Blood Guilt. Lindy Cameron

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      On Wednesday morning she'd called in a favour from a friend at the local council to find out just who did own the house. Geoffrey's scheduled lunch with Miles Denning and Marjorie Finlay that day, yesterday, was cancelled by accident, or rather by an accident the witnessing of which was a sight indeed for Kit's sore eyes.

      Guessing that Geoffrey and his companions might do lunch locally, Kit had been sitting as nonchalantly as possible on the brick wall in front of OHP's terraced and landscaped front garden trying to blend in with the clutch of desperate smokers who were obviously banned from doing so inside their place of employment. Just after the second wave of midday lunch-takers - those who actually took lunch rather than a smoko - had passed through OHP's double glass doors Geoffrey emerged from his imaginary empire followed closely by Ms Finlay and Mr Denning. Geoffrey had taken a deep breath, surveyed the world at his feet and promptly fell arse over tit down the front stairs, all six of them.

      Kit had resisted both the automatic reflex of leaping up to help a fellow human being and the much stronger urge to roll about laughing. Which was more than can be said for Miles Denning who, once it had been ascertained that his colleague had not had a heart attack or been taken out by a sniper, assumed an expression that basically said Geoffrey's novel way of getting to the front street had in fact made his day.

      Marjorie Finlay on the other hand had sounded somewhat like a fishwife, screaming Geoffrey's name in apparent horror as she watched him tumble to the footpath below. She'd rushed down to help him, realised he wasn't dead or seriously injured and, after regaining her obviously much-practiced Lauren Bacall voice, assumed full executive control of the situation by ordering everybody about.

      Geoffrey's sprained left ankle and his consequent reliance on a pair of crutches had not, unfortunately, put the kybosh on his mystery 6 p.m. appointment that day which turned out to be a meeting in the cocktail bar of the Regent Hotel, with Ian Dalkeith and two other men, one of whom was of the American persuasion. Kit had not been able to photograph them together as it would no doubt have drawn attention to her leisurely drink at the bar, but had managed to snap each of them afterwards from her car across the street as they left the hotel. Geoffrey had then gone home, and stayed there for a change.

      'There's only one thing worse than a horde of stuffy publishing types getting pissed on free champagne,' Del stated, as she parked the car in Clarendon Street near the Hilton, 'and that's a horde of scruffy journalists doing the same. And tonight we have both.'

      'Ah, but it will be much more fun for me to keep an eye on the roving, randy Robbo if I am also getting pissed on free champagne,' Kit said. 'After all Celia didn't really want me skulking around the streets - it's so tacky, you know.'

      'Hi. Katherine isn't it? My name's Julie,' said the ungainly, bespectacled young woman who approached Kit with a glass of champagne in each hand.

      'Er, yes,' said Kit a little taken aback. She'd been feeling like a shag on a rock since Del had deserted her after the first five minutes, which was only ten minutes ago. She'd gone to get them another drink and forgotten to come back. Using the cover of looking for a place to set down her empty glass, she glanced around the room till she spotted Del grinning at her from the midst of a clutch of semi-inebriated journalist types. Her reluctant escort, suddenly the life of the party, was probably setting her up for something. Kit accepted the champagne from Julie, who'd barely drawn breath after introducing herself.

      'Your boss said you might be feeling a bit desperate, not knowing anyone else here.'

      'Well, not exactly desperate. Del tends to exaggerate a bit,' Kit said. I'll kill her, she thought.

      'Really? I only know her by reputation. She was chatting to one of my colleagues, who does, know her I mean, and she just mentioned that you were standing over here all alone so to speak.'

      'So to speak,' Kit said, wanting to crawl under the smorgasbord and hide. 'So, are you a journo?'

      'Good gracious no!' Julie exclaimed with the same surprise Kit would have felt had she said yes. 'I'm an editorial assistant. Well more a general dogsbody really. I work for Sandy Everett at Orlando House.'

      Kit nearly snorted her champagne all over the general dogsbody. Oh Del, you're beautiful. You've earned a reprieve, she thought as she coughed out a politely interested 'Really?'

      'Oh yes. That's my boss over there,' she said, pointing in the general direction of about fifty people.

      'I actually applied for a job at OHP some time back,' Kit lied. 'What did I miss out on?'

      'It's a great place really. Everyone's so friendly. I have to deal with most people there in one way or another in my capacity as Mr Everett's, Sandy's assistant. He's a commissioning editor; quite high up.'

      'What's the big boss like?'

      'Mr Denning? A lovely man. Probably quite experienced I'd say, and friendly.'

      Kit was reconsidering the pardon she'd given Del. This woman was a dipstick of the first order. 'What about the other top brass? I always find that if the chairman of the board is a regular human being for instance, that it sort of flows right on down through the ranks, so to speak,' Kit said, quite at a loss of how to get useful information from someone who felt that a man of Miles Denning's calibre and reputation was 'probably' quite experienced.

      'Well our chairman is a woman. Mrs Robinson. We don't see much of her though. She was married to our founder Mr Carl Orlando, before he was killed in a car accident a few years back. That was before my time of course. I think she's expected here tonight; she usually attends these sort of functions. Rumour has it she drinks a bit, and there's certainly a bit to drink here,' Julie said with a conspirational nudge on Kit's elbow.

      'She obviously married again after her husband's death,' Kit said, realising she could probably ask this woman anything she liked and it wouldn't appear strange. A ditzy gossip monger would be unlikely to realise she was being pumped for information.

      'Oh yes. She married Geoffrey Robinson, our business manager. They're quite an odd couple really, when you see them together I mean. She's sort of all roly-poly and jolly and he's stiff and conservative, a real cold fish.'

      'Well, I suppose even the most mismatched couples must have something in common,' Kit said.

      'Money probably,' Julie said. 'And power I suppose. Being the boss's husband makes you more than just a business manager, doesn't it?'

      'I suppose it does,' Kit said with a smile. 'I wouldn't imagine you'd have a lot to do with him though.'

      'No, not really. But he does do his rounds regularly. You know, sort of wanders about the office like a prison warden with his hands behind his back, making sure that everyone's in their right place doing what they should be doing. If he's looking in on someone who has their own office, like my boss, then he stands around in the doorway making inane conversation about publishing deadlines, or book covers or the cricket. He always loiters longer than necessary, because he doesn't really have anything to say and he never remembers people's names. It drives Sandy mad, but at least he's got an office. The rest of us suddenly find Mr Robinson looking over our shoulder.'

      'I gather you don't like him much,' Kit said emptying her glass and wondering how soon she'd be able to get another.

      'It's not a matter of like or dislike. I mean he's never done anything to me to make me dislike him. It's just that he's sort of sleazy, in a rich sort of way. Like if СКАЧАТЬ