Money Never Sleeps Read Online Free

wardrobe. She did not have to think. She took the same clothes everywhere. All her underwear was black or white. The only colour in her packing was the pink teddy bear nightshirt, and a pink leather belt, a blue scarf , a scarlet pashmina and a couple ofsilk flowers. She had no idea why she had packed the flowers. Mental aberration. She wasn’t going Spanish dancing.
    At home, when she was working, she put on the first clothes that came to hand. Doorstep salesmen on a cold call often thought she was the cleaner.
    She thought about Jed Edwards. She did not trust him, although she wasn’t sure why. She did not trust anyone who approached her openly about a cold case story. She did not want to talk about her magazine or cold cases. Yet, he seemed a pleasant man and she was sorry about his arm. He may have been earmarked for promotion, for greater things, before that bullet ploughed into his elbow. Perhaps chief constable next with a salary, smart uniform and pension to match.
    Fancy stretched out on the bed and opened the programme again, wondering where she appeared in the complicated grid of events and destinations. She was supposed to be at the chairman’s reception now, tutors meeting white-badgers. It would look as if she didn’t care or was snooty if she didn’t turn up.
    She changed quickly into tailored black trousers and a classic black and white silk blouse. She splashed her face and quickly renewed her eye make-up, pulling her hair back into a casual topknot, fingering forward the side wings. A squirt of
Dior Tender
Passion
and she was ready. She almost forgot her key and the tutor name badge. The badge hung from a royal blue lanyard and spoilt her colour scheme. She would have to change that. Fast.
    There was a lift. A tired, recorded male voice intoned
Doors
opening
and then
Doors closing
as if these actions were invisible. Fancy hurried down the path, map-reading at the same time. The reception was being held in another far-flung area. The babble of voices told her she was going in the right direction.
    ‘Miss Jones? Francine Jones? You found us then. Come along in and meet everyone. What would you like to drink? You must be gasping. I’m Jessie, by the way. I know a short cut to the bar.’
    Fancy had to squint to read the name badge. It would be rude to peer closely at the woman’s bosom. This was Jessie Whytely,the conference secretary. She was a bustling young woman, faintly harassed, badly cut blonde hair in wild disarray, long gold earrings bashing her rouged cheeks. She was wearing purple. Everything was purple. Shirt, trousers, shoes, bangles. Even her nail varnish was purple.
    The choice was house red or house white, or should it be called conference red or conference white? The glasses were small, only a few degrees larger than a thimble, she thought. Fancy smiled politely and was introduced to a dozen eager white badgers who flocked around, all wanting to know how to write the next best-selling crime book. Fancy wondered if it was a good idea, telling them how to do it. They might be taking the bread and butter out of her own mouth. And publishing was a cut-throat market. Getting worse by the day.
    ‘There’s a big market for crime these days,’ she said. ‘Readers love it. Yes, do come along to my course. I’ll help you all I can. You can ask me anything.’
    She trawled in a few more delegates to her course; she didn’t want an empty room. Nothing worse than talking to a spattering of faces, a handful of hopefuls, no vibrant feedback or interaction .
    ‘Let me get you another drink.’ It was Jed Edwards. He was wearing the same clothes but had added a blue tie for decorum.
    ‘Thank you,’ said Fancy. ‘That one went down rather fast.’
    ‘As they do,’ he said, weaving his way through the crowd at the drinks table. He returned, managing to hold two drinks in one hand. Fancy took hers before there was another spillage. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ he said. ‘I’m not a