Page 91 of Bitter Lies

Was one of those to Trent?

“I need your help.”

“This is an active investigation. I can’t share anything.” Can’t blame a man for trying.

“Well, that sucks for you. Mr. Doyle asked me to look into it, and I need information only you can provide.” I let that sink in before I continue. “It’s a simple question. Did your men have a look inside the gallery?”

“Like I said⁠—”

“Answer me before I lose my patience and start making phone calls to those above you. Mr. Doyle’s reach is long. The Thames is rather cold this time of year; not ideal for a brisk swim. Do you like swimming, detective?”

I give him a second to think about it. “The gallery. Did you search it?”

“No. It was locked.” The hitch in his voice tells me he’s only sharing half-truths.

“Nice try. Who did?”

He takes his time answering but eventually makes the right call. “I’m surprised Mr. Doyle didn’t share this with you. Are you sure you work for him?”

There’s something in the way he says it, like he wants me to think he knows more than he does.

I call his bluff.

“Don’t turn this around on me.” This pillock is getting on my nerves. “I need a name.”

“I didn’t ask for their names. My contact texted me. Ordered me to let them inside after we finished, before releasing it back to the family.”

He pauses, like he’s expecting a question.

I give him nothing.

“That’s it. I let them in. They told me to leave. An hour later, they called and said they were done.”

“The bedroom. Was it ransacked before you let them inside?”

“No.”

“Henry, my patience is running thin. Keep it up, and you’ll find out just how cold the Thames is. You didn’t leave. You stuck around. Watched. Then, when they left, you came back.” He may be corrupt, but he’s still a copper. He’d want to know what they did. “Now spill it.”

In my mind’s eye, I picture him sitting in his worn-out chair in the shabby office, the air thick with the smell of cheap coffee. The chair creaks in protest as he clicks the end of a pen, trying to decide.

“Last chance. If you make me ask again the next time we meet, I’ll be there cheering you on as you enjoy your morning exercise.” The corners of my mouth twitches upward at the thought of watching him squirming. “I’ve yet to see a man swim long in concrete shoes.”

“Fine. The men were Russian. Two big, ugly blokes. They spoke mostly in Russian, which I don’t understand, so I was lost. But like you said, I wasn’t about to let them inside to fuck shit up, so I planted a few bugs before ringing them, giving me ears inside.”

Good thing I checked for bugs when Bear and I were doing our initial sweep. Didn’t find anything, and I’m not too worried. While Sanders isn’t the brightest copper, he knows better than to leave any behind, especially knowing Trent was sending me to clean up this mess.

I smirk, knowing he’s about to bust this wide open and tell me everything I need to know. “I want those recordings. The originals, not copies. You’ll hand them over to a man I trust. As soon as we hang up, I’ll send you the details.”

I’m not stupid. He’ll keep a recording for himself. I would. But he’ll also think twice about using them unless absolutely necessary.

“Bloody hell. Fine.” He grunts, the sound thick with frustration. “A third man joined them.”

That bit of news piques my interest. “Who?”

“I don’t know. I never saw him. He showed up after I left.” Sanders pauses for a second as if he’s trying to decide what to say. Before I can threaten him again, he keeps going. “Before you ask, no, I didn’t recognize his voice. He spoke only in English and would get frustrated when they spoke in Russian. He wasn’t thrilled to be there again—his words. Ordered the two men to find it.”

“Find what?”