Remix (2010)

by Lexi Revellian

  A movement caught my eye. Emma sat at an antique desk, using a laptop. She wore a crimson evening dress, her hair was up, and her attention so entirely focused on what she was doing that I forgot to worry while I stared at her.

  It hadn’t occurred to me she’d be there, though I might have guessed. What more likely than that she would spend the weekend with her boyfriend? So where was Phil? As this thought entered my mind, the door opened and he appeared, wearing a dinner jacket and carrying a tray. They must have been out to some dressy occasion. Emma didn’t look up. He came over to her, lowered the tray to the desk, stood behind her and put his hands on her bare shoulders, pink against her creamy skin. She said something, but carried on typing. It was true, she typed with two fingers. Phil poured tea into a cup (herb tea? No milk). Emma absently sipped it, and went on with what she was doing.

  Phil stroked her neck, and began to undo her hair.

  For some reason - Emma’s passivity, perhaps - this creeped me out. I wouldn’t want Phil Sharott touching me, and I didn’t want to watch him touching anyone else, either. Emma’s hair fell on to her shoulders, and he ran his fingers through it. She remained intent on the screen. He bent his head to hers, and cupped her breast. I watched, fascinated, repelled, as his hand moved under the crimson silk. A minuscule expression of irritation flicked over her face, and she carried on typing for a bit; then she clicked a few keys with finality and closed the laptop. Her face smoothed to a smile; she joined her arms behind her round Phil’s legs, and tilted her head back to let him kiss her throat. I averted my gaze.

  The rap of a shoe on floorboards; Phil came within a foot of me on the other side of the French window as he reached to close it. I kept my head down and held my breath. The glass door clicked shut, a key turned. I looked in to see Phil following Emma out of the room, one hand on her hip, the other snapping the light switch by the door. Darkness.

  Chapter

  25

  *

  I got to my feet, the roses’ thorns tugging at my clothes, and stretched delicately. Upstairs, lights went on. Keeping close to the wall, in case Phil looked out (though my feeling was he’d be otherwise engaged) I continued round the house. I turned left, with the separate stable block converted into garages on my right, and was back to where I’d started.

  A shock went through me as if I’d touched an electric fence. The corner sash window was open. Calm down. I sank to my knees and peeked over the sill. A tall shape, darker than the room, and a point of light moving.

  “Ric?” I whispered.

  The torch turned on me so I could only see its blue-white glow, and blackness surrounding it. “Caz, what the hell are you doing here?”

  I lifted my wrecking bar I’d been lugging around all this time and dropped it inside, swung a leg over the window sill and climbed into the office. Ric came towards me. Suddenly I was shaking with rage.

  “We were supposed to be doing this together, remember?” I hissed. “Tomorrow. That’s what we agreed, then you sneak off on your own!”

  “I didn’t want you getting hurt if things went wrong.”

  “You lied to me!”

  “You made a fuss when I said you couldn’t come.”

  “That’s not the bloody point! You don’t just tell people what they want to hear to shut them up, because it’s more sodding convenient! If you’re going to do that, how can I believe a word you say?”

  “Chill out, you’re here now.”

  “You just don’t get it, do you? It’s a matter of trust. Integrity.” Ric’s composure was making me madder. If it’s possible to shout in a whisper, that’s what I was doing. “Right.” I headed for the window and put a foot on the sill. “You don’t want me here. I’m leaving. I’m going to the first call box I can find and I’m ringing the police.”

  Ric’s hand gripped my arm and hauled me back. “Don’t do that.” His teeth gleamed in the dark. He was turning on the charm. “I’ve been missing my sidekick. Stay and help. I had to carry everything myself…and why a call box? What about your mobile?”

  “I left it behind,” I said, sulkily. He laughed under his breath. “It’s your fault, I had to get ready in a rush.”

  Ric pulled me to him and kissed me. I was trembling, but he felt solid as a rock. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I won’t ever leave you behind again. Or Dog. Will that do?”

  “No, it won’t, it’s totally inadequate, but this isn’t the time or the place to tell you what I think of you, you rat. Let’s get out of here.”

