by Susan Lewis
‘So after he came to say goodbye at dawn,’ Laurie said, ‘what then?’
Rachel’s heart fluttered. ‘Nothing,’ she said, recalling how intimate it had felt, and how much the whole weekend had dominated her thoughts since. ‘Just that he’d be back soon, and I should call if I needed to.’
‘No mention of where he was going?’
‘No.’
They walked on quietly, huddled into their jackets, until Rachel began climbing the stile.
‘Can you manage there?’ Laurie said, holding out a hand, just in case.
‘Yes, I’m fine. Just watch your foot on that stone, it wobbles.’
After clearing the stile, and taking a quick breather for Rachel to work up more steam, they forged on across the wide open meadow towards the edge of the cliffs.
‘So Stacey Greene’s around,’ Laurie said, wondering if Rachel felt as unnerved by that as she would were she in her position.
‘Mm,’ Rachel responded. ‘Apparently she arrived a couple of days ago.’
‘She hasn’t tried calling, or coming to see you?’
‘No, thank God. An hysterical Stacey Greene I can definitely do without.’
A minute or two later they were standing several feet from the edge of the Devil’s Frying Pan, gazing at the intimidating blackness of the rim and the thunderous sky beyond. Though they couldn’t see the gushing cauldron of waves at the bottom of the abyss, or the jagged rocks that encircled it, the noise was so ominous that to Laurie it easily explained the Devil’s ownership.
‘We shouldn’t go any closer,’ Rachel warned, ‘the grass is incredibly slippery when it’s raining like this.’
Happy to stay where she was, Laurie continued to look around, taking in the leaden darkness of the sky, the strange undulation of the sea that seemed to make the land roll in its wake, and the grim chasm that yawned before them.
Rachel said, ‘It glowers and growls and does all sorts of things to your nerves when it’s like this, doesn’t it? But I love it all the same.’
Laurie shivered. ‘Isn’t this spot supposed to be haunted?’ she said, going up on tiptoe to try to see into the abyss. ‘You’re right, it does do things to your nerves,’ she agreed, coming back down again, ‘but more importantly, what’s it doing to your instincts? Anything?’
Rachel inhaled deeply. ‘Nothing,’ she confessed. ‘I hoped coming back here might help clear my head, get me remembering why I found him so convincing on Saturday, but the weather’s so different, the whole atmosphere has changed, and now it’s starting to feel like a pretty ludicrous mission altogether.’
Laurie’s eyes narrowed against the wind as she continued to look around. ‘Going back to Stacey Greene,’ she said, ‘does she have something to worry about where you and Chris are concerned? I mean after last weekend.’
Feeling her cheeks colour, Rachel said, ‘No. At least not in the sense you’re meaning it. It’s so soon after Tim and with me being in this condition … I’m sure it’s only rebound on my part …’ She looked at Laurie, then turned to gaze absently down at the sea. ‘I wonder where he is now,’ she said. ‘What he’s doing?’
‘Why not try calling when we get back?’ Laurie suggested, turning to see who Rachel was waving to.
‘I think it’s Nick,’ Rachel said, watching the small fishing boat battling the swell as it motored out to sea. ‘Hard to tell from here. Anyway, time we were going back. I could do with a cup of tea, and Beanie baked some muffins this morning.’
‘Oh, don’t you just love Beanie?’ Laurie enthused, her mouth already watering.
Ten minutes later they were kicking off their Wellies by the back door, still talking, while drying their hair with towels, both completely oblivious now to Nick’s boat, as it chugged on over the far horizon.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Chris swore, jabbing off the phone and turning to Rudy. ‘First Franz is dead, and now Katherine’s on her way to England. At least we have to presume it’s her.’ He threw out his hands. ‘Who the bloody hell else could it be?’
Rudy glanced over at him, then quickly returned his eyes to the busy coast highway.
‘I don’t believe this! I just don’t fucking believe it!’ Chris growled, banging his fist on the dashboard. That his own wife was facilitating Katherine’s trip was too mind-blowing for words.
