Chapter Eighteen
Kitt moved Mae out of the doorway and went into the ensuite, stepping over spew, going around the corner shower to the bath where Tanja lay half in, half out of the tub, her cheek mashed against the floor, vomit in her hair. Christ, he’d left her for too long. He’d tried to be kind when he should have been ruthless, offered respite when he should have just gotten on with it and done his goddamned job. Hans Weed had been correct. The woman was dead because he’d been utterly sloppy and careless, selfish in a way he’d never been before, his focus on his own life, on Mae, when he should have been focused on his goddamned job. If anything told him he was finished, it was this. It was, without a doubt, time to get out. All the way out.
And he had no clue how to do that.
He reached over her and shut off the water.
Bryce entered, then Weed, slipping across the tiles, hand at his nose, saying, “Och, ‘t Is geen zuivere koffie.” He crouched and touched Tanja’s neck. “She hasn’t been dead long. She’s still warm,” he said, rising.
When Kitt came out of the bathroom, Mae sat on the stripped bed. She held up the throw. “Remember when I said I was getting used to finding dead people?” she said. “I lied. I’m not.”
Kitt ran the back of one finger down her cheek. “I know,” he said, and slipped the throw around her.
She shook her head and drew off the wool. “No, put it on her. Give her some dignity.”
“We need to leave her as she is,” Bryce had a seat beside her.
“Exactly as she is.” Kitt went to the balcony’s door and opened it. Fresh air rushed in to clear the heavy smell of sick and human waste that had drifted from the bathroom.
Weed stood at the ensuite threshold. He rubbed his chin and noticed a sticky glob of sick on the sleeve of his jacket. He took off the garment, crossed to the bed where Bryce and Mae sat to snatch a tissue from the box on the bedside table, rubbing the smelly goop from the fabric.
“Blot, don’t rub,” Mae said.
Weed stopped rubbing and dropped his jacket on the bed. “We were at the same table, all ate the same things: the satay chicken, the rice, the beef randang, the gado gado. We all ate the same things, except for you, Bryce.”
“That’s because I wasn’t invited,” Bryce said with a peevish little huff.
“And you, Mrs Valentine, because you were serving dinner. I don’t feel ill, do you, Kitt?”
“I’m beginning to,” Kitt muttered as he pushed the balcony door open wider. “I’m fine. Bacteria-borne food poisoning is not an equal-opportunity food poisoning, not everyone is infected or affected, and we don’t know if Tanja or Llewelyn had an underlying medical condition.”
“M-m, yes,” Weed nodded, “yes, that’s true, but what did they have from the rijsttafel that we didn’t?”
“The tea,” Mae said, rising, her eyes widening as she looked at Kitt.
Kitt felt his own eyes widen. He took a breath.
“The tea?” Weed twisted to face her.
“The chai,” she said. “They both drank the chai.”
“I knew that stuff was poison,” Bryce said, climbing to his feet.
“Oh, God.” Mae put a hand to her forehead. “I made the chai and served it.”
“Yes, you did.” Pleased with himself, Weed smiled the way an infant with gas smiled. “And earlier this year you nearly killed a woman with poison—Ruby Bleuville, in fact—by giving her a glass of denture cleaner to drink. I’ve read all about you, Mrs Valentine. Obviously, you know something about toxic substances.”
“Goodness me,” Kitt said, “that’s exactly what happened.”
“I’m sorry, Kitt,” Weed pulled out a mobile. “I know the Italians have asked we withdraw for the moment, and this is a less than ideal situation, one that is awkward for you, but you see the connection.” His smile widened and he began to scroll though his contacts.
“I understand.” Kitt massaged his temples, moving to join his colleague and Mae where they stood beside Weed and the stripped bed. “I understand completely. Bryce, you’re going to have to put this baby to sleep. It’s clear I am not in the position to do it.”
“Honestly, Kitty?”
“Just look at me. You can see the present circumstance. It’s about to go over the edge.”