  “In a minute. I haven’t got into the safe yet.”

  “Can’t we leave it?”

  “Ten minutes. Then we’ll go. I only got here seconds before you turned up. They arrived at the gate when I did, I had to jump in the ditch so they didn’t see me.” Ric grinned; he wasn’t just relaxed, he was enjoying himself. “I climbed up to a first floor window. I’ve been hanging around upstairs. Have a look for numbers written down. Start with the desk.”

  “The day we came here, he didn’t look up the number. He had it in his head.”

  “True - but he’ll have written it down as well, I bet. He doesn’t trust his memory.”

  “All right. Just ten minutes, though. This is freaking me out.”

  “Don’t worry. Phil’ll be in bed by now.”

  I looked at my watch - two fifty-five - then sat at the desk and switched on my torch. The inlaid leather surface was clear, apart from a computer screen, keyboard and mouse, a telephone and a leather-covered container for pens. Try the drawers. The top one was locked.

  “Where d’you think he’d put the key?”

  Ric came over, took the short wrecking bar from his pocket, wedged it above the lock and jerked the drawer open, then returned to the safe. The dreadful splintering noise made me wince - I’m used to preserving antiques, not vandalizing them. I flashed my torch at the showcase Ric smashed last time. It had been mended, and the exhibits shuffled along to cover the gaps left by his Fender Strat and jacket. I returned my attention to the job in hand. The drawer slid out; in it was a desk diary and an address book, plus a pocket-sized tan notebook. I opened the notebook.

  COMPUTER: 27club

  BARCLAYS: user ID: 0275484395

  password: holeinone

  mem. place: canaryislands

  BARCLAYCARD GOLDFISH: no.: Emma’s birthday

  mem. word: lovely

  log in ID: 874420639

  card no.: 5401 3745 9887 0203

  philsharott@aol.com: solicitor

  psharott@aol.com: lawyer

  CREDIT SUISSE…

  “What’ve you found, Caz?”

  “His computer passwords. Banks and things. Maybe the combination’s here too.”

  But it wasn’t. Only a dozen pages were filled in, and he’d written in neat capitals what each ID, username and password was for. Ric was right - Phil didn’t trust his memory. Everything would be written down somewhere. I switched on the computer to be warming up while I continued my hunt; he might have the combination in an Excel file. It beeped and I hit Mute. I’d calmed down a little, now I’d found Ric and had something to do, but it felt bizarre to be sitting in the dark, in someone’s office, going through his private papers by torchlight.

  The address book seemed kosher at a cursory glance; no entries for Mr Safe, Miss Combination, or T. Secret. Nothing I could see in the diary, either. I typed 27club to log in to Phil’s computer. Ric had swung the oil painting aside, and was turning the safe dial, which made audible clicks in the quiet.

  “What are you trying?”

  Ric finished the number he was on, and said, “Phil’s birthday. Nope. I bet it’s a date, though. Six figures.”

  “Try Emma’s.”

  “Done that. I’m going through every birthday I think he’d remember that I know. If he’s used his parents, we’re buggered.”

  He went on methodically trying one set of numbers after another. His recall was amazing. After he’d exhausted birthdays he tried memorable dates
. I’d finished with the desk drawers. There was surprisingly little in there; Phil was not a man for clutter, clearly. I moved on to the computer. I tried Excel; I had hopes of that, because there was an Excel password in the notebook. I opened the file. Lists of countries and names that sounded like foreign banks, with numbers and code words. Nothing obvious that could be the six figure combination, but interesting enough to keep for later. Rather than use the printer by the desk, I brought up Hotmail, attached the file and emailed it to myself. After that, I looked in Documents, which seemed to be all business letters, and began to check each one. I didn’t know where else to search. If the safe code was concealed in here, it might take me a week to find it. I glanced at my watch. Three-oh-three.

  “Two minutes, Ric.”

  He didn’t reply. I carried on scanning as many letters as I could in the time remaining, hoping to strike lucky. I’d leave the computer on; Phil would know we’d been there by the wrecked drawer anyway. The hum of the computer fan and the tiny metallic clicks from the safe seemed loud. Ric turned the dial, one way then the other, stopped and began again.