‘You’re going to have to get yourself over there,’ Rudy told him. ‘Franz might not be with us any longer, but there are a lot of others who don’t want Katherine Sumner anywhere near Mrs Hendon.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Chris muttered, wincing as a motorbike zoomed past and cut too close in front.
‘They could be a pair of sitting ducks, if you get there in time,’ Rudy said glibly, then suddenly he braked hard and made a dangerous U-turn right in front of the Jemeirah Mosque.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Getting you to the airport. I’ve got plenty of back-up here, we should have that cash released by the end of the week. You just get yourself back there.’
They travelled the next few minutes in silence, plunging back into the scorched and teeming city streets of Dubai, heading for the Al Maktoum Bridge.
‘You can do it, can you?’ Rudy said.
Chris glanced at him. ‘Are you kidding?’ he cried. ‘Of course I can do it. What the hell other choice do I have?’
Everything had gone according to plan. The two boats had rendezvoused in the Channel, more or less on time, the transfer had been made with no questions or mishaps, and Katherine had arrived at the house, just after two in the morning, windswept, and as white as the handkerchief she was still dabbing to her lips. Obviously the journey had not been easy, which made her earnest thanks for Stacey’s help in getting her here all the more touching. Stacey had brushed it aside, insisting it was the least she could do, as though she were offering refuge to a friend caught in a storm, rather than a virtual stranger who was wanted for murder.
Once inside, though Katherine had appeared ready to talk, Stacey could see she was exhausted, so she’d shown her straight to one of the guest suites, where she’d already laid out clean nightclothes, fresh towels and toiletries and had even run a hot bath ready for her to step into. She’d left her then, and gone downstairs to make sure everything was all right with Nick. After that, she returned to her own suite, to pass an unsteady night thinking about the woman along the hall and praying that Chris wouldn’t choose tonight or tomorrow to make an unexpected return. But if he did, she had her defence ready, for Katherine had quite genuinely assured her that she meant no one any harm, least of all Rachel Hendon. She merely wanted to talk to Rachel, explain what had happened, then accept the consequences, whatever they might be. Stacey had no idea how much of that was true, but it was the story the mysterious Lee Krasner had told her on the phone, and would work perfectly for Stacey to claim that she’d been taken in by Katherine’s sorry tale of how she’d been maligned, misunderstood and turned into a virtual exile from the world for something she hadn’t done – or maybe hadn’t meant to do, Stacey still wasn’t too clear on that. Nor did she want to be, for the more hazy that particular issue remained, the more convincing she could be later, when it inevitably came out that she had played a part in Katherine Sumner’s visit to Tim Hendon’s widow.
It was now almost midday, and with still no sign of Katherine, Stacey was sitting at her desk in the studio Chris had had built specially for her. At the time it had been designed to satisfy her desire to dance; later it had been the perfect place to practise her newfound passion for singing; then had come her most recent urge, to paint. He’d never balked at her fads, had willingly indulged them, no matter the cost or how vague the talent. In fact the only thing he had ever refused her was a child, but she’d been so sure she could change his mind about that, that she’d actually started making plans for the studio’s next conversion into a nursery. The designer’s drawings were right there, stored on the computer in front of her, though masked right now by other business. If only
she could block out his refusal to make her pregnant so easily, as it was another sign that he had no plans for a future with her.
An untidy pile of printouts littered the desk, all concerning Tim Hendon’s murder, but Stacey had stopped reading a while ago, and was now sitting quietly, resting her head in her hands, all but oblivious to the rain hammering against the windows. She was getting herself ready for the role she was to play for the rest of the day, and possibly into the night. The lines would necessarily have to be improvised, as would most of the action, for much depended on Katherine, but the motivation was unwavering and a thousand times more forceful than any she’d ever known before. However, this was only a brief, stabilizing exercise, for there was still plenty to do, or more particularly questions to be asked, of Katherine, that might help her to decide exactly how she was going to play this.
