The Camelot Code Read Free

gun to his head, had him jailed and then banned from coming within a mile of her or their kids.
    ‘Hi there!’ she says as they enter the office. ‘I’m Mitzi Fallon – from the LAPD.’ She sticks out a grin and her hand.
    ‘Jon Bronty,’ says a man with chestnut-brown hair. ‘People just call me Bronty.’
    Mitzi notices he’s of medium build, not much taller than she is. Maybe five ten. Somewhere around thirty, trim but not muscular and, despite old-fashioned brown cords and a scruffy green shirt, has a comfortable way that she imagines some women – or maybe men – might find attractive.
    ‘This is Eleonora – Eleonora
Fracci.
’ Bronty pronounces the surname with melodramatic accentuation.
    ‘Ciao
’itzi
.’ The brunette from the Carabinieri photograph is wearing a pale-pink blouse and short brown skirt that shows off ridiculously toned legs.
    ‘It’s Mitzi with an
M
.’ She tries not to sound too annoyed. ‘Not itzi as in “itsy bitsy”.’
    The Italian looks baffled. ‘
M
— itzi?’
    ‘Close enough.’
    A young, mousy woman in jeans and a Big Bang Theory T-shirt flashes a set of teeth braces. ‘Victoria Cantrell – Vicky. I do research. Research and coffee.’ Her voice says New York – Brooklyn. ‘
Lots
of coffee.’ She gives a nervous giggle. ‘They drink it all day. Would you like some?’
    Mitzi would. She’d like a long tumbler of vodka to go with it. ‘Sure, that’d be great. Thanks.’
    The youngster looks pleased. ‘How d’you take it?’
    ‘Black, no sugar,’ She pats her hips. ‘Can’t afford the calories.’
    ‘Exercise,’ suggests Eleonora
.
‘It
is the only way to kill calories. I take sugar
and
cream but I do gym and kill the calories. You should come.’
    ‘Honey, the only gym I could do in a morning is one spelled J-I-M, and he’s going to have to be tall, rich, handsome and not mind taking on two teenage girls.’ She spins round one of the framed pictures. ‘These are my calorie killers.’
    The room is silent. Silent enough to tell her that no one else has kids.
    She repositions the photo.
    Sandra Donovan appears from behind her glass partition. ‘Are you ladies playing nicely?’
    Mitzi and Eleonora stare through her.
    ‘Good. Then how about someone updates me on the Satanists?’
    Bronty pumps a green bead of germicidal gel into his palms and rubs his hands clean as he talks. ‘The victim’s closet was full of black magic paraphernalia. Witches’ robes, candles and spell books.’
    ‘Nothing in the husband’s?’ asks Donovan.
    ‘Not a thing. He wasn’t into it, or didn’t know.’
    ‘
Bullshit
,’ says Mitzi.
    ‘You don’t know the case,’ snaps Eleonora.
    ‘I don’t need to. If she was being nailed by Satanists, hubby knew it. She’d be weird in bed. Ask any married guy.’
    ‘Maybe she
should
know the case.’ Sandra Donovan can’t help but enjoy the friction between them. ‘Give her the briefing notes, Eleonora.’ She turns to Mitzi. ‘It’s going to be interesting to see what you make of it.’

4
     
BRITISH EMBASSY, WASHINGTON DC
     
    The British Embassy lies less than three miles north-west of the White House, in palatial grounds on the southern side of the US Naval Observatory and east of Dumbarton Oaks, the research centre renowned for Byzantine studies.
    The building, the first erected on Embassy Row, boasts seven main bedrooms, all named after past ambassadors. The current occupant, Sir Owain Gwyn, stands patiently in the Howard and Halifax Suite while his valet dresses him.
    Every article of clothing has been handmade by trusted tailors and carefully checked by the middle-aged servant before his master is allowed to wear it.
    From laundry to skin, it is the valet’s job to know exactly who has washed, ironed and delivered it back into his care. Even then, the rigorous routine is far from over. Most items are X-rayed, others are subjected to toxicity testing. All are dusted top-to-bottom with a hand-scanner to