Code Red Lipstick (7 page)

She flicked open her pendant and stared at the thumb-sized photos of her parents. She took in her dad's kind, tanned face with the strong jaw she'd inherited, the honest blue-grey eyes and short, silver hair. She touched her mum's picture. Mattie was right. She did look like her. They had the same long blonde hair and the gap between their front teeth. This photo had been taken shortly before her death. She didn't remember the crash or the funeral. She only had a few memories: Mum pushing her along on her bicycle; giving her a raspberry lolly when she grazed her knee; the scent of roses.

She snapped the pendant shut and closed her eyes. She'd lost her mum.

She wasn't about to lose her dad too.

“
Pardonnez-moi
.”

Jessica jolted awake.

Someone had accidentally brushed against her, holding a coffee cup. The woman exited the carriage. A passenger sat opposite Jessica, buried behind a copy of the
Financial Times
. She tensed as she looked about. Where had everyone gone? There weren't any stops before Paris but the carriage was empty apart from the person sitting opposite: a man, judging by the hands.

She leapt up. The man lowered his newspaper and folded it neatly in half.

“Which part of the ‘you're not allowed to go to Paris' order didn't you understand?” Nathan snapped. “I thought I'd made myself pretty clear yesterday, or don't teenagers understand plain English any more?”

Ohmigod. She was well and truly busted. She was still debating what to say when he jumped to his feet.

“I'll let you think about that while I buy us both a cup of tea. You look pretty pale. Do you want a sandwich?” He stared icily at her. “I could really do without you fainting on me right now. Or
pretending
to faint.”

She shook her head. Judging by the look on his face, he'd probably relish lacing her sandwich with poison.

“Suit yourself.” He patted his jacket to find his wallet.

Jessica looked up and down the carriage for an escape route.

“Sit down,” he growled. “There's no point trying to run off. We don't arrive in Paris for another hour so there's nowhere to go. I don't want to cause a scene by handcuffing you, but I will if I have to. I've already cleared this carriage to give us some privacy.” He gestured to the empty seats before leaving.

She checked her watch. Nathan was right. The toilets were the only place to hide but she couldn't stay locked inside a cubicle for ever. More MI6 agents could be aboard. She couldn't jump from the train either. At this speed, she'd never survive. Her best bet would be to try and shake him off when they arrived. She could outrun him in the station.

After a couple of minutes the door slid open and Nathan reappeared, frowning hard. His black mood clearly hadn't lifted. His mobile was clamped to his ear and a white paper bag swung from his other hand.

“I want results, not excuses,” he barked into his phone. “Do your job or I'll find someone who can.”

He hung up and tossed the phone on to the table. He passed her a paper cup without looking at her and sat down.

“I expect the tea tastes like mud but it's the best I can do.”

She watched as he unpacked his own cup and some sandwiches. He shoved a packet across the table towards her.

“I thought you might have changed your mind,” he said shortly.

“I haven't.” She tossed the sandwiches back with equal contempt. “I'm not going home. My agency's lined up some jobs for me in Paris. I'm going to be working flat out over the next couple of days.”

“Wow! That's really convenient. Did you persuade them to do that when you swung by after our little talk?” He cracked the knuckles of his right hand.

She winced. “That's my business.”

“And yet now it's mine. I had to warn your dad off because he refused to stay away from Paris. He was jeopardizing our operation. Now you're being equally obstructive. When will you Coles ever learn to do as you're told?”

Probably never.

She shivered as he popped the knuckles of his other hand. Her nerves were ragged enough already without having to listen to that godawful sound. She could tell by the smirk hovering on Nathan's lips that it was a deliberate torture.

“I just want to find my dad,” she said.

“You need to leave that to us. We're already looking for him. Why do you think I'm going to Paris?”

“To carry on fitting him up for a crime he didn't commit? You and Margaret seem to be doing a pretty good job of that already.”

Nathan shook his head. “Margaret's already in Paris, looking for your dad and chasing up potential leads.”

Jessica's heart leapt. “Has she found out anything yet?”

“That's classified.”

“Yet throwing mud at my dad yesterday wasn't? Neither of you has even considered the possibility that my dad's innocent and got set up, have you?”

Nathan hesitated. “It's an avenue we're exploring.”

“Oh great. That gives me lots of confidence. Well, while you're slowly exploring that avenue, I'll get on with what I'm doing.”

“No, you will not!” he shouted. He thumped his fist down on the table, spilling his tea.

Jessica jumped. Her eyes narrowed. Who the hell did he think he was?