Upstairs, in one of the most comfortable rooms she’d stayed in for a while, Katherine was currently checking her email to see if anything new had come in from Xavier. Nothing had, but she sent him a message to let him know she’d got here safely. There was no need for him to come, he should just stay where he was safe now and leave the rest to her.
Though she was still shaken by the godawful journey, and the back-breaking climb up through the cliffs to the barn, when she’d slipped and stumbled, cracking her head against the walls, and torn the skin on her hands and knees – not to mention the disgusting insects and rodents that had scurried over her feet or clung to her face – she was feeling much calmer and more centred now than she had since leaving Locarno. A great deal had happened since then, too much to think about now, when she needed her mind clear and alert to carry out this final move in the game that she had wrested from Franz’s control.
Looking up as someone knocked on the door, she remembered too late the gun that should be in her pocket book, instead of on the bed next to it. But Stacey didn’t seem to notice, as she told her in a vague, friendly way that there was plenty to eat downstairs if she was hungry. ‘I’m just popping out for an hour,’ she said, ‘help yourself to whatever’s there.’
Katherine thanked her graciously, and felt curious to know why she wasn’t curious, or even nervous, when it couldn’t be every day she harboured a known murderer in her home; and even if she hadn’t heard about Franz, she’d certainly know about Tim.
By the time Stacey came back Katherine was downstairs in the kitchen, eating a sandwich she’d prepared and flicking through the parish magazine. Stacey was impressed by how calm she seemed, as though nothing untoward was occurring or there was nothing at all unusual about keeping a gun right next to her plate. That was what Stacey presumed was inside the black leather purse she’d spotted earlier on the bed, but she could be wrong.
‘Does it usually rain like this?’ Katherine asked, still gazing at the french windows Stacey had just come in through.
‘Sometimes,’ Stacey answered, glancing at the doors too. Every now and again they rattled in the wind, and through their partially steamed up panes she could see a bundle of tumbleweed blowing across the stable-yard. ‘It’s forecast to stay like this for a few more days.’ Peeling off her gloves, she turned back to Katherine. ‘Does it affect your plans?’
Katherine shook her head. ‘Not really,’ she answered, picking up her milk. Then seeming to understand the question, she added, ‘Please don’t worry, I’ll be out of here by this time tomorrow.’
Stacey removed her riding hat and jacket, then freed her hair from the net and shook it loose.
Katherine bit into her sandwich and watched as Stacey took a joint from a cigarette box and lit it. ‘Is Rachel Hendon’s house far from here?’ Katherine asked.
Stacey exhaled slowly. ‘No distance,’ she answered. ‘I’ll draw you a map, but you can’t miss it.’
‘Will I need a car?’
‘There’s one in the garage you can use. Shall we go into the drawing room? It’s cold in here.’
After hooking the black purse on to her wrist, Katherine picked up her sandwich and milk, and followed Stacey across the spacious flagstoned hall towards an extremely grand set of double doors. She couldn’t say she felt uneasy here, or unwelcome, but there was a strangeness to the atmosphere that perhaps came less from the historic fabric of the house than from the peculiar mood of her hostess. However, they’d only met once before, so perhaps Stacey was always like this – or, of course, it could be her own presence that was causing the weird sense of dislocation.
‘You have a beautiful home,’ she said, as Stacey waved her to one of the large, comfy sofas in the drawing room. ‘Can I guess early eighteenth century?’
‘That’s right,’ Stacey said. ‘But it’s only been in my husband’s family for three generations,’ she said, sitting down too. ‘Before that it was something of a ruin. It used to belong to one of the wealthy mine owners of the region, when it was first built.’
‘Tin, I presume,’ Katherine said.
Stacey nodded, and took a generous pull on the joint. ‘When were you thinking of going to see Rachel Hendon?’ she asked, after a while.
Katherine glanced at her watch. ‘Not until it gets dark,’ she answered. Then watching Stacey’s strange show of indifference, as she hooked her legs over the arm of the chair and smoked her pot, she said, ‘Can I assume you mentioned nothing to her about me coming?’
Stacey blew a smoke ring and watched it float into the air. ‘You can,’ she confirmed.
