by C J Parsons
So she just said: ‘I’ll go see how the chicken’s doing.’
In the kitchen, she peered into the oven (almost done . . . finally), then carried their half-empty prosecco bottle to the sofa. Tara was sitting hunched over with her forehead on her palms. She snapped upright when Carrie joined her, refilling their glasses.
They sipped their drinks without speaking. Carrie knew that many people were uncomfortable with long silences, but Tara must not have been one of them because she didn’t say another word until they were halfway through their next glass.
‘Carrie, there’s something I need to tell you.’
‘OK.’
Tara’s face performed a series of manoeuvres: first contracting (forehead bunching, lips tightening) then expanding (brows lifting, mouth opening). She looked down into her glass. Took a deep breath.
Brrrrr-rrrrrr.
Tara’s body jolted, as though the door buzzer had administered an electric shock.
‘Oh! That’s . . . are you expecting someone?’
‘No.’ Carrie rose, glancing towards the clock. Twenty to ten. Who would show up on her doorstep at this hour without calling first?
Brrrrr-brrrrr.
What if it was Simon, carrying a knife and riding a fresh wave of paranoia? The thought hit her like an icy slap, knocking away the warm cocoon of alcohol, sobering her instantly. If Simon was on the other side of that door, she would call the police. And if he tried to smash his way in through a window . . .
She glanced towards the block of knives on the kitchen counter.
Well, hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.
Squaring her shoulders, Carrie headed towards the door. But she had gone only a few paces when there was another sound: a beeping. She stopped, confused. Had the doorbell changed somehow?
‘The oven,’ Tara said. Oh. Of course. ‘I’ll get the chicken, you get the door. And Carrie . . .’ Her fingers fluttered in front of her mouth. ‘Check who it is first. Just in case.’
In case what? Tara didn’t know Simon’s history and Sofia’s abductor was safely locked away. So who did she think might be out there?
The doorbell buzzed again, longer this time. More insistent.
Fifteen
Juliet slid the screen shot across the interview-room table and tapped the figure in camouflage.
‘Who is this man?’
Nick Laude looked at the image and flinched, before quickly recovering.
‘Dunno.’ He shrugged. ‘Some bloke.’
‘Some bloke?’ Alistair repeated, leaning forwards, propping his forearms on the table next to Juliet. ‘Are you saying he’s a stranger?’
‘Yeah. I get talking to all sorts in the park. You can’t expect me to remember everyone.’ He turned to the lawyer seated next to him. ‘Can she?’
Juliet had crossed paths with Nick Laude’s newly appointed lawyer many times over the years. Kevin Smythe: worn out, washed out, middle-aged. A greasy comb-over and an even greasier smile. Sick to the back teeth of working for legal aid. He sighed now, shaking his head.
‘No, she can’t. That would be unreasonable.’
‘Thank you for your professional insight, Mr Smythe,’ Juliet said, drawing a sharp look from the solicitor.
Alistair yawned. It sounded real, but Juliet was pretty sure it was forced, designed to convey how very bored he was with all these unimaginative, unconvincing lies.
‘Here’s the problem, Nick.’ Alistair’s tone matched his yawn: unimpressed, heard-it-all-before. ‘You didn’t just talk to this man. We also have footage of him handing you something. Which I would think makes him a bit more . . . memorable.’
Nick’s eyes rebounded off the walls a few times before suddenly lighting up.
Oh goody, Juliet thought sourly, he’s thought of a good lie.
‘Yeah, now I remember.’ He nodded vigorously. ‘He gave me a fag. I smoke, bad habit, been meaning to quit.’ He flashed Alistair a nervous smile. ‘But, you know how it is.’ He frowned. ‘I mean, you’ll know if you’ve ever smoked.’ He waited, apparently expecting Alistair to share his tobacco history. The smile dissolved in the silence that followed. ‘Anyway, we’re not supposed to be seen smoking in the park – promoting a healthy outdoor lifestyle and all that. But I seen this bloke having a fag and asked him for one. So that’s what he handed me.’