They glared at each other in silence as the door slid open and a man walked past en route to the refreshments carriage. The door closed quietly behind him.

Nathan leant closer threateningly. “You don't seem to understand the position you're in, Jessica. I'm not here to negotiate with you. You either do as you're told or you're on the first train back to London.”

Jessica's eyes welled up. She couldn't go home without finding Dad. She just couldn't.

“I understand why you're doing this, Jessica, and it's commendable that you're so loyal to your dad.” His tone was a little softer now. He reached out as if to touch her wrist. “But believe me, it's time to back off.”

She snatched her hand back. Pretending to be sympathetic didn't suit him at all. “You don't understand anything! Do you really expect me to stand back and do nothing while my dad's out there somewhere, needing help?”

“That's exactly what I want you to do,” Nathan hit back. “You might have tagged along with your dad on some of his jobs but this is a whole different ball game. People – people who are a lot more experienced than you – are ending up dead. Is that what you really want?”

Jessica shivered as she remembered the image of Lara, lying strangled on the floor. Was he threatening her or simply warning her off? It was hard to tell.

“These are the rules,” Nathan said smoothly. “I'll let you stay in Paris as long as you behave yourself. Get on with your modelling and stay out of my way. I've retrieved a copy of your itinerary from Primus's computer system so I'll know where you are every minute of every day. I've also placed an undercover agent close to you. If you don't turn up for something, if you're even five minutes late, they'll report back to me.”

“I wouldn't—”

“That's good, because I don't give second chances. You mess up, you'll be going home in handcuffs to meet my boss, Mrs T. I wouldn't recommend that encounter. She's nowhere near as nice as me.”

Jessica snorted.
Nice
wasn't a word she'd ever use to describe him. She could think of plenty of other adjectives, though.

Nathan's eyes narrowed as if he could read her thoughts. He gestured to his mobile on the table.

“Does your grandmother even know what happened to you yesterday? Or that your dad's gone completely off the grid in Paris? I can ring her right now and enlighten her. It's your choice. How do you want to play this?”

Choice? She scowled at him. He'd played his trump card. Mattie would kill her if she found out what she was up to. She dreaded her more than the mysterious Mrs T, or even him.

“I can behave myself,” she said finally. God, she hated him.

“Good. In return, I'll let you know if I find out anything about your dad.” He picked up his paper again.

Jessica stared out of the window. In the reflection, she could see him staring at her with a look of sheer contempt. She didn't believe him for a second. Why would he tell her anything?

Nathan shared the car from the station and dropped her off at her hotel. He'd given her a card with his mobile number. Scribbled on the back were the details for his hotel. The Ritz. Clearly expenses weren't an issue at MI6.
Lucky him
. Her hotel wasn't as grand but it was still pretty cool. Her room had funky black and white furniture and a large flat-screen TV. Normally, she'd raid the minibar for chocolate and crisps, watch rubbish soaps for hours and soak in a hot bath, but she couldn't have fun today. She had too much to do.

First, she texted Mattie to say she was OK. It was tempting to text her PFB – Potential Future Boyfriend – too; it hadn't been hard to get Jamie's number after he'd left his mobile lying about in art class. But what would she say to him?

Hiya. I'm in Paris, dodging MI6 and trying to find my dad, who's a suspected murderer/traitor. How r u?

What would she ever say to him?

Stay away. I'm trouble.

She didn't have time for boys – even the best-looking one in the entire universe. She double-checked her dad's mobile. Nothing, still voicemail. She fired up his iPad and did a geolocation trace on the phone. The SIM card had been removed or destroyed so she couldn't pinpoint where he was. However, she could see the locations he'd made calls from over the last few days. He'd used his mobile a lot in his hotel and at a café, where he'd rung both their home phone and Mattie's mobile on Saturday afternoon. It was probably worth a visit to see if the waiters remembered him. She didn't recognize the other numbers – one was a mobile he'd called five times throughout Saturday. He'd made a call to it from AKSC that morning and been on the line for three minutes.

So he
had
paid a visit to the company in his search for Sam.

His last call was to the mystery mobile again, at 11.34 p.m. on Saturday. It was made from a location near his hotel. Could he have been heading back there when something happened? He went missing about the same time as Lara was found strangled in her hotel room, according to the time stamp on the photo of the crime scene. That couldn't be a coincidence.

She pulled out Becky's iPhone, masked her number and rang the mobile. It clicked straight on to voicemail, like Dad's.

“Hi. I can't take your call right now. Please leave a message. Hugs and kisses, Lara.”