Katherine wondered if she needed to explain the request, but since Stacey wasn’t asking, there seemed no reason to offer an answer. ‘Are you here alone?’ she asked, looking around. ‘Your husband’s an art dealer, is that right? Is he travelling?’
Stacey nodded. Her eyes had narrowed slightly, and beneath her cool exterior her heart rate was increasing. ‘Of course, you didn’t meet him that night, did you?’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘He wasn’t at the party.’
‘All I recall from that evening was the extremely stimulating conversation between us two,’ Katherine said, smiling, and wondering if she’d imagined the rapport now.
Stacey smiled too, then lifted a photograph from the piano and carried it back to Katherine. ‘This is my husband,’ she said, handing it over. ‘I think you may have met him.’
Katherine took it, still smiling, then as her eyes registered the face looking back at her, the blood started a thunderous rush through her head. She glanced up at Stacey, to see how closely she was watching her, then looked back at the picture. Through the shock, and panic, she was trying to gauge what was really going on, for there could be no coincidence here – this man was too close to Franz, and she was too close to Rachel Hendon now for it to be anything other than a set-up. So she’d walked into a trap, and the fact that she only had herself to blame, for failing to check out who the hell Stacey Greene was married to, was not going to get her out of it.
‘You have met, haven’t you?’ Stacey prompted.
‘Of course,’ Katherine answered. She handed the photograph back and got to her feet. Though her face was ashen, her voice was steady as she said, ‘Is he here?’
‘No. He’s travelling,’ Stacey reminded her.
Katherine’s eyes were harsh, yet confused. ‘Why did you show me the picture?’ she said. ‘There was a reason, so please tell me why.’
‘I want you to tell me what you know about him,’ Stacey said.
‘If he’s your husband, how could I know more than you?’ Katherine countered.
‘I just think you do,’ Stacey said. ‘And let’s call it my price for helping you.’
Though Katherine’s eyes were still hostile and cautious, she was beginning to recover now, and could see that Stacey Greene might just have an agenda all her own here. Indeed, it was entirely possible, for why demand information about her husband, if she already had it? And since there were few in a better position to give it, there was no doubt she’d come to the right place. The question now was, how much did Stacey Greene already know, and how much was s
he, Katherine, prepared to tell?
Giving her a helpful lead-in, Stacey said, ‘I know he’s sold paintings to Franz Koehler, and that he occasionally acts as pilot-chauffer to Franz, so we could start there. Or,’ she continued, ‘we could discuss the blonde woman, early forties, who they’re looking for in connection with the shooting of Franz Koehler.’ She smiled. ‘What I’d rather discuss though, is how my husband fits into the picture of Tim Hendon’s murder.’
At last Katherine was managing to get something of a handle on this, and drawing a mental line down her centre to steady herself, she sat back down. ‘There’s probably quite a lot I can tell you about your husband,’ she began, ‘but as to how he was involved in Tim Hendon’s murder, I’m afraid I can’t help.’
‘But you were there,’ Stacey reminded her.
‘And he wasn’t, that much I do know,’ Katherine responded. ‘But there are other ways to play a part in a murder without actually being at the scene.’
Despite the display of nonchalance, Stacey was becoming extremely tense now, and vaguely disappointed too. ‘So tell me what you do know,’ she said.
Katherine watched her return to her chair and fold one jodhpured leg over the other. She was still holding the photograph, balancing it between her fingers, but her eyes were fixed on Katherine.
‘What I know,’ Katherine said, ‘is that your husband’s association with Franz began about three years ago, with a Modigliani nude. There were other paintings after the Modigliani, valuable, but not to compare with the nude, all brokered by your husband, to hang in one or more of Franz’s homes. I’m not sure exactly when Franz began to use Chris’s remarkable skills as a broker, and shipper, in other more … confidential areas of his business, but certainly it was happening within a year of them first meeting.’
Stacey’s eyebrows went up, for she’d never quite seen Chris as a broker or shipper, though she had to concede it was, in its baldest terms, what he did.
