Page 26 of Strap In

Hugo breezes into her office on a tide of ?Boucheron and braggadocio.

He straddles the chair before Jean’s desk and launches into an explanation of the meeting with Wexler’s underlings; how they’d spent the session dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s – a concession here, a demand there.

The whole time Nowicki had sat in the corner, silent and impassive – unsettling because neither he nor Rhona had been able to discern her purpose.

‘I mean, it’s not like she’s a lawyer.’ Hugo scoffs, not bothering to hide his disdain. ‘Surely it would’ve made more sense for Wexler himself to be there.’

It’s a valuable piece of the puzzle, even if Jean can’t yet tell where it fits. Nowicki’s purpose had nothing to do with the law – but what else might Leonides want from her? ‘This is all very well, Hugo, but where’s Rhona?’

A glint of annoyance flashes through his careful mask. ‘She decided to delegate – said it would be alright if I briefed you instead.’

‘And what’s she doing that’s so much more important?’

His mouth twists into a sneer. ‘Mr Leonides called at the end of the meeting, and Ms Nowicki asked her to join them for dinner to discuss renewables, since he was so excited about Rhona’s vision .’

Hugo might be incapable of seeing beyond his own jealousy, but Jean is not. The hairs on the back of her neck prickle. She leans forward. ‘Where?’

Hugo blinks, taken aback. ‘I— I don’t know. It’s not like I was invited.’

‘Think!’ Jean thumps the desk so hard her palm stings, the silver band on her finger chipping glass.

Hugo jolts upright. ‘The Shard. They were going to The Shard. But there are seven different bars and restaurants in there, and I don’t—’

‘Come with me.’ Jean snatches her phone from the desk and rises, retrieving her handbag.

The idiot boy gapes at Jean as if she’s the one who’s lost her mind. ‘But I’m supposed to meet Alexander for—’

‘Sod Alexander. You join me now and make this right or you find another firm – the choice is yours.’ Jean strides from the room, not waiting to see whether Hugo follows, messaging her driver as she approaches the lift.

Peter, of course, is long gone. There’s no time to see who else could help – no time at all.

Hugo squeezes between the closing doors, quiff collapsing onto his forehead. ‘Ms Howard, if I’ve done anything—’

Jean holds up a hand for silence, phone pressed to her ear with the other. The lift plunges towards the ground as the call rings out, going to voicemail. ‘ You’ve reached Rhona Baird. Sorry I’m not able to take your call ri— ’

‘Fuck!’ The walls are closing in on Jean, and Hugo’s eyeing her with naked panic and confusion.

But just as the question forms on his lips the doors slide open and Jean runs across the lobby, flying past a baffled Helen and the paper bag containing her dinner, out onto the street. Hugo follows hot on her heels, all but colliding with Jean as she wrenches the car door open.

She ignores Hugo’s apologies and slides across the leather seat. He’s barely closed the door when Bogdan pulls out to join the stream of traffic. ‘The Shard, Ms Howard?’

‘Yes.’ Sweat prickles under Jean’s arms. ‘Fast as you can, please.’

Still panting, Jean tries Rhona’s number again, heart hammering against her ribs as the call goes to voicemail.

‘Rhona, it’s Jean. Please call me back as soon as you get this message.’

For good measure she types it out as a text. Bogdan swings round a corner, and as Jean sways towards Hugo it occurs to her that she hasn’t fastened her seatbelt. She clips the buckle in place.

Hugo clears his throat. He’s watching Jean warily, that eternal confidence withered away to nothing. But the junior associate can wait.

Jean tries to text Helen too, but her sweaty fingers keep slipping across the screen to produce garbled nonsense.

The sooner there’s a paper trail, the better.

She settles on a voice note instead: ‘Send an urgent message from my office to Leonides’ PA, his secretary, and Ekaterina Nowicki directly as well as her team: Please send Rhona Baird home immediately.

Her mother’s ill, and she needs to be on the next available flight to Edinburgh .

And let me know the second there’s a response. ’

Still nothing from Rhona; not even a tick to confirm the message has been read.

Next, she dials Peter. But his phone doesn’t even ring.

And it takes all of Jean’s self-control not to leave a message about how he can ram his work-life balance up his arse.

Instead, with a bite of frost in her words, Jean says: ‘Peter, we might have a situation on our hands. I’m on my way there now, and I’ll update you as soon as I can.

But text me the moment you get this – we need to be on our guard. ’

Then Jean drops the useless phone onto her lap and meets Bogdan’s eyes in the mirror. ‘Can’t you go any faster?’

‘I’m sorry, Ms Howard. It’s the tail end of rush hour.’ Sure enough, they’re stopping and starting, stopping and starting, locked in a growing tailback.

