It was in a row of posh town houses in the heart of Chelsea. The place must have cost even more than Cordi’s place in Notting Hill. The road was full of Porsches, Ferraris and even a Bugatti. Cordi’s old Mercedes looked quite out of place as she parked it between two 911 Carreras. I wondered if one of those belonged to Abigail. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd,” I said, “that Mr. Bellman’s daughter lives here and yet needed her father to pay for her trip?”“Perhaps,” Cordi said. “Maybe she overstretched herself. I guess we’ll find out. Here’s number twenty-three. Let’s go see what she’s got to say.”I had called Abigail on the way over to make sure it wasn’t a wasted trip. She had said that she was working from home, but as long as we didn’t mind, she would be happy to answer our questions, despite sounding entirely unconcerned about her mother’s death and apparently none the wiser about her father’s. Looking at all the wealth on display in this part of town, I imagined she must be a banker or some kind of top executive.
