Sebastian lay sprawled over Jay as sweat cooled on their bare skin. There was a pleasantly sore spot on his neck where Jay had bitten him, sucking the mark into a livid bruise while riding him into the mattress. He scattered lazy kisses across Jay’s body, running lips and tongue along the planes of his chest and belly, starved for the shape and feel and taste of him after three weeks without.
Jay’s face was turned to the ceiling, but his fingertips roamed blindly across Sebastian’s back and shoulders. One hand lingered over Sebastian’s bicep, circling the fresh scar there—left behind by the bullet that had put him in hospital.
Sebastian brushed his lips across Jay’s sternum. “Will you tell me what’s going on?”
“I can’t,” Jay said, on a low sigh. “Not yet.”
Sebastian exhaled softly against Jay’s skin.
Jay’s fingernails ran through Sebastian’s damp hair, scratching lightly over his scalp. “How was the reopening?”
“It was all right.” Sebastian swallowed down the emotion in his throat. “My mother used to take me there, whenever I got home from school for the holidays. It was our little tradition.” A soft laugh slipped past his lips, huffing into Jay’s chest. “It’s funny—they restored everything, it’s all just as I remember it, but … it wasn’t quite the same.”
Jay’s arms tightened around him. A fresh ache opened in Sebastian’s chest as he wondered if it would’ve been different with Jay there.
And that brought him back to the other events of the evening, and why he’d come here in the first place. He shifted over Jay, nuzzling into the side of his neck.
“I need your help,” he murmured against Jay’s throat.
Jay’s hand settled across the back of Sebastian’s neck, steady and warm. “Okay.”
The business address on Kitty Winter’s contract with Jack Woodley led Jay to the offices of a company formation agent in the City. There were hundreds of other businesses registered out of the same office; it was, effectively, a dead end.
But the disaster at Medway Castle had, despite all the mayhem, given Jay one major advantage: he now had the keys to a back door in Different Computing’s cloud backup system, giving him access to the photos, messages, and contact information stored on more than half of all phones on the market.
Such as Woodley’s phone.
A quick check of Woodley’s navigation and map data revealed that he’d set a shortcut for his home address, which pointed to a residential neighbourhood in Hackney. It was just a few tube stops away from Jay’s flat in Camden.
“You didn’t need to come with me,” Moran said as they walked the few blocks from the underground station. The area was quiet and residential, row upon row of near-identical yellow brick houses stretching off in every direction.
Jay shrugged. “Got to make sure you don’t do anything stupid with that bullet hole in your arm.” It was as good an excuse as any.
“It’s been three weeks,” Moran replied, with a tinge of annoyance. “It’s mostly healed up.”
Jay gave him a sceptical look, then poked sharply at Moran’s upper arm, right over the fresh scar.
Moran grunted in pain and swatted his hand away. “Stop that. It’s not like I’m here for a fight, anyway. Woodley and I are just going to have a polite conversation.”
Jack Woodley’s home turned out to be the upper-floor flat of a house at the corner of the block. Moran knocked briskly on the door; there was a brief delay, and then the sound of someone making their way down the stairs. The door opened to reveal a surprisingly clean-cut man somewhere in his late twenties.
“Jack Woodley?” Moran asked.
The man swore and slammed the door shut.
It failed to close all the way, as Moran had managed to wedge the toe of his boot through the doorway. He levered the door back open.
Woodley fled upstairs, and Moran followed him up at a more sedate pace. As he reached the landing, Woodley turned and swung a wild, reckless punch at Moran’s head. Moran rocked back to avoid the swing, grabbing the stair rail for balance, then retaliated with a firm strike to the base of Woodley’s sternum. Woodley doubled over, wheezing for breath.
Jay made his own way up the stairs and shut the front door behind him. He recognised most of the flat’s interior from the background of Woodley’s photos; the man had a penchant for taking daily selfies. Moran caught Woodley by the scruff of the neck and steered him into the sitting room, shoving him down onto the sofa. It would be a minute or so before Woodley was in a state to speak, so Moran swept the flat while Jay kept an eye on their new friend.