Alistair glanced sideways at Juliet, their eyes exchanging a silent message: Got him.
‘So you’re saying that the man in this photo was handing you a cigarette,’ Alistair said, folding his arms over his stomach. ‘Is that correct?’ Nick pulled a finger across the sweat-sheened skin above his lip. He nodded. ‘Out loud, please. For the recording.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
Juliet suppressed a smile of triumph as Alistair slid the file sideways, towards her. Another glance, another unspoken message: Your turn.
She flipped open the cover.
‘In that case, perhaps you could explain this to me.’ She reached inside and took out the blown-up image slowly, letting the suspense build before placing it on the table and pushing it across. ‘Because, I have to say, that cigarette looks an awful lot like a roll of bank notes.’
Nick Laude’s Adam’s apple rose and fell.
‘Oh.’ He chewed on a dirt-rimmed thumbnail. ‘Well, that . . . the thing is . . .’
‘Yes?’ She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs. ‘Please continue. What is the thing?’
His gaze squirmed beneath hers. John Smythe whispered something in Nick’s ear, his face scribbled with irritation. Juliet suspected most of it was directed at his idiot client. Nick’s eyes flickered between Juliet and Alistair.
‘I wanna talk to my lawyer.’
Juliet spread her hands. ‘Be my guest.’
‘I need a moment to speak with my client privately.’ Smythe gave her one of his oily smiles.
‘Fine,’ Alistair said. ‘I could use a coffee anyway.’
Juliet paused the recording and they left the room. A moment later, the two of them were watching their suspect and his lawyer from the other side of the one-way mirror. Laude was ducking his head and grimacing while Smythe waved the bank-note picture in front of him.
‘Now that,’ Alistair said, aiming a finger at the cringing park keeper, ‘is the face of a guilty man.’
‘It is,’ Juliet agreed, then surprised herself by adding: ‘Guilty of what though?’
Alistair threw her a startled look.
‘What do you mean? We have a theory we both agree on. Everything fits: the footprint, the mosquito bites, the missing uniform, the cart, the strand of Sofia’s hair.’ He jerked his chin towards the scene unfolding on the other side of the glass, where Smythe was shaking the photo in front of his client’s nose. ‘The money.’
He was right, of course. Everything fit perfectly. Nick Laude’s reaction to the video stills couldn’t have been more satisfying, from an interviewer perspective. It was only as Juliet had stood here, watching through the glass, that doubt had come sneaking in through some hidden trapdoor, whispering that something wasn’t right.
The door to the room opened and a constable popped his head in.
‘DI Larkin, the guv wants a word.’
‘Not right now. I’m in the middle of interviewing our prime suspect.’
‘He’s aware of that. But something’s just come up in the Sanchez trial. The defence is trying to get your search tossed. He needs to talk to you ASAP.’ The constable glanced towards the glass, which showed Nick Laude scratching his arm and talking to Smythe, whose face had gone a reddish-purple hue. ‘He says DCI Campbell can fly solo from here.’
Alistair stamped a foot against the floor, toddler-style.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’
There was a knock against the glass. Smythe now stood facing the one-w
ay mirror, trying to make eye contact (guessing their position behind it a couple of feet too far to the left). He rotated his hand in a ‘come here’ gesture.
‘It’s fine,’ Juliet said. ‘You go. I’ll finish this off.’
Juliet looked across the interview-room table, keeping her gaze carefully neutral.
‘So, Nick, is there something you’d like to tell me?’
‘Not so fast.’ Smythe held up a hand. ‘My client can explain everything in that video and is fully prepared to do so.’
‘Good, then why don’t we—’
‘Right after you promise not to prosecute him.’
She blinked in surprise. ‘Excuse me?’
‘My client is willing to tell you exactly what the money was for, but only if you can guarantee that you won’t charge him.’
Juliet looked at Nick Laude, who was hunched over, avoiding her eye.