Phone in hand, Weed’s eyes shifted from the mobile’s screen and up to Kitt. Mae looked at him too. Kitt looked at Bryce, and Bryce smashed his fist into Weed’s jaw. Stupefied, the man staggered, the phone tumbled from his grip, Mae caught it, Kitt caught the man before he hit the floor, Bryce grabbed his feet.
Dumbfounded, Mae watched them carry Weed onto the balcony. It had stopped raining.
“Come here and see if you can find his wallet and keys, Mae,” Kitt said sharply.
She took one faltering step then hurried to the balcony, quickly patting Weed’s side and back trouser pockets, finding nothing but a money clip and change. “I’ll try his jacket. She darted inside.
“You know,” Bryce said, “it might kill him.”
“Yes. It might. I understand if you want to step away, Sergeant.”
“The things I do for you, sir. He’s coming around.”
Kitt adjusted his grip. “Thank you, Bryce. On three?” he said, swinging a moaning Weed.
“One…” Bryce said, swinging a groaning Weed.
“Two…”
Mae rushed forward, a set of keys and small wallet in hand. “I found his—what the hell are…”
“Three,” Kitt said and off Weed went over the edge of the balcony.
“…you doing?” Mae looked at them, aghast, as the man fell two storeys, the sound of a splash emanating from the canal below. She shot to the railing and, for a half-second, looked down to the water and people hurrying to the canal’s edge before Kitt dragged her into the room.
“Mind telling me why we abandoned courtesy protocol?” Bryce shook and flexed and massaged his right hand, knuckles red.
“First of all, he wanted to take Mae and hold her in detention until he sorted out whether not Caspar is still alive. And just now he was accusing you of murdering Llewelyn and Tanja Goedenacht.”
“What?” Mae said, mouth falling open again.
“Oh,” Bryce nodded, “that’s what he was going on about.”
“How long have you been in active field duty, Bryce?”
“Me? I’m not a field officer, I’m in support.”
“Exactly like a good brassiere.”
“Speaking of good support,” Bryce examined his sore knuckles and frowned, black brows knitting over his bright green eyes, “did you hear Morland died?”
“Yes.” Kitt grabbed his colleague’s hand and examined it. “You need ice,” he said.
“Yes, ice. Right. Llewelyn died, the woman in the bathroom died, Ruby Bleuville died, Jill Charteris and Eaton died. Do we need to be concerned about Morland?”
Kitt dropped Bryce’s hand and swore. “What in hell is going on?”
“You’re the field officer. I’m just support and I’ll support you any way you need, Kitt.”
“Okay,” Mae said, voice pitched high; her long moment of speechless shock had worn off, and she looked from one man to the other, shaking the keys at them. “Okay, okay, first, that man wanted to have me detained, he was accusing me of poisoning two people, and you couldn’t just lock him in the bathroom with Ms Goedenacht?”
“Well,” Bryce shrugged. “It was only two floors down.”
“Two floors…” Mae sank onto the edge of the bed. “How could I forget what warped, feckin’ lunatics ya are? Now I find out that, on top of Llewelyn, Tanja Goedenacht, and Ruby Bleuville, Llewelyn’s Moneypenny is dead as well?”
“I hate to break it to you, Mae,” Bryce compressed his mouth for a moment, making the cleft in his chin more prominent. “I never told you Milton Foley is dead too, but your one-time employer, Julius Taittinger, as far as I know, is still breathing in his cell at the Santa Fe County detention facility.”
Mae’s face sagged.
“Ruby. It comes back to Ruby.” Kitt tapped his left thumb against tips of two shortened fingers. “She’s got to be the cornerstone to this. The Yeoh Triad, the Enrico Cartel, one of them, both of them, it’s been well-organised, perfectly executed.”
“Don’t use that word,” Mae said.
Kitt grabbed the beige throw, shoved it into Mae’s arms, and took her elbow, pulling her to her feet. He led her to the door while she looked at him dumbly. “Go up to the suite,” he said. “Get dressed. Grab whatever you think you need, and go into the suite next door. Here’s the passkey card that’ll get you in. We’re leaving when I get upstairs. I’ll ring the bell once and knock twice.”
“Leaving? W-what about the dog?”
Kitt looked at Bryce. “You like dogs, don’t you Bryce?”
