his room beside hers.
Only Bobbie awake, only Bobbie pacing and thinking. Her gaze moved to the computer screen, fighting the impulse to turn it on. To trawl the internet for information, to investigate the man who had sold her a child … A moment lunged at her. Her hand moved over the keyboard. She hesitated, then turned the computer on.
Automatically Bobbie glanced behind her, but there was no one in the room, no one watching, and the blinds were drawn at the windows. No one would know she had been on the computer, that she had been looking. No one would know … Warily she typed the words into the search box, then pressed ENTER, and a whole listing of information came on to the screen. All about child trafficking.
Again Bobbie looked round, then turned back to the screen. Information came up – along with the remembered words:
Keep quiet, tell no one …
Her hands shook.
She had to know.
She had to look.
Or did she?
Flicking the OFF switch, Bobbie stumbled to her feet. Her legs unsteady, she walked down the corridor. Dear God! she thought. If anyone found out about her son, Joseph would be taken away from her. If the police discovered that she had had anything to do with the African they would take away her child.
She would have to keep quiet – and not just because she had been threatened. She would keep quiet to protect herself and her child. No one would know about the African from her. No one would know the truth of where her adopted son had come from. If anyone asked, she knew nothing.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
35
London, Whitechapel Hospital