Reckless

“Of course.” Camilla Daley beamed, her eyes twinkling the same cornflower blue as her country casuals twin-set. She clearly relished any opportunity to talk about her son. “Bob adored Sandhurst. Absolutely loved the place, didn’t he, Rory?”

“Both times,” the old man confirmed. “As a cadet with the Welsh Fusiliers, and then later as an instructor. I don’t think he missed active service at all.”

Lord Daley had jowls that quivered when he talked, like a bulldog’s, and pale, rheumy eyes. He seemed older and more tired than his wife. Tracy wondered whether their son’s gruesome murder had hit him harder and fe

lt her guilt at her deception redouble.

“Did he have many friends at the academy?”

“Oh, Bob had masses of friends. From school, from the regiment and of course from Sandhurst too.”

“Anyone who stands out?”

“Well, yes.” Lady Daley’s face fell suddenly. “Although he probably stands out for the wrong reasons. Poor Achileas.”

“Prince Achileas? Of Greece?”

“I daresay you read about him.” Camilla nodded sadly. “He and Bob were great friends. He came here more than once you know. But I’m afraid the poor chap killed himself. We hadn’t the slightest idea he was depressed. It was the same week that Bob . . . that we lost Bob.”

Tracy’s mind raced. General Dorrien’s words rang through her skull like a clanging church bell: They may have passed on the parade ground. But it was no more than that. They weren’t friends.

Tracy thought, You little liar, Frank!

“Achileas was an officer cadet,” Tracy observed. “So he was a good deal less senior than your son. A lot younger too. Do you know how they became close?”

“Greece,” Lord Daley said wheezily from his chair. “Bob was a classicist, you see. Obsessed with Greece since he was a small boy. He was in Athens, you know, when these cowards took him.”

“Of course Harriet knows that, darling,” said his wife, rolling her eyes. “She’s written a book about what happened.”

“I thought she was writing a book about Robert?” The old man sounded confused suddenly. He reminded Tracy so strongly of her father in his later years, it was all she could do not to run over and hug him.

“I am, Lord Daley,” she assured him. “I am.” Turning back to Camilla she asked, “I don’t suppose you have any photographs of Bob with Achileas?”

“I’ll have a look.” Camilla frowned. “I don’t think so though. We’re not huge picture takers. And of course, Achileas being a royal and all that. I’m not sure he would have liked us snapping away at him like a pair of goggle-eyed tourists.”

Any two people less like “goggle-eyed tourists,” Tracy couldn’t imagine.

“We were so upset though, when we heard what happened,” Lady Daley went on. “According to some of Bob’s friends, somebody broke into Achileas’s rooms after he died and pinched things. Can you believe it? Royal souvenir hunters gone mad. I mean really, who would stoop so low?”

“I can’t imagine,” said Tracy, suitably horrified.

Although in fact she could imagine very well.

CAMERON CREWE WAS JUST stepping out of his home gym in New York after a grueling session with his trainer when Tracy called.

“Cameron?”

It took him a moment to place who it was. He hadn’t heard from Tracy Whitney since their dinner in Geneva, much to his disappointment, and didn’t know if he ever would again.

“Tracy!” he panted, leaning against a wall for support. “What a nice surprise.”

“Are you OK?” she asked. “You sound like you’re having an asthma attack.”

Cameron laughed. It was wonderful to hear her voice. More wonderful than it should have been.

“I’m fine. Just old. And unfit. Where are you?”

“I’m in London. Walking up Wandsworth Bridge Road, to be precise.”