Quick on the Draw Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Susan Moody

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Recent Titles by Susan Moody

  MISSELTHWAITE

  FALLING ANGEL

  RETURN TO THE SECRET GARDEN

  LOSING NICOLA *

  DANCING IN THE DARK *

  LOOSE ENDS *

  A FINAL RECKONING *

  The Alex Quick Series

  QUICK AND THE DEAD *

  QUICK OFF THE MARK *

  * available from Severn House

  QUICK ON THE DRAW

  Susan Moody

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY

  This eBook edition first published in 2018 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2018 by Susan Moody.

  The right of Susan Moody to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8731-3 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-845-3 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-905-3 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  ONE

  Sandro Grainger is probably the most beautiful human being I’ve ever met. Or ever expect to. Sitting opposite him in the upmarket Kensington restaurant he’d chosen for this meeting, I felt as though I was lunching with a flesh-and-blood Botticelli angel. Plentiful blond-tipped brown hair pushed carelessly back from his face, skin the colour and consistency of beige satin, chocolate-brown eyes surrounded by thick gold eyelashes, a full Pre-Raphaelite mouth. Magnificent. And not in the least bit effeminate. A perfect blend of his parents: Dominic’s classic Anglo-Saxon good looks mingled with Maddalena’s dark Mediterranean beauty.

  I’d met them many times, since Maddalena was a cousin of my Italian brother-in-law, Carlo. I’d even spent holiday time at their villa on Corfu, along with Carlo and his wife, my sister, Meghan. The Graingers were legendarily rich. As well as Corfu, there was the house in Rome, the house in London and an apartment in New York. Plus vast tracts of southern England.

  As for Sandro, I’d known him for years, first as an adorable toddler, then as a beguiling and – mercifully – pimple-free adolescent, and then as an almost-adult in his early twenties. We went back a long way, but sadly only on an occasional and casual basis. I wasn’t quite old enough to be his mother, unless I’d been knocked up by some perv. So it came as something of a surprise when he’d telephoned and asked me out for lunch. Flattered? Not really. Obviously he wanted something.

  I swallowed the last morsel of my chocolate cheesecake, wiped my mouth with my starched linen napkin and leaned back in my chair. ‘OK, Sandro,’ I said. ‘Nitty-gritty time. So spill.’

  His eyes slid away from mine. ‘Uh …’ he said.

  ‘Your company is delightful,’ I said. ‘And I’ve very much enjoyed our extremely good lunch. But I can’t kid myself that a twenty-five-year-old guy such as yourself would seek out a woman of my age if he didn’t have some kind of an agenda. Am I right?’

  He squirmed. ‘Uh …’

  ‘So level with me.’

  He fiddled with his water glass, then with the salt cellar in front of him. Picked up his dessert fork and put it down again. ‘Thing is, Alex …’ He fell silent.

  ‘Yes?’ I encouraged.

  ‘Look, I know …’ Another silence. He rootled in a pocket, brought out a small Swiss Army knife, put it back. I got the impression that he was not at ease.

  ‘Which is more than I do,’ I said.

  ‘Uh …’ He cleared his throat. ‘You used to be a police officer.’

  ‘This is true.’

  ‘So you must be something of a detective.’

  I smiled. ‘And you want me to do some detecting on your behalf?’

  His face relaxed. He gave a half-laugh. ‘Exactly.’ He gazed round the room like someone whose troubles were finally over.

  ‘This is fascinating stuff, Sandro. But could you give me some further details?’

  He thought about it, then sighed. ‘Yeah. I guess I have to.’

  ‘Otherwise there’s not a whole lot I can do.’

  ‘I quite see that.’ More nervous fiddling with salt and pepper. More twisting of the water glass.

  ‘Sandro!’ I placed my hand on top of his. ‘For goodness’ sake, tell me what the problem is.’

  ‘OK.’ He nodded fiercely to himself. ‘So, earlier this year, I was staying in my Uncle Cesare’s place in Venice, while he and my aunt were attending some high-level meetings in Geneva. He is the Marchese Cesare Antonio de Farnese de Peron, to give him his full title, and has this rather grand apartment in one of the palazzi along the Grand Canal. And I decided to hold a dinner party, you know, a real grown-up dinner party, to celebrate my birthday. Catered, private chef, black tie and all. My generation tends to go round in ripped jeans all the time, so I thought it would be fun to dress up a bit.’ His eyes were wide with earnest sincerity, while I thought that many of his generation probably weren’t able to afford much more than jeans, ripped or otherwise.

  ‘Sounds great. How many people did you invite?’

  ‘Just ten. Well, nine really, since I was one of them.’ He laughed nervously. ‘Was going to be eight, but at the last moment Tony – my girlfriend’s brother – decided to come after all.’

  ‘And all went well? Nobody threw pasta con vongole at the priceless tapestries, or drew a moustache on the Contessa’s portrait?’

