by Ali Knight
She named a fashionable restaurant with high prices. I forced a smile. ‘Have a nice time, but tell him the company is not for sale.’
‘I know that,’ she said. The silence between us stretched. ‘Maggie Malone hasn’t been in touch, has she?’ Helene asked.
I shook my head. ‘Why would she?’
‘No reason, I guess,’ Helene replied. She seemed to visibly relax, then. She packed her accessories into a bag and hung the dress on a clothes hanger and swung it over her shoulder. ‘So, are you coming with me?’
I shook my head. ‘No, I’ll come in later.’
‘OK,’ she said.
I watched from Poppa’s bedroom window as a taxi pulled up and she got in, looking like she had a spring in her step and not a care in the world. I wasn’t going into the office today, I decided. I wanted to see if she would even notice. But I knew the answer to that already.
CHAPTER 73
Helene
The morning of
I was desperate to get out and meet Peter Fairweather that evening. An early dinner was the perfect distraction from everything that had happened recently. The more the work at GWM piled up the better I felt. I knew I had made the right decision to fight to take control and run the company. I liked the sound of hundreds of emails pinging in my inbox, I relished the many reports to be read, decisions that needed to be made, meetings that needed to be scheduled. I gathered an excellent team around me, helping me learn the ropes, taking the responsibility for different sections of the business.
I felt a growing confidence as the initial shock of Gabe’s death began to lessen. The days had taken on a new shape filled with urgency and purpose, new horizons beckoned; people needed me, a thousand business decisions had to be taken. This was the public face I would show to the world. I would provide Gabe with a suitable and fitting legacy. But there were going to be changes at the development in Vauxhall, a move in a different direction for the company. For GWM to survive it was essential.
Every task needing to be done was a godsend, because it stopped me thinking about Gabe, about that woman or about Maggie. I had not the slightest regret about the bad publicity that I had unleashed on a woman I used to like and who I had hired. When it comes to love and affection, allegiances can shift like the wind. My tip-off and interviews to the papers about her sordid past would have left her business in ruins and her reputation in tatters. I didn’t care. She had overstepped the boundaries of our agreement, she had been unprofessional. She would have realised by now that she had taken on a fight she couldn’t win. Life was a struggle – get over it.
I watched the city slide by from inside the taxi. It was better to be inside looking out than outside looking in. I decided it was time to put a restraining order on Maggie. If I was going to take a course of action, it needed to be seen through till the bitter end; there was no point in half measures. I needed to keep her away from the house and, more importantly, the office and our employees, just in case she felt she had nothing more to lose and she might as well stir up trouble by making wild accusations that GWM was responsible for Milo’s death. It would keep her away from Alice too. I didn’t want Maggie inserting herself into the gap that had opened up between me and my little Alice.
But then I reconsidered the restraining order. Maggie alone knew what Gabe had said in his last moments sprawled in the dust. I needed to find out what that was. I needed to tie up the one dangling loose end.
CHAPTER 74
Maggie
The day of
I woke late, turning over the conversation I’d had with Miss Warriner in my mind. I called Alice. She was at home, and I asked if I could see the texts on Gabe’s second phone.
She agreed, and I was about to ask her to come by the office with it but she said she was busy and asked me to come to the house.
She said Helene was at work and would be there all day. We argued it back and forth for a while, as I knew it was better to stay well away from Helene’s house, but she didn’t relent. I was stuck and since it would only take a few moments I headed over to Islington.
On the way Rory called saying he was on a train coming back from Newcastle. ‘You sitting down, because you’re going to want to be,’ he began.
‘I’m too busy to do that. What have you got for me?’
‘Do you know how far five hundred quid goes in this town?’
‘A long way, I imagine.’