  “Time’s up. Let’s go, Ric.” I longed to be outside, heading for home.

  “Okay. Just this last one.”

  I skimmed a couple more letters - nothing significant - then crossed to the window.

  Six clicks, then a soft clunk, and the safe door swung open.

  “Yes! Of course. 05,04,05. He’d remember that,” said Ric. “It’s the day Bryan died.”

  My heart went into overdrive. By the light of Ric’s torch, the interior of the safe was the same as the last time I’d seen it. Even the slim bundle of notes had been replaced with another. Ric gave me the jewellery cases while he took out the white cardboard box and lifted the lid. Neatly crammed in, filling it, were syringes, liquid-filled plastic containers, transparent grip-seal bags containing white powder, blister packs of pills, little metal trays with holes in, bars of cannabis resin…

  “Does he take drugs?” I asked, as I opened the leather cases. Nothing but expensive, rather dull necklaces, earrings, and brooches from Garrard and Cartier. Paula’s, I was sure; Emma would wear more exciting jewellery. I put them back where they came from.

  “He never did. In the old days, he got us what we wanted. Said he’d rather we took good stuff.” Ric returned the drugs stash to the safe, and got out the pink A4 file.

  This was taking too long. “Let’s get out of here,” I said. “Bring it with you, you can look at it later.”

  “I just want to see what it is. It may be nothing.” He opened the folder, removed what looked like a folded shirt, and put it on the side table below the safe while he drew out several A4 sheets.

  “Jesus Christ,” he murmured, staring from one to the other.

  “What is it?”

  “Fuck me…”

  I went over to him and took a page. A picture filled most of it; fuzzy, taken on a mobile I guessed, but you could see what it was, even by torchlight. A cream-painted interior; in front of an imposing door with a fanlight, a heap of clothes, high heels, handbags, lingerie, hair spray, make-up, all tumbled together…in the foreground, a man sitting against a wall, head drooping. Look closer, and you could see the knife handle sticking out of his chest, and dark stains on the pale carpet. The other photos showed the same subject, from different angles; the body, and the piled possessions.

  I picked up the garment. What looked like popsocks fell out of it - no, they were the cut off feet of a pair of tights…and here was the rest of the tights…odd. A cream blouse, the label Emporio Armani, that didn’t unfold properly from its deep creases, because it was stuck together with something; it had been hastily folded when wet with some dark liquid… Blood.

  Ric snatched the clothes from me, shoved them and the photos in the file, and tucked it into his trouser waistband under his hoodie. “We’ve done it, Caz! Split.” He closed the safe door and put the oil painting back as it had been. His eyes shining with triumph, he seized my hand and pulled me towards the window. I grabbed the wrecking bar.

  The door opened. My eyes screwed up as dazzling light filled the room. Phil Sharott stood in the doorway, wearing pyjamas and a silk paisley dressing gown.

  He was holding a shotgun.

  Chapter

  26

  *

  “Stay away from the window, please,” said Phil Sharott, clicking something on the gun, “and put that crowbar down.”

  I laid it against the wall. There wasn’t anything about the way he held the weapon that suggested he didn’t know how to use it. It was beautiful, gleaming walnut and engraved steel, the toy of a rich man who indulged himself in country pursuits, golf, fishing, pheasant shooting. No doubt he had a licence for it, and a locked cabinet to keep it in, all above board and within the law. I could see the long polished barrels, because they were aimed at Ric, not me. Bullets or shot, I had no idea, but felt sure at that range whatever it was would make a nasty hole.

  Phil’s eyes flicked to the oil painting in front of the safe. A little of the tension seemed to go out of him. He turned his attention to the glowing computer, the desk and the printer. His mouth tightened when he saw the broken drawer.

  “Miss Tallis, would you go slowly to the desk and place the contents of the top drawer where I can see them, please? Bear in mind that this is pointing at Ric.”

  I did as he asked. My hands had gone icy cold. I laid the address book, the diary and the tan notebook side by side, careful to get the edges parallel.