  ‘Of course not!’ He seemed shocked. ‘My friends are all very … beneducato. Well-bred. They know how to behave.’

  ‘Even well-brought-up young people can go off the rails.’

  ‘Of course. Anyway, the next day I had cleaners in to make sure the apartment was immaculate before my aunt and uncle came back. Naturally I’d asked my uncle’s permission to hold the party, because i
f there’s one thing I don’t want to do, it’s to get into Cesare’s bad books. He can be … fierce.’ Sandro shuddered dramatically. ‘I mean fierce!’

  ‘So what do you need me for?’

  ‘Well …’ Sandro hesitated. ‘I still can’t quite believe this, but I was walking down New Bond Street the other day and I noticed a ring in the window of a pawnshop. It looked exactly like a ring that has been in my uncle’s family for generations – an heirloom supposed to have been given to one of my aunt’s ancestors by some doge or other way back when, as a mark of his esteem or something. And then, when I looked closer, I could see that in fact it didn’t just look like my uncle’s ring, it was my uncle’s ring – or my aunt’s, to be more precise. Right there, in a pawnshop!’

  His privileged young voice displayed scorn and disbelief at the very notion. Did he have any idea of the hand-to-mouth existence led by some sectors of society? How much reliance some people placed on pawnbrokers? Or, for that matter, what a respectable history the pawnshop possessed? Didn’t sound like it.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Sandro, let me give you a little background here. Pawnshops are not all about furtive criminals slinking in to try and fence stolen property. Nor are they men pawning the family teapot in order to get drunk before staggering home to some sordid slum in order to beat up their wife and kids. In fact, in the United States, they’re often referred to as deluxe collateral lenders. They’re patronized by all sections of society, people looking for short-term loans, from high-end rollers and doctors, to lawyers and even bankers, believe it or not. And the collateral these punters offer can be as upmarket as wine collections, or fine art, or cars. Even uncut diamonds. And for your further information, Isabella of Spain used a pawnshop to finance Christopher Columbus’s expedition, and whichever French king it was pawned the royal jewels to raise money for the war against Henry the Fifth. There’s even a famous pawnshop which was in fact a charity.’

  ‘How come you know so much about it?’

  ‘I had to do a research project when I was at uni,’ I said.

  ‘Well, what about this …’ He choked slightly with indignation. ‘A couple of days after I saw the ring, I was in an art gallery, looking for a gift for my mother, and there on the wall was a small Botticelli, a young man, head and shoulders, with a pastoral scene visible through the window behind him. Very delicate, very lovely.’ He coughed. ‘I couldn’t believe my eyes. I went in – and again, it was my uncle’s!’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Well, to be honest, it was probably painted by an apprentice, rather than the master himself, but you’d have to be an expert to spot it. Anyway, it was definitely hanging in the salotto of my uncle’s appartamento the night of my dinner party, because somebody said something about how much it looked like me.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Well, naturally there was no choice. I had to buy it from the owner of the gallery. Like I did the ring from the pawnshop, earlier. And then I flew to Venice and managed to replace both objects before Uncle Cesare could return from his fundraising meetings and find them gone.’

  ‘Problem solved, then,’ I said.

  ‘Not quite. First of all, it cost me a whole heap of money. Then I want to know who was responsible for stealing the two objects from Cesare’s place – I mean, it more or less has to be one of my friends, don’t you think?’

  I couldn’t resist saying, ‘In spite of them being so well-brought-up?’

  He shrugged me off. ‘As you said, people can do silly things. But not as silly as stealing my uncle’s prized possessions.’

  ‘Just off the top of your head, which of them would you suspect?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ For a moment, he gazed into the middle distance. He picked at one of the half-dozen charity wristbands on his arm – cotton weaving, beaded bands, plaited leather, crude plastic, some with words printed on them. Help for Heroes. Men’s Health Awareness.

  ‘I like the jewellery,’ I said, nodding at them. ‘What the well-dressed man about town is wearing these days.’

  He flushed. ‘One of Suzy’s clients produces them, so she’s always giving me samples to wear, in order to promote them.’

  ‘Love indeed.’

  ‘Whatevs.’ He paused. ‘But it’s not just the thefts …’

  ‘What else?’ I asked, repressing the urge to sigh.

  ‘The problem is, Alessandra, I also urgently need to find out if anything else was taken. Because if it was, and I’m not aware, then when my uncle finds out, I shall be in very serious trouble.’

  ‘And how exactly do you think I can help?’ The way he said my name was toe-curlingly sexy.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe you could go and talk to them,’ he suggested.

  ‘And ask them if by any chance they stole a faux-Botticelli or a doge’s ring? Or any other valuable trinket of that sort? Come on, Sandro, as far as they’re concerned, I’m a total stranger. I can’t just turn up and start interrogating them.’

  ‘But you’re with the police.’

