An hour later, Alistair’s phone rang in the hallway. It was the call he took every night at 9:00 PM–the check-in with the Syndicate.
William saw his chance.
He slipped out of the guest quarters and moved silently down the corridor to the Master Suite. His heart hammered against his ribs. This used to be his room, his sanctuary with Victoria. Now, it smelled of sandalwood and expensive cigars.
He went straight to the en-suite bathroom. On the marble counter lay a silver hairbrush. William pulled a tissue from his pocket, plucked three grey hairs from the bristles, and wrapped them carefully.
*Got him.*
As he turned to leave, he glanced at the nightstand. A manila folder sat there, labeled *LONDON ASSETS.*
William opened it. It wasn’t financial data. It was a series of surveillance photos taken through a telephoto lens. They showed Malcolm pushing a stroller in Hyde Park. They showed Isabella buying groceries. They showed the layout of Malcolm’s townhouse with red circles around the security cameras.
Alistair wasn’t just laundering money; he was hunting the spare.