Jessica quickly hung up. That was spooky, hearing the voice of a dead person, speaking from beyond the grave. It was another piece of evidence that pointed to her dad's innocence, which MI6 had ignored or hadn't bothered to examine. If he'd killed Lara, why would he ring her even after her death? Margaret and Nathan would probably argue that he was giving himself an alibi. But what if he'd been trying to warn Lara before someone got to him too?

She shivered. He'd managed to get away from whoever it was long enough to reach a phone and make a Code Red call. That was slightly reassuring. He was still alive two days after his disappearance. If only she had the number he'd used, she could trace it. But it had flashed up on her phone as
PRIVATE
NUMBER
and she didn't have the technology to try and decipher where he was calling from.

She tossed her hair over her shoulders. She had to stay positive and focus on what she did have – evidence that Lara and her dad had been in regular contact and met their fates at about the same time on Saturday night. She also had important leads to follow up – the café where her dad made calls from and most importantly, AKSC.

She flicked through the documents she'd printed off her dad's computer. Her eyes rested on Sam Bishop's photo. She had to think like her dad and figure out what steps he'd taken to find him. Paying AKSC a visit must be her top priority. She really needed that casting call. She'd have to harass Felicity until she came up with the goods.

First she'd retrace her dad's steps, starting with his stay in Paris: the Hôtel Relais Saint-Jacques. It was a risk. If the undercover agent tailed her and reported back to Nathan, she'd be packed off to London by the end of the day. But this could be the only chance to do some serious snooping before she started modelling. She had to give it a shot. She stuffed Sam's picture into her bag, picked up her leather jacket and slipped out. Nobody gave her a second glance as she strode across the lobby and hailed a taxi outside. So far, so good. No one appeared to be shadowing her.

Just to be extra careful, she paid the driver to go via some sightseeing routes in case she was shadowed. She leant out of the window to take a picture of the Arc de Triomphe, like any other tourist. If anyone
did
happen to be following, they wouldn't sense anything out of the ordinary. She peered at a giant white advertising billboard as the taxi overtook a lorry. TEENOSITY was printed in large black letters, with AKSC and the date
25th Janvier
below.

Interesting. Allegra Knight's new product launch was taking place this Saturday. The billboard didn't feature any models or actresses or give any clues about what it was actually advertising. Felicity had said AKSC's new product was hush-hush. She wasn't exaggerating.

Eventually, the taxi pulled up outside Hôtel Relais Saint-Jacques, a white building on rue de l'Abbé de l'Épée, near the heart of the Latin Quarter. Flower boxes were dotted along the window sills and the doors were flung open invitingly. She paid the driver and looked up and down the street. She couldn't see anyone watching her. She pushed her shoulders back, raised her chin and walked inside. Confidence was the key to success, she'd learnt from previous jobs. If she faltered and looked like she didn't belong in the hotel, she'd be pounced on by security and thrown out within seconds.

The young brunette woman with bright scarlet lips behind the desk was her best bet. The name badge said Anouk Girard. She looked like she'd be sympathetic to a teenager in trouble, whereas the man on her right would probably eat her for breakfast.

“
Bonjour
, Mademoiselle Girard,” she said, smiling.

She explained rapidly in French that she was looking for her father, Jack Cole, who'd gone missing. She showed the woman her passport and noticed her flinch.

“I'm so sorry, Mademoiselle Cole,” she said. “How can I help you?”

“I need to see Dad's room. He checked in on Saturday morning.”

Mademoiselle Girard paused. The receptionist on her right picked up the phone. She shot a look at another man who was locked in conversation with an elderly guest nearby. His name badge stated he was the general manager. She reddened as she stared back at her computer screen.

“Please,” Jessica said. “I'm begging you. This means a lot to me.”

Mademoiselle Girard nodded. “I understand.”

She waited until the manager had shaken the guest's hand and wandered away. “
Suivez-moi
.”

Mademoiselle Girard led her through the foyer, past the luxurious bar and lounges and up the stairs to the first floor. She stopped as they passed through a second set of doors.

“This is it,” she said. “Monsieur Cole's room. It's as he left it. The police ordered us not to move anything.”

She swiped the door open and stepped back as Jessica walked inside. Room 158 was decorated with ornate, patterned scarlet wallpaper, which matched the spread on the king-sized bed.

“I'll give you some privacy,” Mademoiselle Girard said, “but I can't be away from the desk for too long.” She closed the door behind her.