He had to admit, there was a certain visceral appeal to seeing Moran like this.
Apparently satisfied they were alone, Moran returned to where Woodley was huddled on the sofa. He crouched to meet Woodley’s eyes. “I’m here to talk about the men you sent after Kitty Winter.”
“What men?” Woodley managed to gasp out, eyes wide and incredulous. “I don’t have men.”
“You were her manager,” Jay pointed out. “You had a contract with her that needed enforcing.”
Woodley shook his head. “I wrote Kitty off weeks ago. Doesn’t matter anyway—another agency bought me out.” He glanced warily from Moran to Jay and back again. “If anyone’s trying to enforce anything, it’s them.”
Moran studied him with a cool glare. “Sounds like you’re just trying to get rid of us.”
“It’s true!” Woodley insisted. “I’ve got paperwork and everything!”
“‘Wayward Talent,’” Kitty read off the stack of documents Sebastian had brought to her flat. “That’s Romayne Bellamy’s agency.”
Her neck and back were feeling better, but past experience told her it’d be another day of rest before she was in any state to go out. She sat against the headboard of the bed, pillows stacked up to support her spine as she flipped through the papers.
Kitty’s flat lacked, among other things, adequate guest seating. Sebastian had elected to sit at the foot of her bed, perched awkwardly on the corner. “Am I supposed to know who that is?” he asked.
“She’s an influencer,” Moriarty said, from where he sat on Kitty’s chaise by the window. “Basically a professional internet person.”
Sebastian had introduced Moriarty as his partner, but his explanation as to why his partner was suddenly involved in this whole mess was a bit light on details. Professionally speaking, Kitty preferred to deal with older men; at Moriarty’s age, men tended to be rude, violent, and—most importantly—skint.
But Sebastian insisted he was here to help, so Kitty had put aside her reservations for the moment.
She retrieved her phone from the bedside table and brought up Romayne Bellamy’s social media feed; it was the usual mix of selfies, product ads disguised as personal endorsements, food photos, and dance videos. Bellamy herself was of a particular type: blonde, tan, painstakingly contoured and highlighted, and the kind of thin that could be played off as a rigid diet and regular gym routine but was really mostly genetic.
She passed the phone to Sebastian; he scrolled through the feed, uncomprehending.
“Her commentary channel blew up a few years back,” Kitty explained. “After that, she branched out—got a makeup line and a few other businesses going. Then she signed up for SecretStar and turned into one of the biggest accounts overnight.”
“So she started an agency,” Sebastian said, guessing the next part of the story.
“The usual trick,” Kitty said. “‘I mastered this platform, sign with me and I’ll show you how.’ Never mind that she barely posts anything to the site herself.”
“And now she’s consolidating,” Moriarty observed, tapping away at his own phone. “Rolling up other agencies.”
Sebastian handed Kitty’s phone back. “Sounds like we need to have a conversation with Ms. Bellamy.”
“Don’t do that,” Kitty said. “She’s got a lot of fans, and they’re vicious. You get on her bad side and she’ll post a video crying about it, and next thing you know your whole life is in shambles and there’s a SWAT team knocking down your door.” She sighed. “Next to her, I’m just … some whore. I don’t stand a chance.”
Sebastian made a frustrated noise and looked to Moriarty. There was a certainty in that look—utter faith that Moriarty would have the solution to the problem.
Moriarty glanced up from his phone and met Sebastian’s eyes for a moment before turning to Kitty. “What’s the address for Wayward Talent?”
Kitty checked and read off the address.
Moriarty typed it into his phone. “Looks like that’s the HGS office in Canary Wharf.” HGS was a massive international firm; they offered accounting and legal services, which also included company formation.
As if responding to a question he knew was coming, Sebastian said, “Security’s going to be tight.”