  ‘Used to be. Not any more. Besides, I don’t think I’m qualified for this kind of job. Sounds to me as though you need to engage a private detective of some kind. There are plenty of them around. Look in the Yellow Pages. Or I can recommend—’

  ‘Alessandra, you must do this for me. I can’t have any fuss made. Think of the scandal it would cause if anyone found out, the shame and dishonour it would bring to my family, to my mamma. It would be intolerable. I need absolute discretion. And then …’ He picked up his wine glass and swallowed its contents. ‘I have Sicilian blood running through my veins. And as it says in the Bible, la vendetta è mia. Vengeance is mine. When I say vengeance,’ he added hastily, ‘I don’t mean swords at midnight, or ground glass in the coffee. I just want the person responsible to suffer. Well, not suffer, exactly, but certainly to be punished in some way.’

  ‘I always thought vengeance was the Lord’s and He was the one who would repay.’

  Sandro waved his hands about. ‘That is beside the point.’

  ‘Would the Lord see it that way?’

  ‘And quite apart from anything else’ – Sandro wagged a finger at me – ‘to steal from your host is an appalling abuse of hospitality.’

  He sounded much as his grandfather, an Italian aristocrat renowned for his crustiness, might have done, rather than a guy in his twenties.

  ‘And how am I to meet these people? Let alone begin cross-examining them?’

  ‘I thought of that. I shall have a small gathering in my flat. To celebrate my mother’s birthday. Invite all of them – plus a few others. Including my aunt and uncle, of course. Plus some people of your age.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Sandro,’ I said humbly.

  ‘Obviously also my parents and maybe a few of my colleagues from my office. And maybe your brother – he knows my parents. Would that work?’

  ‘It might.’

  ‘I’ll set it up as soon as possible and let you know.’

  ‘Won’t your friends find it a bit odd, that you’re having another party so soon?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I entertain a lot. And they know that I prefer to eat at home rather than in a restaurant. Though it’ll be a buffet rather than a formal sit-down dinner. Meanwhile …’ He reached into the inside breast pocket of his suit and brought out a piece of A4 paper folded into four. ‘I thought you might need some more information, so here are the coordinates of the people who were at my dinner party in Venice.’

  He poured out the last of the wine while I unfolded the page he’d handed me and looked at what he’d written. A list of names, basically. ‘So expand, Sandro,’ I said.

  ‘Well, for a start, all of them have one parent who is Italian and one who is English. Like me. So they’re all equally at home in either country. And they’re all kind of interconnected. For instance, I went to school with Harry and Jack Jago. Fabio Wisdom is a great friend of Katy Pasqualin – their mothers are cousins. And
Katy herself is one of my Aunt Allegra’s nieces, so is a sort of cousin to me as well.’

  ‘And what does Katy do?’

  ‘She’s the manager of an art gallery in Kensington.’

  In other words, one of those as-soon-as-my-boyfriend-proposes-I’m-outta-here sort of jobs. I could just imagine her, all designer scarves and big ethnic necklaces made of lava and seal tusks, with expensive patent leather shoes on her elegant feet.

  ‘She’s also a bit of a championship swimmer,’ continued Sandro, surprising me. ‘And Fabio is a fashion designer in Milan. He’s just set up his own evening gown label. Then there’s Laura, who’s a model. Not in the Claudia Schiffer or Cara Delevingne class yet, but on the way there. She’s done quite a few shows for Fabio.’

  ‘And … uh …’ I looked down at the list in my hand. ‘Bianca Mondori?’

  ‘She works in the City. Like I do.’

  ‘What about your girlfriend?’

  ‘Suzy?’

  I scanned the sheet of paper. ‘Suzy Hartley Haywood.’ I knew the name because she was always in the trash mags: seen in a nightclub with Prince Harry, holidaying in a minuscule bikini in Malibu, flaunting her luscious attributes as she falls out of her dress (as the tabloids have it) at some glitzy function or other. Despite my best efforts, I could feel my lips purse. Miss Hartley Haywood didn’t sound like high quality daughter-in-law material.

  ‘She’s with a PR company,’ Sandro said.

  ‘Makes sense.’

  ‘And her brother, Tony, works with his parents at their stud farm near Cheltenham.’

  ‘What do Harry and Jack do?’

  ‘They’re twins. They farm. Or maybe you could call it more of a large allotment than an actual farm.’ He grinned at me, showing the kind of beautiful white teeth it takes thousands of pounds to achieve. ‘No, that’s not fair. It’s like a cottage industry, really, very small, which is how they want to keep it. They’re not far from the Hartley Haywoods, as a matter of fact. They’re into healthy eating, growing organic kind of stuff. Honey and fresh herbs, dodgy-looking vegetables, genuine free-range eggs, peat-raised cabbages. That sort of thing. Vegetable boxes, it’s called. It’s all the rage. You subscribe to their website for a year, and they deliver a big box of seasonal fresh stuff to you once or twice a week or fortnight. As often as you like.’