“Yes, especially the ones that like to hump. I’ll see to my drunken friend in the canal.”
The dregs of shock gave way to irritation. Hands on her hips, she squinted. “And what are you going to do while I’m upstairs in the three minutes it’ll take me to pack a bag, Kitt?”
“Think,” he said, and grabbed Weed’s jacket, tossing it to Bryce, who hurried to the door.
Mae was right behind the tall Welshman, he held the door for her, but she paused and turned around, one eye squinting this time. “Put this baby to sleep—Did you really say that?”
Kitt rang the bell and knocked twice. He only waited a moment before Mae opened the door and turned about. He followed her. The dining trolley that Bryce had pushed into the hallway after Llewelyn died stood against the wall. Felix trotted beside her as she moved past it, went through the sitting room that was a mirror image of the suite next door. No matter how they disagreed, Kitt knew the dog was hers, and the both of them trailed after her to the dining room where a familiar, comforting, buttery scent filled the air.
Her small iPad with the folio keyboard open sat on the dining table that had gone from six to four seats. Beside the tablet was a plate, a napkin, silverware, and a large, covered dish. “What are you doing, Mae?”
“Looking at one of the places I’m thinking of buying to restore rather than renovate—if we get through this.”
Kitt had a look at the screen. “That’s what one calls a ramshackle cottage.”
“Mm-hm, a cottage on a ramshackle estate in need of restoration, but look, the cottage has a stone fence, and an apple orchard right out the front.”
“All that’s missing is the dog.”
“No, he’s right there.” She looked over at Felix who sat watching them, hoping, she knew, for a nibble of what lay under the stainless-steel cover. “You took too long. I couldn’t stand the waiting and all the thinking that comes with waiting alone, so I made breakfast. She tipped her head to the Delft china place setting, complete with a Chemex coffee maker.
“You made real coffee too?”
“Yes. Eat.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“It’s two a.m., Kitt. Good morning. Breakfast is served.” She closed the iPad’s cover.
“We don’t have time for this. Sunrise is in a little more than two hours.”
“I’ve looked outside. I went out on the balcony. There are men in the suite next door. I saw the police down at the canal, more police running toward the hotel. I heard a siren. And then another siren. The canals in Amsterdam aren’t very deep, only two or three metres. I think the canal below was only two metres. Mr Weed broke something. We can wait a while until it dies down.”
Maddeningly cool, Kitt slipped a hand into a pocket of his dark trousers. “Listen, in the past, under more usual work circumstances, I would have locked Weed in the bathroom, but this is not a usual work circumstance. A usual work circumstance does not involve you. Do you know I how sodding much I wanted to miss the canal?”
She replicated his cool, maddening nonchalance. “Yes, I do. Sit down. Eat your eggs. I have something to say.”
He gave her hard, cold look. “You can reprimand me and tell me how appalling I am when we’re in a car driving away from here.”
Mae cocked her head.
Kitt pulled a chair from the dining table and sat. “Bloody hell, woman.”
She leaned forward and lifted the stainless cover from the serving dish and began to scoop scrambled eggs onto the plate in front of him. “The Caspar I loved is not real,” she said. “That man was not real. He was a façade. That man was nothing but lie upon lie upon lie. I was stupid. I was feckin’ stupid. I never noticed, never considered he could be lying to me—why would I? He was my husband. I trusted him. I trusted him blindly because I loved him, and he lied. He lied to me and to two other women. Two other women who are dead. He made my life a lie and he’s made me a fraud, made me culpable for the sort of deception Llewelyn believed I was guilty of; I am accountable by association. What sort of man lies to a woman he claims to love? I’m sorry there’s no toast.”
“Mae,” he said.
She held up her hand, palm out. “They sent up white bread for Llewelyn and I know you dislike white bread. I was going to make Chelsea buns.” She went around the small table, dragged a chair out, and sat across from him. “You asked me that once. You wanted to know how a husband could hide things from the wife he loved, how a husband could hide thirty-seven million pounds from the woman he loved and—why are you crying?”