Moriarty shrugged. “Every system has a weakness.”
HGS’s branch office in London employed just over seven thousand people, and therefore warranted an entire office building to itself—a squarish, high-tech monolith of glass and steel. As a senior associate, Kossi Pierson had managed to secure a (small) office overlooking the river. The view was, in his considered opinion, one of the better parts of the job.
A hollow knock on the glass door announced the arrival of Mariam, the junior associate he’d been training for the past few days. Kossi’s smartwatch vibrated against his wrist, displaying a reminder that he had a new client meeting in five minutes—during which Mariam was supposed to shadow him.
“Right,” Kossi said, quickly gathering up the papers and prospectuses he’d need. “Just a minute.”
He led Mariam through open walkways and glass-walled offices to the meeting room that was unofficially and affectionately referred to as “The Fishbowl.” A man in a light summer suit was waiting for them, lounging in a chair near the door. He stood as Kossi and Mariam entered, greeting them with a smile and a firm handshake. “Fletcher Kimball,” he said, by way of introduction. “Lovely to meet you.”
Kossi quickly introduced himself and Mariam, then said, “I was under the impression we were meeting a Vivian Raine?”
“Ms. Raine’s just over there,” Kimball said, gesturing to the other end of the room.
A quick step to the side revealed a woman sitting lotus-style on the floor in front of the room’s floor-to-ceiling windows. She wore a flowing, diaphanous top with a long and patterned wraparound skirt; her hair was gathered into loose, intricate braids, and her heavily-lined eyes were closed as she tilted her face toward the sunlight coming in through the glass.
Kossi was far too professional to roll his eyes at the display; this was not the first eccentric case he’d handled. The number of UK-based individuals with net worths high enough for HGS’s most profitable offerings had hit something of a plateau in recent years. The firm was strongly motivated to accommodate as many clients as possible, even if said clients were … difficult.
“I represent Ms. Raine’s business interests,” Kimball explained, with a sympathetic air. “She’s an artist, you see. Her gallery showings have garnered quite a bit of interest, and we’re anticipating sales in the millions.”
Suppressing a sigh of relief, Kossi sat across the table from Kimball and gestured for Mariam to do the same. “And I take it you’re looking for some assistance managing that income.” He quickly muted his phone and tucked it into his pocket; it put clients on edge when notifications went off throughout their meetings, and he found even the silent vibration of his watch distracting.
“I’m thinking we could start by incorporating,” Kimball said, leaning back in his seat. “And I’m hoping you might have some suggestions to, er … mitigate the tax situation.”
“That’s something we can look into,” Kossi said, vaguely enough for plausible deniability if he needed it later. “What kind of—?”
He nearly yelped in surprise as Ms. Raine finally moved; she lifted one hand to the window, palm out, and slowly moved it from the horizon to the sun’s current position—as if tracking its progress. “It’s the appointed hour,” she intoned in a soft voice. “I must pay tribute to Mother Thames.”
In a tone not unlike a parent corralling an easily distracted child, Kimball said, “We’re having the meeting right now, Vivian.”
Ms. Raine twisted to regard him with a sharp glare; she didn’t turn her head, instead rotating her entire upper body into the movement. “It would be inauspicious to continue without offering my respects.”
Kimball turned to Kossi with an apologetic expression. “She’s big into the whole urban paganism thing,” he explained dryly. “Do you have any rooms in the building where you can see the river?”
“Well,” Kossi replied, hesitant, “there’s my office, but—”
“Perfect,” Kimball interrupted with a wide grin. “She’ll just need a few minutes, I’m sure.”
Kossi began to worry he’d backed himself into a corner. “I’m not sure that’s—”
“In the meantime,” Kimball said, rolling right over him, “we can keep discussing our options. Maybe a few strategic investments …?”
The promise of a bonus cheque quickly stifled Kossi’s hesitations. “Mariam,” he said, “could you take Ms. Raine to my office, please?”