‘Wrong,’ Rory retorted. ‘It’s the scariest place I’ve ever been. I’m lucky to escape with my gonads intact. I’m broke, and I’m coming back before I get lynched. But you’re going to want to listen to this. We know our fragrant Helene Moreau started life as ordinary Helen Davey, right?’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, her mum was a hospital cleaner, dad wasn’t around. Our Helen was very pretty. I’ve paid to see photos of her. And she had a liking for married men. And soon it became a liking for rich, married men. Two divorcees talked a lot about her – I didn’t have to pay them, they were happy to relay how Helen Davey had turned the heads of their husbands and ruined their marriages. She had a fancy flat in town paid for by one man, he bought everything for her – clothes, jewellery, he even bought her a car. And then, in the early noughties, when she was in her late twenties, she left. She was run out of town, the way I heard it. That’s when she came to London – in that same car, I imagine.’
‘Where she ended up meeting Gabe,’ I added.
Rory agreed. ‘I bet you Gabe knew nothing about her past, or how he was only one in a long line of wealthy wallets she was only too happy to help empty.’
I smiled. Rory could give me a run for my money when it came to cynicism. ‘Great work, Rory, I’ll see you later tonight.’ He rang off and I sat back.
Was I surprised at what Rory had uncovered? No, was the long answer. Women like Helene were found watching every casino table; they were perched on barstools in every five-star hotel bar, smiling at every charity fundraiser. There was nothing wrong with that in itself – grown men were masters of their own actions; nobody was forcing them to cheat on their wives. Helene had had a plan and executed it. But deep down inside was the tiny beat of alarm – how deep did her ambition run, how high did she aspire? Was her love for Gabe an act? Or was the truth that it was easy to fall in love with a rich, charismatic man who had overcome personal tragedy?
I parked around the corner from Alice’s house as a precaution and rang on the door. It took her a long time to answer. She was still in her pyjamas with a cup of coffee in her hand and seemed thinner and more serious, her bright innocence dimmed. It was strange being in that house again. Gabe whispered at me from every corner, but the look of the place had changed too; it had become unkempt and messy, with drifts of clothing and paperwork layering surfaces and trailing across floors and stairs. I saw shrivelling apple cores on a footstool in the lounge, a vase of dried-up and wilting flowers. It was as if with Gabe gone, the order underpinning the Moreaus had begun to collapse.
Alice took me up to the office and found the box with Gabe’s things in it. ‘It’s charged,’ she said and handed the phone over before walking into her bedroom. I followed her in and sat down next to her because it was the only place free from the clutter. I called the number, it was unobtainable.
I read the messages; the oldest said ‘You can’t let me go x’. The next said ‘Alice need never know xx’ and the third, ‘I deserve more x’. The messages were humdrum, if anything.
‘Why do you think they’re talking about me in the text?’
I shook my head, but I felt a beat of annoyance at her narcissism. But this was how I got paid, and so I said nothing.
‘Can I see a photo of her?’ Alice asked.
I pulled out my phone and showed her one of the photos of Warriner I had loaded on it.
She stared at it for a long moment and gave a small nod. ‘How are you getting on finding her?’ she asked.
‘Does the name L Warriner mean anything to you?’ I asked.
>
She frowned. ‘No.’
I told her that I had traced and spoken to Gabe’s woman but that she was reluctant to meet his family.
Alice wouldn’t accept that. ‘I want to see her,’ she said.
I held up my hands. ‘I can’t stop you but I would counsel against it.’
She was silent then and I was unclear whether she was absorbing my advice.
‘What have you found out about Helene?’ she continued. The hard look on her face told me that things weren’t great between the grieving women in Gabe’s life. ‘Well?’ she asked again, her eyes fiery with righteousness and clear moral boundaries.
So I gave her a watered-down and sterilised version of what Rory had found out in the home town of her stepmother.
I was unprepared for what happened next.
Alice screamed. She picked up her coffee cup and threw it at the wall, the saucer straight after it. The coffee splashed like a blood spurt from an artery straight across the paintwork.