Jessica felt a lump rise in her throat as she spotted her dad's silver Omega watch on the desk. It'd been a gift from her mum on his birthday. It was one of his most treasured possessions. He always wore it. She didn't dare pick it up in case the police dusted it for fingerprints. She didn't want to be traced back to this room. She felt a stabbing pain in her chest as she remembered the engraving on the back.

Love you for ever, Lily.

She didn't have much time before Mademoiselle Girard returned. She had to find something that MI6 hadn't thought to look for. Her dad's laptop and mobile were gone but his passport and wallet were on the desk, along with his pills. She slipped the bottle into her bag. He'd need his meds urgently when she found him. No one would miss
them.
She turned around, noticing a photo in a small silver frame on the bedside table. She'd given it to him as a birthday present and he always took it with him on business trips. It was taken a year ago while they were holidaying in Cornwall. She was grinning, her arms wrapped around his neck. Her dad was laughing too. They both looked so happy. She wished she could remember what they'd found so funny. Somehow, it felt important now.

Mademoiselle Girard tapped on the door and stepped inside. She paused as she looked at the picture.

“It's a lovely photo.”

“Thank you. I was just remembering when it was taken. Can I stay a few minutes longer? Please?”

Mademoiselle Girard's eyes flickered around the room. “I have to get back before I'm missed. Close the door behind you when you're finished.”

Jessica nodded. She waited for the door to shut and sat on the bed. It'd been fruitless. There was nothing here, except memories of her dad. Somehow, she felt closer to him, surrounded by all his things. Just days ago he'd touched the razor in the bathroom and polished the shoes in the wardrobe. He'd worn his watch.

Where was he now?

She jumped up. She was wasting time. The café was next on her hit list. She took one last look around the room and stepped into the corridor. A maid wheeling a trolley laden with towels and soaps glanced up, startled. Jessica explained in French that she was leaving and strode away.

“Jessica Cole?”

She turned back and stared at the name badge pinned to the maid's blue uniform. She'd never met Marie Dumont before.

“
Oui
. Do you know me?”

“You're the blonde from the photograph in there.” The maid nodded at the room. “Your father told me you're a model. He's so proud.”

“Thank you.” She'd used his name in the present tense, not like Margaret. She squeezed her fingers into the palms of her hands. She hadn't cried yet and wasn't about to in front of a stranger.

“He was a kind man and tipped generously for information,” Mademoiselle Dumont said.

“What kind of information?”

“About Monsieur Bishop. He was particularly interested in
him
.”

Jessica caught her breath. She'd been expecting her to say she'd told her dad about a good local restaurant or something trivial like that.

“Sam Bishop? You talked to my dad about him?”

“
Oui
, mademoiselle. I told Monsieur Cole every­thing I know.”

Jessica couldn't believe her stroke of luck. “What did you tell him?”

Mademoiselle Dumont remained mute until she fished out twenty euros from her purse. The maid grabbed the note and shoved it into her pocket as two elderly guests brushed past.

“This way.” She pushed the trolley along the corridors until they reached Room 126. She swiped her card and pushed open the door.

“The room's been cleaned since Monsieur Bishop left, of course,” she said, “but no guest has been in here since. Management's planning a refit of some of the rooms on this floor, including this one.”

Of course! Why hadn't she thought of this before? Her dad had deliberately checked into the same hotel as Sam Bishop so it would make it easier to speak to employees without alerting suspicion. He always said cleaning staff were a valuable source of information, as they had a good idea of the guests' habits. Sometimes they even peeked into their belongings.

She walked around the room, looking inside drawers and wardrobes. Mademoiselle Dumont was right: the room had been thoroughly cleaned and smelt of lemon air freshener. Sam didn't appear to have left anything behind.

“So what did you tell my dad?”

“As I said, your father was a generous man.” Mademoiselle Dumont smiled patiently and waited, her eyes resting on Jessica's handbag.

She pulled her purse out again and handed over fifty euros. Mademoiselle Dumont grinned as she pocketed the money.

“Monsieur Bishop left the room in a state as usual the morning he disappeared – clothes scattered everywhere, wet towels on the floor, his shaving kit in the sink. The man lived like a
cochon
, what you English call a pig,
non
? He'd been with us for six months and I don't think he ever picked up a sock.
Il était impossible
.”

“That's it?” Jessica slumped on to the bed. She might as well have thrown Mattie's fifty euros out of the window. She'd hoped to find out something more interesting about Sam other than his poor personal habits.

“That's why it was such a surprise to see Monsieur Bishop back in the room later that day,” she continued. “I'd never met him before. You see, he was always gone by eight a.m. and returned after I'd finished my shift.”