Her phone rang. She stared at the glowing numbers written like runes under the plastic shell. Why do you think they let you use your phone for personal calls?
‘How did you get on?’
It was Delamere, the lawyer she’d met in the lift on her second day.
‘I survived — thanks to you.’ It was Delamere who’d taken her through the intricacies of European corporate law, hour after hour until her head swam. ‘I owe you.’
‘How about lunch?’
Ellie glanced at her laptop. Thirty-eight new messages — to add to the couple of hundred she’d barely read while she prepared her report. And those new files. She thought the pile might have got taller while she sat there, though of course it was impossible.
‘When was the last time you ate?’
She tried to think. ‘There was a pizza yesterday afternoon, I think …’
‘That does it. You’re coming with me.’
He took her to an old-fashioned inn down an alley off Cornhill. A shield hung over the door: a black vulture emblazoned on a red cross. Inside, a marble bust watched possessively over the heavy tables and upholstered chairs that looked as if they hadn’t been changed since the nineteenth century.
‘Boarding-school food, I’m afraid,’ said Delamere, and Ellie nodded as if she knew what they ate in boarding schools. She ordered fish and chips and a glass of water. Delamere ordered a steak and kidney pudding and a bottle of red wine. The waiter poured two glasses without asking.
‘Cheers.’ Delamere raised his glass. ‘Ellie Stanton. There aren’t many people who present to the board inside their first month here. Blanchard must see something pretty special in you.’
She blushed and sipped the wine, not wanting to look rude. ‘How long have you been with the bank?’
‘A year and a half. Halfway through my tour.’ He saw Ellie’s quizzical look. ‘No gold watches in this company. Monsalvat only hires on three-year contracts. Pay you a fortune then turf you out on your ear — or rather, into some plush job with one of the big boys. I assume Blanchard told you that?’
Ellie was pretty sure he hadn’t. She gave a vague smile.
‘So how are you finding it?’
‘Hard work. But rewarding,’ she added hastily, so as not to give a bad impression.
‘It’s hard all right.’ He wasn’t paying much attention. ‘Monsalvat’s a queer place. Rumour has it there’s a vault under the building stuffed full of treasure. You know, until the seventeenth-century goldsmiths acted as bankers? They had to have strong vaults anyway, so they offered them as secure storage for their customers. You took your gold cup or plate or whatever to the goldsmith, and he’d lock it up for you.’
‘You think it’s still there?’
‘Why not? The bank’s been rebuilt umpteen times, but the foundations go way back. It was built on the ruins of an old Templar lodge. Who knows what’s buried in the vaults?’
He raised his glass again, less steady this time. ‘To the de Morgon family, our illustrious founders.’
Ellie toasted them without enthusiasm.
‘You know about the de Morgons? They were Normans, probably been around since the Conquest. They keep a tight grip. You know Michel Saint-Lazare?’
‘I’ve heard the name.’
‘He owns Groupe Saint-Lazare, our client. Apparently he’s the umpteenth descendant of the original Saint-Lazare de Morgon — still has a stake in the bank.’
Their food arrived. Ellie picked at her fish, while Delamere sawed into his steak and kidney pudding.
‘I did my dissertation on the Normans. Scary people. They conquered Sicily before they conquered England, did you know that? There’s a theory that the Mafia grew out of their feudal structures. It’s just another racket.’ He speared a kidney on the tip of his knife and waved it at her. ‘You’ve got the king, the capo dei capi; his barons, who are like the captains, and then the knights and so forth who go around extorting protection money from the villagers so they can live high off the hog. The whole thing’s steeped in violence; every so often it breaks out into a full-fledged war.’
He grabbed the bottle of wine and topped up her glass. Ellie was alarmed to see that she’d drunk most of it while he talked.
They’re not what they seem. Ellie lowered her voice. ‘Do you think Monsalvat’s involved with the mob?’
‘God no — nothing so crass.’ Delamere’s face was flushed with the alcohol; he was speaking in an exaggerated whisper that only drew attention from the neighbouring diners. ‘It’s the attitude I’m talking about. Droit de seigneur, the right to rule.’
Ellie drank her wine and tried not to make eye contact.
‘We wear suits instead of suits of armour, and we go into battle with laptops instead of lances. But it’s the same mentality. In their minds, people like Blanchard are still riding around the countryside sacking and pillaging. You and me, we’re the squires. We run around fetching their armour, grooming the horses and sharpening the swords, and hope that one day we’ll get tapped on the shoulder.’
He gave a rueful smile. ‘Sorry. Shouldn’t drink in the middle of the day. Listen, what are you doing this evening?’
Ellie was so tired she almost missed the subtext. She tried to frame a considerate smile and fought back the nausea rising in her throat.
‘I’m afraid I have to call my boyfriend.’
But when she rang Doug that night, he didn’t answer. She left a message and waited for him to call back. An autumn gale was blowing through, howling around the heights of her tower like a pack of wolves. Rain pelted the windows and made a mess of the view. She worked through some e-mails and watched TV, but she couldn’t concentrate. At ten thirty, she tried again. Still no answer. There was a landline at the house which he never used: she dug out the number and tried that. It rang for what seemed an eternity. Then:
‘Hello?’
A woman’s voice, soft and fragile, as if interrupted in the middle of some private tragedy.
‘Is Doug there?’
‘I’ll just get him.’
A hundred questions boiled up inside her in the time it took Doug to come to the phone. She could hear murmured voices in the background, which quieted some of her questions and demanded others.
‘Ellie?’
‘Are you OK?’ She could tell from his voice he wasn’t.
‘Fine. I was going to call you as soon as the police left but they’re taking ages.’
Her heart took another lurch. ‘What—’
‘I’ve been burgled. They took my laptop, my phone, the telly. Turned the place upside down. Must have thought I had something valuable squirreled away. They found my passport, which is a real bugger. I was booked to go to France tomorrow.’
‘France?’ Ellie clutched the handset. She felt as if she’d dialled into a world she no longer recognised.
‘Something’s come up with that poem I told you about. There’s a manuscript in Paris I want to look at.’
A voice in the background called something Ellie couldn’t make out.
‘They want me to sign the statement. I’d better go.’
‘Who answered the phone?’
‘Lucy. One of my students. She’d come round to drop off an essay and saw the broken window.’
I was one of your students, Ellie thought.
‘I have to go.’ More quietly, tinged with embarrassment: ‘I love you.’