‘So are you asking for an immunity deal, in exchange for his testimony?’ Her mood, dragged down by doubt, lifted again. It looked as though Nick had played a role in the abduction – and was now prepared to testify against the man who had hired him.
But Smythe shook his head.
‘My client’s actions were completely unrelated to this case, so his testimony would be of no value to you.’
Juliet watched Laude pick at a chip in the table’s surface, flicking away a splinter with a dirty fingernail. Distaste filled her throat.
‘OK, tell me what he was doing, then.’
Smythe lifted a manicured hand.
‘Before he says anything I’d like a written—’
Juliet rolled her eyes. ‘I’m sure we all have better things to do with this day than spend it trapped in a tiny room waiting for the wheels of justice to grind painstakingly through a bunch of pointless paperwork. Pointless because I can tell you right now that I have zero interest in pursuing minor offences unrelated to this one. So unless we’re talking about a major crime or violent offence, I promise not to charge him. You have my word on that.’
The park keeper gave his lawyer a twitchy look. Smythe let out a sigh of resignation.
‘Go ahead. Tell her.’
Juliet sat back and crossed her arms.
‘OK, Nick, let’s hear it.’
When Carrie looked through the peephole, her stomach did a summersault.
Josh was standing on the doorstep, features stretched by the lens. What was he doing here? Was it possible they’d made plans she’d somehow overlooked? But she quickly discounted the thought. She had read all her emails and texts. There was nothing from Josh about a visit. He had simply . . . appeared. She opened the door and stood facing him, heart beating fast.
‘Hello there.’ He gave her that sideways smile.
‘Hello.’
A sultry breeze rode in, carrying the faint smell of BBQ smoke.
‘May I come inside?’
‘Oh. Yes. Of course.’
Carrie felt a ripple of nerves as she led him into the living room, unsure what you were supposed to do if one guest showed up while another was already there. It wasn’t a situation she’d ever expected to encounter; she had so few visitors, the possibility of two of them crossing paths had never even entered her mind.
Tara was in the kitchen, parking the roasting tin of chicken and potatoes on top of the stove, the smell of herbs and freshly cooked meat already filling the house. She smiled at him over her shoulder. Carrie assumed that smile was the just-being-polite kind, since she could see no reason to be happy about the arrival of a complete stranger.
‘Tara, this is Josh. Josh, this is Tara.’
Tara put down the tea towel she’d used to take the pan out of the oven and crossed the living area to shake his hand, forehead crinkling above the smile.
‘Have we met? You look familiar.’
‘You’ve probably seen my photo in the papers, because of Sofia. And the TV news keeps re-running that clip of me carrying her to the door.’
‘No.’ The crinkles deepened. ‘It’s not that. I’m really good with faces and I could swear I’ve seen you somewhere before.’
‘If you have, I’m afraid I don’t remember. I’ve got one of those boring faces people always think they recognise.’ He turned to Carrie. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had plans. I should have called first.’
‘It’s fine.’ Carrie glanced towards Tara as she said this, hoping it was true, that she didn’t mind the interruption. ‘There’s plenty of chicken. You can eat with us.’
‘Oh no, I don’t want to intrude . . .’
‘You’re not intruding,’ Tara said. ‘The more the merrier. Let me get you a drink.’ As she headed towards the kitchen, she slipped on the kilim rug and nearly lost her footing, arms pin-wheeling for a moment before she recovered her balance. She giggled. ‘As you can see, I’m pretty merry already.’
Josh seemed to stare at Tara for a long time. Carrie looked at her too, trying to see her through his eyes: Tara, with her stylish outfits and tropical eyes, giggling in a way that Carrie never had and never would.
He’s probably noticing how pretty she is, a voice inside her head whispered. Much prettier than you.
But then Josh’s eyes came back to hers and stayed there.
‘Thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll pass. I know a girls’ night when I see one. And anyway, I only really came by to drop this off.’ She hadn’t noticed the briefcase in his hand until he snapped it open and took something out, handing it across. A magazine. His magazine.