‘Alice!’ I jumped up and grabbed her from behind, trying to pin her flailing arms by her sides. The duvet got tangled in my feet, Alice tried to upend the bedside table.
She was stronger than she looked. I was trained in self-defence but most of the drills were for taking out a male opponent. The role-play hadn’t factored in so much red hair that I was temporarily blinded as I tried to grab her arms to stop her destroying her bedroom. For a few terrible moments she was a whirling helicopter of fury on my shoulder, trying to take down anything within five feet.
It took a full five minutes to get her on the bed, calm enough to speak to her.
‘I’m going to fucking kill her!’ she screamed again.
‘You need to calm down!’ I screamed back.
She didn’t speak, her adrenaline was running so high she was panting, wordless. I realised I was still gripping her arms. Everyone has a tipping point, a moment when they can take so much, and no more, so far, and no further. I thought then that Alice had reached that point, and I feared for what she might do to Helene. If her stepmother did have a role to play in Gabe’s death, she needed to be behind bars, not at the end of Alice’s fists.
I didn’t get off her arms. But a few minutes later her hard breathing had lessened and I felt her go slack under my touch. I climbed off her bed and straightened my clothes. She sat up and I began to reorder the disaster that was her bedroom, setting her bedside table straight and putting the things that had fallen off back on it.
‘Grow up,’ I said. ‘You wanted to know the truth, but you have to be strong enough to cope with it.’
She looked up at me from under her fringe, her face red and stained with tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
I nodded and she started to cry. She had crossed from angry banshee to dishevelled emotional wreck in a few moments.
‘How much do I owe you for your work?’ Alice said dully.
‘You’re all paid up,’ I answered. There was nothing more to say. I walked out of her house and back to the car.
CHAPTER 75
Helene
The night of
Peter Fairweather took me to dinner at an upmarket and fashionable restaurant that was taking bookings eighteen months ahead. We were shown to a table past two pop stars and a Hollywood actor but I took the seat facing the wall. I didn’t want to be seen enjoying myself so soon after my husband’s death. I still wore black, observing my period of mourning for Gabe, but God, it was good to be out! To hear laughter and gossip, to see joy in other people, to watch the swish of waiters moving back and forth in a confident choreographed stream.
Peter had asked for this meeting. I wondered why he didn’t just come to the office, but that wasn’t Peter’s style. He wanted to show me what my life would be like if I sold the company; how easy easy street would be.
He offered me champagne, and I accepted just a glass. We talked about a play at the National, we touched on politics, we kept it all neutral. My real opinions I didn’t share.
Peter has very blue eyes and good suits. He offered his profuse commiserations for Gabe, as he had done at the wake. It came across as heartfelt. I used the edge of the napkin to dab at my eyes.
‘Will you allow me to speak plainly, Helene?’ I nodded. ‘What in hell’s name were you thinking hiring that detective!’
I rubbed my hand across my forehead. ‘Until you’ve been there, don’t judge.’ I looked at him defiantly. ‘No marriage is easy, Peter, as I’m sure you appreciate.’ I gave him a long look of understanding from under my lashes.
Peter leaned in close. ‘Was there another woman that Gabe was seeing?’
I had a decision to make. Should I tell Peter the truth? I decided it was better to get out in front of it, stem the rumours that might cause trouble later.
‘There was, I’m sorry to say. Whether it contributed to what Gabe then chose to do, we will never know.’
‘That is really awful for you, Helene,’ Peter said. ‘Who was she?’
‘I realise now, Peter, that it’s irrelevant. She means nothing to me. So much other important stuff has happened. We must remember the good in Gabe and all the love he gave.’
Peter politely probed about why Gabe might have done what he did, if I needed help, the kind of which was left deliciously hanging. I knew what game Peter was playing, but he didn’t realise he was up against a master who could play him back.
Peter changed tack. ‘I heard about the speech you gave at GWM, about the new direction for the company. It’s quite a different vision – a far more aggressive programme – you’ve got. How does that fit with what Gabe’s wishes were?’