Kitty kept up an aloof demeanour as Mariam led the way to her colleague’s office, pretending not to notice as a few of the office drones turned to stare at her.
“Here we are,” Mariam said, opening a door into a small, glass-walled office. All the blinds were already drawn; its occupant clearly preferred his privacy.
“This will do.” Kitty turned an intense stare on Mariam. “I must be alone now.”
With a nervous smile, Mariam quickly backed out of the office. “Do let me know if you need anything.”
As the door closed, Kitty nudged the covert earpiece she’d been wearing since she left the car downstairs. “Was it really necessary to channel my mum for this?”
“If you’ve thought of a better way to get at Wayward Talent’s books,” Moriarty replied in her ear, “I’d love to hear it.”
The more Kitty heard him talk, the more certain she was that he was putting on that bland RP voice to hide a regional accent—but, to be fair, so was she.
“And all I said was ‘odd and annoying,’” Moriarty added. “How you got from there to here is between you and your mother.”
In the background, Sebastian’s conversation with Kossi Pierson continued; he was wearing an earpiece as well.
Kitty settled behind the desk and wiggled the mouse to wake up the computer. The monitor flickered on, revealing a lock screen. “You’ve got a password for this thing?”
“Pierson’s a naughty boy who’s been checking work e-mails on his personal phone,” Moriarty replied smugly. “Looks like IT set his password to ‘kpierson123,’ back when he started. That was four years ago, so … try ‘kpierson127.’”
Kitty directed an incredulous look at the computer screen, for lack of anyone else to direct it to. “Are you fucking joking?”
“You can make someone change their password once a year, but you can’t make them change it to anything good. Most people just increment the number at the end by one.”
“If this works …” Kitty let the threat hang as she typed in the password and hit enter. “Oh, fuckin’ hell.”
“Told you.”
“No, it’s—” Kitty squinted at the screen, which informed her an authentication code had just been sent to Pierson’s mobile. “I mean, it worked, but now we need the code off his phone.”
“Ah. Fuck.”
“I thought you were in there already?”
“Just the cloud backup. That only happens once a day.” Moriarty sighed. “Moran?”
Barely missing a beat, Sebastian smoothly redirected the flow of his conversation with Pierson: “Sorry, is that the new Different Watch?”
“It is,” Pierson replied, obviously pleased that Sebastian had noticed. Kitty could almost see him showing it off—in the process, moving the screen into Sebastian’s line of sight.
A moment later, Kitty’s phone pinged with a text from Sebastian:
192411
Kitty punched in the code, and the computer unlocked.
Moriarty talked her through the process of pulling up a command line terminal and searching for the files they needed. Soon she had a list of not just Wayward Talent’s books, but every other account the company was handling for Romayne Bellamy.
HGS obviously anticipated that any attack against its systems would be digital in nature, and built its countermeasures accordingly. Moriarty had warned Kitty ahead of time that plugging a flash drive or phone into Pierson’s computer would likely set off an alert within the company’s IT department, which limited their ability to transfer any files electronically.
Fortunately, Pierson’s office had its own printer.
Once they were back in the lift HGS reserved for the use of its VIP clients, Sebastian asked the question he’d been dying to ask for the past hour: “‘Pay tribute to Mother Thames?’”
Kitty sighed. “It worked, didn’t it?” As the lift made its way down to the building’s underground parking garage, she added, wondering aloud: “So is this what a ‘security consultant’ does?”
Sebastian kept his eyes forward. “Sometimes.”
The lift’s doors opened, and Sebastian led the way to where the limousine was parked.
Jay was sitting where they’d left him in the back seat, waiting with an expectant look. Kitty propped a foot up on the running board of the car, reached beneath her skirt, and—with a slight wince—detached the thick stack of papers she’d taped to her thigh, handing them over.
As Jay began to page through the stack, Kitty and Sebastian climbed in and the limousine pulled out of the parking garage. Jay worked quickly; within a few minutes, he’d nearly finished his first read-through.