“Because you’re not.” Kitt’s hands, flattened on the table’s top, curled into fists, and he looked up at Mae through wet, clumped lashes. “I’m going to kill him, Mae. This is not hyperbole. If he’s alive, if we find him, I am going to kill Caspar.”
Her mouth flattened. “No, you’re not.”
Damp eyes hard and icy, he said, “How can you be so forgiving?”
“Forgiving?” She sniffed. “What was there to forgive when I thought he was dead? What was the point of being angry with the sins of a man I believed was dead?”
“I meant you’re forgiving of me, of things I’ve kept from you. I’ve lied to you. I pretended to be dead. We’re no different.”
“Yes. You have, you did, but you’re not the same.”
“We’re both liars, that makes us the same.”
She reached across the table, picked a puff of egg from his plate and ate it. “You were honest about yourself from the moment we met. You told me there were things you would not and could not discuss, awful things, secret things. And then, when it became necessary, you shared your secrets with me, you were honest about the life you lead.”
“I live a life of lies. My God, you should’ve walked away. Look at the horror and misery I’ve brought you.” Kitt gave his running nose a savage wipe.
“You do have a napkin,” she said.
Kitt lifted the folded cloth beside his uneaten eggs and blew his nose. “You should walk away now. You know the account codes, where the safe house is. Walk away.”
“So you live a life of lies. I knew what you were from the start.” Mae sat back. “I knew you had dubious morals. You’re a charlatan, a liar, and I chose to live the life and the lies with you. I knew the options; I saw them clearly: walk away and be sensible. I chose to share your life of lies. I chose. Now Caspar’s made my choice a lie for you and me, made our marriage a lie.”
Kitt smiled gently. “My love, our marriage isn’t legal.”
“Yes, for my own protection and yours, but legal or not, it’s a marriage to us both. I know that scrap of legal paperwork doesn’t matter to you any more than it matters to me. You haven’t changed your mind about your vow to me. We are married.”
Kitt looked down at the beautiful scrambled eggs his wife had made for him. If he put the tiniest bite of pillowy, pale yellow in his mouth the eggs would taste like red wine or mushrooms or something detestable, and he was loath to sully a memory of something that had always been perfect. He raised his head. “Caspar’s reappearance challenges the registration of his death, meaning legally, he’s still your husband. The British and Italia
n government will want answers, the insurance company who paid out after the crash nearly seventeen years ago will want to retrieve assets they paid out, there may even be petitions filed in probate for relatives of his other wives.”
“Yes,” she nodded, “I imagine the paperwork will most likely be enormous.”
“If I kill him there won’t be any paperwork.” He looked at her, blue-grey eyes burning like frostbite, and he said it very softly, “If this is true, I will kill your husband, Mae.”
“You are my husband,” Mae said and was silent for a very long moment, staring at his right hand, which had clenched around a cloth napkin. Then she cast her gaze to the floor to stare, saying, very quietly, “How would you kill him?”
“I’d drown him in a canal,” he said and she lifted her head, her mouth curved into a tiny smile that she knew horrified him.
“I know,” she nodded again. “I see you’re thinking Dear God, what have I done to her? I know you are. You school your thoughts so well, but sometimes, like now, I can see what you’re thinking, I see your concern. I don’t really want you to kill him.”
“You don’t?” he said, his look quizzical.
“No,” she said, her little smile remaining in place. “It’s not so much a matter of what he’s done to me as much as it is what he’s done to you, how this hurts you, and I want to kill him for that. I want to drown him in a canal. I want that so much and I can’t reconcile that desire with what I know is very plainly wrong. I have lost all sense of morality. And I’m reconciled to that.”
“It’s revenge.”
She laughed softly. “That basic human need.”
“The thing of it is, Mae,” he said, his hands disappearing beneath the table, “we don’t know if Caspar’s actually alive. Or if this is an ongoing case of identity theft, as we thought it was with his personal information being used to open a trust to launder money. Maybe you’re right about the photo of Caspar with Fiorella being photoshopped. Maybe the photo is fake. Maybe the passports are forgeries.”
“Do you believe any of that?”
True to Your Service Page 24