  “Good. Stand beside Ric. Ric, just what do you think you’re doing?”

  “Okay, you win, Phil, no need to get heavy,” Ric said. “Sorry about the desk. I thought you were holding out on me, that if I came here and accessed your computer I might find out some stuff about the money. I was looking for offshore investments, stocks and shares, that sort of thing. I think you owe me more than you’re saying. A lot more.”

  “So you’ve been looking in my computer?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t find anything. Didn’t know what to look for. Maybe I was wrong, doesn’t make a lot of difference anyway, what’s a million or ten between friends? You can put that thing away. We’re going.” Ric edged towards the window. “Middle of the night, we’re all tired. I’ll ring you.”

  Phil’s voice was louder. “Stop right there, Ric. I want you both to turn out your pockets. You first, Miss Tallis. Slowly.” The gun moved in my direction.

  I bent to the lowest pocket on my combats, took out the plastic cylinder of ground pepper, waved it vaguely at Phil and went to replace it.

  “Put everything on the desk, Miss Tallis.”

  I put the pepper down, then, pocket by pocket, added the rest of my housebreaker’s supplies. It took some time. Laid out together, the items covered half the desk. Phil eyed them as though he’d be required to make a list from memory later for a substantial prize.

  “And the crowbar.” Another visual check. “Come, come, Miss Tallis, I feel sure you have a mobile on you.”

  “I forgot it,” I mumbled.

  A pause, while he decided to believe me. “Now you, Ric.”

  Casually, Ric rummaged through his pockets. As he moved, I thought I could see a corner of the folder now and then, poking against the navy polyester. Sweat started from my pores. “Caz’s got most of it.” The small wrecking bar hit the desk. “She likes being prepared.” The torch and a pen knife. “She was in the Boy Scouts at one time, I believe.” Loose change and a few crumpled notes. His shiny mobile phone skidded across the leather surface to join them. House keys; not, I noted, the Harley keys. He patted his clothes. “That’s it. We’ll be off now. We’d better take this lot, you don’t want it cluttering up the place.” He reached out.

  “Leave it where it is. Except for your keys. You can take those.”

  We picked them up. I clipped mine to my belt. Phil surveyed us for a moment and lowered the gun. It must have been a relief, his arms would have been getting tired. Thank God, he was going
to let us go. I felt light-headed at the reprieve.

  “I cannot credit that two grown people have done this. What were you thinking?”

  Neither of us answered. If the cost of acquittal was another self-righteous lecture, I could live with that.

  “Breaking and entering, damaging a valuable desk, logging on to my personal computer… Once again I’m left wondering just what you hoped to achieve? What was going through your minds? Ric, please accept that I am on your side. Even after your violent outbreak the other day. I appreciate you’ve been under a lot of stress. I am not trying to steal your money; far from it, I’m doing everything in my power to make it over to you. It’s not easy, but I’m doing what I can.”

  Ric nodded. “Fair enough, Phil, I can see you’ve got a point. I’ll consider it sober next time I get a good idea. Maybe it wasn’t one of my best.”

  Phil turned to me. “And as for you, Miss Tallis, words fail me. I’ve never met anyone who lived such a rich fantasy life as you do. Perhaps you should write a novel.”

  “That’s a thought.” Ric put his arm round me. “We’ll be seeing you, then. C’mon, Caz.”

  He ushered me towards the window. This unconventional exit was fine by me - the sooner we were out of there the better. Phil did not attempt to stop us. Ric stretched an arm to push the window as wide as it would go, and the pink folder came free from its insecure hiding place and dropped to his feet on the Chinese rug.

  For an instant I gazed, appalled, as Phil Sharott’s face drained of colour and the gun barrels lifted, then Ric yelled, “Get out, Caz, go go go!” thrusting me at the window. I swung my legs over the sill and landed in the border, snapping and crushing vegetation, the safe darkness beckoning, then the gun fired, outrageously loud. I should have kept going, should have run for my life, for Ric’s life, but I thought he was shot, and my brain worked too slowly. I came back. Ric was unhurt, but there was a hole the size of a saucer in the wall, inches from his chest.