Jean closes her eyes, rests her head against the window. Perhaps if she doesn’t peer at the road, willing the light to stay green and the traffic to melt away, it will go quicker.

‘I didn’t know Rhona’s mother was sick.’ There’s contrition in Hugo’s voice, a pleading note, as if Jean alone has the power to grant him absolution. ‘If I had, I wouldn’t ha—’

‘Wake up, Hugo. There’s nothing wrong with Mrs Baird.’

‘What? But you got Helen to contact his team.’

Jean’s eyes snap open. ‘Why do you think I did that?’

‘Because you need to talk to Rhona. You’re giving her an iron-clad excuse to leave.’ Hugo’s brows draw together. ‘But why? If Leonides likes her plan so much, he might offer her a job. What’s it to you if he poaches her, though?’

‘You really think Andreas Leonides – a billionaire with whole teams devoted to this stuff – is in the habit of personally offering jobs to first year associates? No.’ Acid scorn burns through every word. ‘Why do you think he’s really taking Rhona to dinner?’

‘I don’t understand.’ But he’s starting to – Jean sees it in the shiftiness of his gaze.

‘Remember that speech in your interview? Big words about how excited you’d be to seize any learning opportunity I saw fit to provide you with.’ Jean glances down at her phone. Nothing, still. ‘Well, tonight’s your chance. A lesson you won’t forget.’

Hugo’s wise enough to stay quiet then. And finally, the car’s inching across the other side of London Bridge.

The moment Bogdan pulls over, Jean unclips her seatbelt.

Hugo leaps out of the car, holding the door open for Jean, and together they hurtle towards the pyramid glowing crimson in the sun’s dying light.

They pass through the revolving doors into the atrium, a futuristic fusion of glass and marble.

Shoulders back, Jean approaches the front desk, Hugo lingering by her shoulder.

‘Hello. My name is Jean Howard, and my firm represents one of your guests, Mr Leonides. I need to speak with him as a matter of urgency. Apparently, Mr Leonides is currently eating in one of your restaurants. Please could you tell me which one?’

The girl behind the desk flashes an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry, Ms Howard. But company policy dictates that we can’t give out information about any guests.’

‘I’ll take the odd floors, and you can take the even,’ Hugo says. ‘I’ll call you if I find them.’

But Jean holds a finger up for him to wait.

‘Mr Leonides runs a company worth billions. He could buy and sell this building.’ Jean steps closer, staring pointedly at the name badge pinned to the receptionist’s neat cerulean lapel.

‘What do you think he’ll do to you, Gemma, when he finds out that you delayed him from dealing with an emergency? ’

Gemma gulps, casting an appealing gaze to her colleague – but the girl catches Jean’s eye and disappears into the back office.

Gemma picks up the phone. Punches in a number and speaks, voice low, into the receiver.

Then she looks up at Jean. ‘Mr Leonides was in Aqua having dinner with a guest. But they’ve gone now. ’

A guest – singular . Jean sways, clutching at the counter. ‘Then tell me which room he’s staying in.’

‘I can’t.’ Gemma’s voice is tiny, pleading. ‘I’ll lose my job.’

Jean opens her mouth, no amount of self-hatred keeping her from asking how Gemma expects to keep her job after Mr Leonides brings the colossal weight of his empire down upon a mere receptionist. But her phone rings as the tirade begins to take shape, vibrating in Jean’s hand as she lifts it to look at the name: Rhona Baird .

Jean staggers away from the reception desk, phone soldered to her cheek. ‘Rhona!’ Her voice echoes through the lobby, drawing stares. ‘Rhona, thank God you’re okay. Where are you?’

‘Miss Howard?’ Her voice is scarcely more than a whisper, breaths coming hard and fast through the speaker.

‘Yes! Now tell me your location and we’ll come and find you. Hugo and I are in The Shard now.’

‘You are?’ A jagged intake of breath. ‘I missed our one-to-one. I’m s-so sorry, Ms Howard, I… I should have let you know myse—’

‘Never mind that now. Are you in one of the hotel rooms?’

A series of thumps carry through the line, so loud the phone slips from between her fingers – only Hugo’s quick reflexes keep it from falling to crack against the marble. He lifts it back to Jean’s ear, stepping close enough that they can both hear.

‘Yes. I’m in his bathroom,’ Rhona whispers, voice pulled taut. ‘I’ve locked myself in. I went for dinner with Mr Leonides and M-Ms Nowicki. But then she got a call. And she left.’

Jean swallows. She’d read an article once, about the importance of using a person’s name in a hostage situation – a psychological trick to discourage the kidnapper from evolving into a killer. But perhaps it works with victims too. ‘Where did he take you, Rhona? Is he there now?’