Never Tell. Claire Seeber

noticed as much as a hedgerow since the day we left London. Very occasionally he ventured into the garden to kick a ball with Freddie, but he spent most of his time in the studio or rushing back to the city.

      ‘Also,’ Kattan stroked his beard lightly, ‘I have some interests in the area.’

      ‘Really?’ I was curious. ‘What kind of interests?’

      ‘My son, Ash, wishes to run for Parliament in the next election, Mrs Miller.’ Hadi Kattan caught my eye and held it. ‘He is very fond of the area. He was educated nearby. This party is for him.’

      Ash. The name was like a klaxon. The man from the garage, the man who dragged the girl back to the car.

      I glanced around uneasily.

      ‘Unfortunately he has been delayed. He’s travelling back from Dubai. He has only recently returned to Britain after a few years abroad.’

      ‘Why did he leave?’

      Hadi Kattan sighed again. ‘He became tired of people moving away from him on the underground trains, I believe.’

      ‘That kind of prejudice must be very hard to bear,’ I grimaced. For some reason, my internal alarm was ringing.

      ‘It is the world we live in now, it seems,’ Kattan said with dignity.

      ‘Can you tell me about your son’s political ambitions?’

      ‘I’m sure he will be happy to tell you himself, when he arrives.’

      I smiled. Thwarted. ‘So I believe you’re also a very important person indeed in one of the big banks.’ I took a sip of champagne, relieved to look away from his intense gaze. I noticed that no alcohol had passed his lips yet.

      ‘Briefly,’ he acquiesced graciously. ‘I was a director of World-Trident. But it was not for me. I do not particularly enjoy dancing to the corporate tune.’

      ‘A man after my own heart. Impressive, though, Mr Kattan.’ James raised an eyebrow. ‘One of the big players.’

      Kattan shrugged elegantly. ‘Hardly. And banks are not the place to be at the moment, I think, my friends, as we are currently learning, no? I got out at the right time. I prefer the art in my home to the numbers on the screen.’

      He gestured at the pictures; my eye was drawn to a diamond-encrusted skull in a glass case behind him.

      ‘Damien Hirst?’

      ‘Indeed. Are you a fan?’

      ‘Not really, I’m afraid.’ I went to take a better look. ‘He pretty much stands for everything asinine about the past decade. Clever bloke, though, I guess.’ I glanced at my husband. ‘Tapping into hedonistic greed the way he did.’

      James drained his champagne and winked at me. ‘Another bloke after my own heart.’

      As I straightened up, a silver Porsche hurtled up the drive and skidded to a halt in front of the house. I watched through the windows as a young black man flung himself out of the car and headed towards the house but he didn’t get very far before he was halted by a tall figure, hood up against the wind. Hand on his arm, he was apparently trying to calm the shorter man, who gesticulated wildly at the house. Kattan glanced at them, and then turned me gently away.

      ‘Anyway, I did not just mean business interests. I am more keen on the recreational type now.’ Heads had begun to turn at the commotion; both men were now getting into the car as I glanced round again. Kattan smoothed his lapel carefully with a flattened hand; he spoke a little louder. ‘I am thinking of taking up guns, actually. I have quite a selection here.’

      ‘Guns?’ My ears pricked up.

      ‘Shooting birds, you know,’ Kattan smiled benevolently. ‘Such a civilised part of your culture, I think.’

      ‘Yeah, well,’ James grinned and tossed an olive stone on the fire. The flames flared, ‘more civilised than shooting people, I guess.’

      I glanced out of the window. The Porsche had gone.

      ‘Perhaps you would care to join me some time, Mr Miller. I would be honoured. We even have a hunting lodge on the estate designed specifically for lunch, I am told.’

      ‘Don’t mind if I do, Mr Kattan.’ James toasted Kattan with his glass. ‘Always up for a new challenge, me.’

      ‘I always thought I might be a good shot, actually,’ I interjected.

      ‘I am not sure about women with guns, I must be honest,’ Hadi Kattan bowed. ‘What do you think, Mr Miller? It is not that fitting, I feel.’

      ‘I don’t know,’ my husband smirked. ‘Think of Charlie’s Angels!’

      I stared at James in disbelief. ‘I think we’re talking more The Shooting Party than Cameron Diaz, actually, James. Tweed and plus fours, not bikinis and bling.’

      A thickset young Asian man with greased-back hair and small silver hoops in his ears entered the room now and hovered behind us, very still and straight, his hands clasped behind his back. The throb of a helicopter could be heard in the distance, above the sound of conversation.

      ‘Zack. Please,’ Kattan beckoned him over. The young man muttered something in his ear.

      ‘Please, excuse me.’ Kattan moved away from us. ‘I have a small business matter to attend to.’

      ‘What’s The Shooting Party then? A porno about coming?’ James muttered.

      ‘Don’t be so crude, darling,’ I murmured back. ‘It really doesn’t behove one so well educated.’

      ‘Don’t be a bitch.’ He glared at me.

      ‘I’m not, really.’ I felt exhausted suddenly. There was a crisscross of tension in this house; not only between me and James, but the men arguing outside – and Kattan’s own demeanour seemed rather intense. ‘I’m going to find the loo.’

      Crossing the panelled hall, I caught my reflection in a great ornate mirror as the door to the party swung shut, the noise quickly fading behind it. My eyes were glittering from alcohol, which I was unused to these days, and James was right: I definitely looked more curvaceous in my old velvet dress than I should.

      Hand on the loo door, my heart jumped as I heard a thud from above. I hesitated. Checking behind me, I turned back and quickly headed up the huge oak staircase.

      Door after door on the first corridor revealed nothing but empty rooms, a few with furniture shrouded eerily in dust-sheets, like small children playing ghosts. I paused again. In the distance I could hear the chop of the helicopter above – and something more sinister.

      Somewhere not far from me, a woman was crying.

      Hastily I opened the last door to reveal an ornate bathroom, and shut it again. I hurried back to the staircase and crossed to the opposite corridor, a slight sweat breaking out on my top lip as the crying got louder. The first door was locked. I rattled the door handle.

      ‘Hello?’

      I thought I heard a scuffle inside. Then silence.

      ‘Hello,’ I said more urgently. I thought of the wailing woman, although the crying had stopped. ‘Maya?’

      I heard the rasp and flare of a match and spun round. The fair man I’d met so briefly at the petrol station was leaning on the wall behind me, watching me impassively. I was struck by the incredible ease with which he held himself.

      ‘Oh,’ I said stupidly. ‘You scared me.’

      ‘Lost, Mrs Miller?’ He chucked the match in the vase of roses beside him. ‘The party’s downstairs, I think you’ll find.’

      I realised he’d just used my name. ‘I was just looking for the bathroom, actually,’ I stuttered. The champagne had definitely gone to my head.

      ‘Really?