‘Business directions change often, you know that, Peter. I felt it was important for GWM to be able to respond to new market realities in London property. We need to serve the interests of the people who rely on us.’
A small frown appeared, but he pressed on. ‘Still, Gabe was passionate about social housing, about protecting the little guy. There was a certain …’ he tailed off for a moment, searching for the right word, ‘logic, in positioning the company in that way. You’re changing that emphasis dramatically.’
‘Yes, I am.’ I wasn’t going to apologise for what I was going to do. Not to anyone. ‘As long as Alice is happy with developments, I can do what I like.’
I ran my fingers down the stem of my champagne glass, slid one stockinged leg over the other under the table. I felt the rustle of silk against my thighs, felt the comforting clank of a heavy gold bracelet on my wrist.
Peter was married, of course. They always were. I had met his wife a couple of times. I sensed a door of opportunity opening, should I wish to move through it. Should I wish, in the wake of Gabe’s death, to revert to how I used to be, to what I used to know.
Peter was being so warm and comforting. Anything he could do, he insisted, nothing was too small a favour. I sipped my champagne, felt the bubbles bursting on the roof of my mouth, touched the smooth, snow-white laundered tablecloth under my fingers. I knew what Peter wanted, I knew the rhythms of what would come next. What he was offering was attractive, in a way.
The waiter came over and asked if we wanted dessert. Peter looked at me, those blue eyes so clear, his hand close to mine on the table. ‘Well?’ he asked. His voice was velvet.
I looked up at the waiter and smiled.
CHAPTER 76
Maggie
The night of
The traffic in the West End was horrendous; backed up at every light and mini roundabout, the city a maelstrom of hot tempers and fraying nerves. Simona called as I was trying to get back to Paddington.
‘I’ve traced that company that Warriner was renting the flat from, Mount Southern Holdings.’
‘Go on,’ I said.
‘It’s a subsidiary of another company owned by GWM.’
‘Very interesting, thanks, Simona.’ So Gabe had provided Warriner with a flat – my guess is he had been paying for it too – and when he died she had moved on, or moved back to whe
re she had been before. Perhaps her step up in the world had been short-lived. But it also showed the depth of the connection between Warriner and Gabe – this hadn’t been a relationship conducted in hotel rooms or twice a year while away at a conference.
My phone pinged with a text. Alice wanted Warriner’s address. I didn’t answer; stalling her.
It was late by the time I finally got to the office and Simona had gone home. The room was still baking from the afternoon sun, so I turned on the fan, which instantly blew a fuse. I yanked open the window and while an insipid stream of cooler air began to leak into the room there was nothing subtle about the smell of frying onions that bullied its way in alongside. I’d always hated fried onions.
I sat down in my chair, feeling exhausted. When was I going to win another case to put in my filing cabinet? Would clients ever come back through my door again? The Moreau family had cost me everything I had built and worked for. They hadn’t been worth it.
Dwight calling was a welcome distraction. ‘You holding up OK?’ he asked.
His voice was soft, and I was thankful. ‘I can pay the rent on the office this month, but next month I probably won’t make it. And I’ve got no idea how I’m going to keep Rory and Simona on. I’m probably going to be sued, and I’m a public hate figure, so everything’s grand.’
‘Tough break,’ he said, and sounded genuine. ‘I thought you might like to know we’ve had a breakthrough in Milo’s case. We’ve found the murder weapon. It was his cast-iron doorstop.’
‘Interesting.’
‘It was dumped in the bin of a commercial property that’s being squatted.’
‘I thought squatting was illegal now?’
‘It is, but this guy pays £1,000 a month cash as a backhander to a security guard who’s supposed to keep the squatters away until the place is redeveloped. That’s why the bins aren’t emptied regularly. He’s not supposed to be living there. But best of all, the squatter’s got a conscience, because he heard our appeal for information, he got in touch, and he might have seen who dumped it.’