Sebastian leaned into his space and asked, “Anything in there we can use?”
Jay glanced at the open partition and the driver’s seat beyond.
“Don’t worry about him,” Kitty said; she’d produced both limo and driver, who she claimed was a friend of hers. Through the partition, she called, “You won’t tell anyone about this, will you?”
“Oh, you can trust me,” replied the driver, with a wink at them through the rear-view mirror, “or my name ain’t Porky.”
Sebastian considered that for a moment. “Is your name Porky?”
“More or less,” Kitty confirmed. “Legally, it’s ‘Shinwell.’”
“I’m not sure ‘Porky’ is an improvement,” Sebastian said.
Jay, at least, seemed content with this state of affairs. “Bellamy’s got about a half-dozen different business loans,” he said. “All unsecured, from the looks of it.”
“All of them?” Sebastian said, surprised. “Seems risky.”
“Any money these influencers make goes right into their lifestyle,” Kitty explained. “It’s all rented. Which I’d guess makes it hard to put up collateral for a loan.”
“Can’t say for sure how much she has,” Jay went on, paging back through the papers. “It’s split across a lot of accounts and there’s money coming in and out constantly, but it looks like she’s got a cushion of about two million, all told.”
“So where’s her money going?” Sebastian asked.
“Business expenses. Supply, payroll, legal fees, ad spends. A lot if it is rent, too.” Jay flipped back a few pages. “And a membership to Eliot House.”
Eliot House was a private club in Soho which restricted its membership to those working in the arts; it was the widely preferred social space for famous actors, musicians, and other prominent figures within the entertainment industry.
“Bellamy’s got a couple demo reels floating around,” Kitty pointed out. “One of them’s her channel trailer.”
“She wants to be an actress,” Jay surmised in a distracted tone, still reading. “And she doesn’t know when to stop. Every time one of her projects takes off, she uses the money to expand the business instead of paying off her loans. Which are a ticking bomb—any sign of cash flow problems and the bank can call the loans. And if she can’t pay them back, she’d have to sell off the businesses.”
By now, Sebastian recognised the note of intrigue in Jay’s voice. “You want to cause a cash flow problem.”
Jay nodded, finally looking up from the papers. “We need to offer something worth dumping all her money into.” There was a devious gleam in his eye. “Something she can’t resist.”
Overall, it was surprisingly easy to announce a fake movie.
These days, most major film news sites were owned by massive conglomerates who’d stripped their staff down to skeleton crews, too overworked to properly enforce the editorial standards they’d once had. If a press release looked legitimate enough, they’d post it verbatim; nobody had the time or energy to check whether the movie in question actually existed. From there the content farms would automatically scrape the articles, rewrite them using some generative model or other, and repost them on their own sites.
Soon, an entirely fictional production would be breathlessly announced all over the internet.
It was past ten at night, and Jay was putting a few finishing touches on the mail-out when his phone pinged with a text from Moran:
Got in touch with Anika. A friend of hers has what we need.
Jay quickly replied:
Good, we’ll make the approach tomorrow
He’d just hit “send” on the press release when another ping came—likely a response from Moran. He checked his phone.
It wasn’t Moran. The message was from an unknown number, and it was a video. Unplayed, it was paused on the first frame: a blurry shot from outside a sushi restaurant in Mayfair.
The same restaurant where he’d had dinner with Moran.
Dread settled in Jay’s gut as he hit “play.” Two indistinct figures in the video resolved themselves into Jay and Moran; the video had been taken from across the street. Moran stepped close to murmur a goodbye the camera was too far away to hear, and Jay leaned up to press a long, lingering kiss to his mouth.
Another message appeared beneath the video:
So you’re fucking him???
Seconds later, more arrived:
Answer me
Fucking cunt
Jay blocked the number, same as he had all the others, and smothered the urge to throw his phone against the wall.
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