‘The latest edition of London Architects’ Monthly, out tomorrow. This one’s a bit special for me.’
Carrie stared down at the cover, which showed a wedge-shaped building whose roof sloped upward from the rear, so that the front was a floor higher than the back. Carrie’s gaze swept back and forth across the structure, with its clever geometry, trying to work out why she didn’t like it more. The design was original and innovative, there was no denying that. But something about it felt . . . her eyes travelled along the picture once more, searching for the right word. Cold.
Then she registered the caption: ‘A Good Year for The Vineyard: Ava Skelter’s Iconic House Restored to its Former Glory.’
Carrie blinked as she absorbed the significance of the name.
‘This is your mother’s house?’
‘Yes. Well. Mine now, technically. It’s taken three years and cost more than I care to think about, but it’s all been worth it. The place now looks almost exactly as it did when she first created it.’ He moved closer, looking at the magazine over her shoulder. His body brushed hers and her pulse quickened. ‘Wasn’t she brilliant?’
Carrie looked at the photo, considering how best to answer. Josh’s mother had designed the building and he had expressed pride in it, so he must want to hear a favourable assessment. She sifted through her thoughts and opinions for something positive.
‘This is an original, unconventional and technically challenging piece of work.’
That answer must have pleased him, because he smiled.
‘I knew someone like you would be able to appreciate it.’ He glanced towards Tara. ‘Anyway, I only dropped by to give you a copy. There’s a whole spread on it inside. It’s called ‘The Vineyard’ because the original structure was built on one: some aristocrat’s folly. I lived there until I was seventeen. This was my bedroom.’ He touched one of the windows lining the upper floor, above the plate-glass wall fronting the main level. ‘I’d love to bring you there some time, if you don’t mind roughing it. There’s no water or electricity yet. Lots of kerosene lamps, though, which create a certain’ – he touched the small of her back – ‘ambiance.’
Carrie’s stomach flipped as her imagination sent up images of the two of them having sex in flickering lamplight.
‘Yes,’ she said, feeling shy and excited. ‘I would li
ke to go there with you.’
‘Good.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, I’ll head off and leave you two ladies to your . . . evening.’ He nodded towards Tara, who had begun setting the table, laying out placemats. ‘Lovely to meet you, Tara.’
‘Likewise.’
He gave Carrie a firm kiss on the mouth before leaving, the door banging shut behind him. She stood beside the sofa holding the magazine, feeling the imprint of his kiss on her lips, thoughts tumbling.
‘Well, well, well.’ Tara ambled out of the kitchen with her hands full of cutlery. ‘So that’s the famous Josh.’ She began placing knives and forks onto placemats.
‘Yes, that’s Josh.’
Carrie crossed to the kitchen, putting the magazine on the counter before selecting a carving knife and setting to work on the chicken.
‘And this is his magazine.’ Tara went over to the counter, leaning against it. She began flipping through the copy of London Architects’ Monthly.
‘Yes.’
Slices of chicken folded sideways as Carrie cut. On the edge of her vision, she could see magazine pages fanning past. When they suddenly stopped, curiosity got the better of her. Putting down the knife, she went to peer over Tara’s shoulder. The magazine was open to a double-page spread of a huge living space, its floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over a stretch of grass bordered by woods. The room’s back wall was made of oak, interrupted by an archway at one end and a small, ancient-looking door at the other. In the middle was a fireplace framed by slate.
Carrie inspected the room’s contents with interest. The furniture reminded her of the house itself – clever but unwelcoming: chairs fashioned from leather straps bound to metal skeletons. White lacquered shelves and boxy end-tables made of glass, like giant ice cubes. A steel-framed dining table. The only homey touch was a wooden screen that divided the living and dining areas. It looked as if it might have come from India: three hinged panels with a fringe of latticework along the top. It stood in the foreground in a wide ‘Z’, contrasting sharply with the cool, Nordic styles surrounding it.
