Murphy said nothing. Oleg would have arranged his departure with Tywyll. If the old vampire was satisfied, he wouldn’t complain.
That still left four men standing dripping wet and shamefaced by the river.
“I’d say I was angry, but it’s Tywyll.”
One of the men coughed up a piece of sea grass and a spurt of river water that must have lodged in his throat.
“Come on then, lads,” Murphy said, nodding toward the cars. “Back to Mayfair. We’ll all pretend this didn’t happen”—he glared at Tywyll, who only laughed—“and none of us will speak of it again.”
“Yes, boss.”
“But don’t even think you’re riding in the front car,” he added. “And you’re cleaning the second one when we get back.”
One of his men said, “But boss—”
“I always carry a change of clothes,” Murphy said, straightening his tie. “None of you did. There’s a lesson about preparation there. Think about it while you clean the cars.”
Anne slipped her hand in his and tugged him toward the car where Ozzie was waiting while Murphy began to chew over the information Oleg had given them.
Jetta.
Leonor.
Jean.
Ramsay.
He slid into Terry’s car with Anne at his side. At the end of the night, it was really only Terry that Murphy trusted.
He’d dismissed Jetta earlier because she had no financial incentive to spread Elixir and her territories were harder hit. But Jetta didn’t count the Russian as a friend, and Zara might use that to persuade Jetta to help her cross her sire. Oleg and Jetta were rivals when it came to their energy interests. They coordinated when they had to, but both were heavily invested in petroleum and gas.
Leonor and Jean would both make money off blood-wine, even with Jean producing a lower-end product. If Elixir spread far enough, everyone would be drinking it. Leonor might have come across as innocent the night before, or she might have covered herself well because she had known she’d be a suspect. After all, Jean didn’t have a history of ambition outside France, and few would call him violent unless someone had personally offended him. He was mainly proprietary about his people—
His people.
“Anne,” Murphy asked, “where did Terry get his winemaker?”
“His winemaker?” Anne frowned. “I believe Brigid said he hired him away from Jean Desmarais.”
“That’s what I thought I remembered.”
Leonor’s comments the night before came back to him.
I acquired a new winemaker last year.
He treats his people like horse-dung and expects them to be grateful.
It was easy to tempt the young one away.
Jean had lost two of his employees to Terry and Leonor. One after the other. Two employees who were poised to become some of the most valuable people in his organization.
Murphy banged on the front divider, and Ozzie rolled down the window.
“Yes, boss?”
“Turn around. Go back to the pub.”
Anne looked confused. “Patrick?”
“I know who’s helping Zara, and we’re going to need your father’s help.”
Chapter Twenty-one
ANNE WATCHED MURPHY standing at the front of Tywyll’s barge as it moved across the river. The night was clouded, and no moon shone in the sky. A boon, her father had said. The red-sailed barge would be nearly invisible in the night, which was just how the old waterman liked it.
When Tywyll had told them the French vampire was keeping a reefer ship at Tilbury, on the north shore of the Thames, Murphy was quick to ask for passage across the river.
One call to Terry, and Carwyn and Brigid were sent to help.
“Why does it always end up being a ship?” Brigid groused on Anne’s left. “Every time, a ship.”
“We were out in the desert in California,” Carwyn added, standing on her other side.
“That was one time. Every other time? Ship. Bloody water vampires.”
“You’re the one who wanted to work for one, love.”
“I’m going to end up drowned again. Or blown up. Possibly both.”
“It’s not like you can die from it.”
“If you put a Taser on me again, so help me…”
Brigid kept complaining while Carwyn laughed quietly at his mate. Anne ignored them both and leaned forward, wishing she had more comfortable clothes like Brigid wore. She hadn’t expected to be doing any heroics, and the wool slacks and delicate blouse she was wearing would surely be ruined on whatever greasy old freighter Jean traveled in.
Fine, it probably wasn’t greasy. Jean loved his luxuries. Any ship Jean Desmarais traveled in was likely to be as well equipped as a yacht. But Anne still wished she had practical clothing.
“This isn’t going to end well,” Brigid said.
Anne said, “Jean’s not even on the ship, Brig. Terry’s gone to his house in Kensington to speak to him. All Murphy and I have to do is take a look at his freighter. I don’t know why he sent you two.”
“Better to be cautious,” Carwyn said. “How sure is Murphy that—”
“Ask Patrick,” Anne said, nodding toward her mate. “He’s the one convinced it’s Jean.”
Anne wasn’t as sure, to be honest. It wasn’t just that she liked Jean, it was that it seemed ludicrous that anyone would kill one immortal, severely injure another, and alienate established allies over losing two employees.