by Susan Lewis
Laurie rolled her eyes, and didn’t speak until she’d finished chewing and swallowed. ‘It’s too childish to admit,’ she said, ‘and to be honest, you’d have to be me or Lysette to really understand it.’
‘Then give me an example.’
Grimacing, she said, ‘OK. Take the name Gatling. Instead of that I used Jermyn. Why? Because when we were at school there were two Annas in our class, one was Gatling, the other was Jermyn. And instead of Ashby, I used Gregory, because there was someone who lived near us for a while, whose name was Gregory Ash. For dollar I used snake, the S is like a snake, for pound I used weight, and for euro I used target.’
He was looking mildly perplexed, though amused. ‘Ingenious,’ he remarked. ‘No wonder they didn’t decipher a word.’
‘Lysette would have got it, eventually,’ she said. ‘It was a mind-reading exercise really, and there’s more to it than that, but it’s too complicated to go into. I suppose it’s part of being a twin.’
He nodded, and again his eyes were on hers in a way she found almost too pervasive.
‘So do you think we should put some pressure on Rhona to get us the book?’ she said, going back to her meal.
‘Leave it with me,’ he answered. ‘I’m going to see if there’s another way. Her contact with you is too well known for her to take the risk.’ As he finished speaking the phone began ringing. Since he was the closest he picked it up.
‘Yes, Wilbur, she’s awake now,’ he said. ‘No, she’s fine. I guess she’s just bought herself a few more days off, though.’ He looked at Laurie and winked. ‘Why don’t I get her to call you when she’s finished eating?’ He paused, frowned, then said, ‘I know it’s not you asking, Wilbur, so you can tell whoever is that she doesn’t remember a thing.’
As he hung up Laurie said, ‘Have you checked the messages? I’ve just remembered, when I was getting out of the car this morning in my near comatose state, they said there’d be a phone number for me to call if I had any information to pass on. As if I would.’
Leaning back he hit the play button on the machine and together they listened to the calls. Sure enough, the fourth was an unknown voice repeating the same number twice.
She felt suddenly angry. ‘Do they seriously believe I’m going to tell them anything?’ she demanded.
He shrugged. ‘It’s hard to know. I suppose they think it’s worth a shot.’
‘I could sell my abduction to half the editors in town, didn’t they think of that?’
‘Probably, but after weighing it all up they obviously decided to take the risk. You might be a reporter, but an ego the size of Marcus Gatling’s probably wouldn’t consider you an enormous threat.’
Her eyes narrowed at that. ‘So he throws back the minnow in the hope of reeling in the shark?’ she retorted.
He laughed. ‘Would that be a reference to me?’
‘Well, if I were them I wouldn’t put money on me finding out what’s really going on either. After all, I’m Miss Insignificant compared to you, with your killer reputation for getting to the truth, not to mention all those contacts in places so high you get vertigo just thinking of them. So the prospect of you being on the case has got to be making them nervous, at the very least. And they’re not going to grab you off the street, are they? So I suppose their plan is to frighten the living daylights out of me, then send me back to you to get details on just how widely and powerfully your contacts are spread, and to give them regular updates on everything you’re finding out regarding Ashby, Sophie Long and the currency scam.’
He continued to look at her, mulling it all over until finally he said, ‘It’s a touch dramatic, and you’re giving me far too much credit for the kind of contacts I might have, but there’s a chance you’re on the right track.’ He picked up his wine, but didn’t drink. ‘What I’d really like to know at this point, though,’ he said, ‘is what’s upsetting them most? The fact that we might be on to their finance skulduggery; or that we won’t let go of Sophie Long’s murder.’
‘Well, as the two are obviously totally interlinked,’ she responded, ‘I’d say it has to be both. The question is, how many connections are there between the two that we don’t yet know about?’
They sat with that for a moment, considering the labyrinthine routes they were taking towards an end that still felt a long way from sight. Finally she said, ‘No word from Bruce Cottle on whether his wife’ll talk to me, I suppose?’
‘We’ll try him tomorrow,’ he answered. ‘He’s also finding out if Ashby will see you again. I thought it might be a good idea,’ he added, when he saw her surprise. ‘And I’m sending Gail down to Devon to have another chat with Heather Dance. Since she’s in regular contact with Ashby, there might be something new on that front.’
‘Are you going back to New York?’
He shook his head. ‘Not immediately. Tom Maykin’s taking over that end. He’s going to be here in a couple of weeks; he can fill us in then. But something happened while I was there that was … how should I put it? Dubious? Worrisome?’
‘Oh?’
He explained about Wheeler Nash’s accident on a Los Angeles freeway, adding, ‘Of course, there’s a good chance it was just that, an accident, but I’m told he’s not the first to make an abrupt departure for the Elysian Fields in the past six weeks. Apparently there are two others, and that doesn’t include Sophie Long.’
‘Who were the other two?’
‘A journalist and a Pentagon insider. They’re probably going to be as hard to link to the syndicate as Sophie Long is, in that the connection’s there, in her case through Ashby, but that’s where we draw a blank, because we still don’t know for certain if he was part of it. Tom Maykin’s coming up with much the same kind of results for the other two – a connection of sorts, but nothing conclusive.’
‘What does he think about the dollar/euro situation?’
‘That’s turning out particularly interesting from his end,’ he answered. ‘It seems just about every reporter he’s spoken to has, at some stage or another, been bothered by, or is suspicious of the trends, but so far he hasn’t found anyone who’s actually doing anything about it. As he put it, it’s like the niggling ache that never seems serious enough to take to the doctor, then when you finally do, it turns out to be a full-blown terminal cancer.’
‘Nice analogy,’ she commented.
His expression was wry. ‘So no definitive answers,’ he continued. ‘We can all expound a theory, of course, but frankly I’d rather leave it to the experts, because the scenario I’m coming up with right now is so fantastic it’s off the scale of possible, never mind probable.’
‘And that is?’ she prompted, when he went no further.
He shook his head.
‘Well, I’m nowhere near so coy,’ she stated rashly. ‘Here’s my theory for what it’s worth. I think they’re trying to kill the euro outright. Not just devalue it to make millions the way they do when they stage a run on a currency, but to annihilate it completely.’
Though his eyebrows went up, his expression showed more interest than surprise. ‘How would that serve them?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. That part’s still eluding me, but if I’m right we could find that the motive is more political than financial and for the possible ramifications of that I’ll have to upgrade my crystal ball, not to mention my fall-out shelter.’
He nodded thoughtfully, took another sip of wine, then with a twinkle in his eye he said, ‘I thought you had to be a twin to think the same way.’
She frowned, then understanding she smiled. ‘So do I take it we’re not a million miles apart on this?’
He looked at her hard. ‘I’d say we’re a lot closer than that,’ he responded.
The undertone was changing again, but this time instead of trying to avoid it, she found herself attempting to go with it.
‘Would you like some more to eat?’ he offered, his eyes still on hers.
Not breaking the gaze, she pushed
her plate towards him.
He didn’t move and her heart began pounding so hard she felt sure he could hear it. His expression was impossible to read, but still she willed him to do or say something that would take this moment at least one step closer to the promise it was exuding. In the end he merely picked up the plates and carried them to the stove.
Crushed, but strangely elated too, she watched him and listened to the rain outside. It sounded harder than before, and the smell of wet earth, coming in through the open window, was flowing into her senses in a way that almost seemed to keep the moment going. It was suiting her now to remember how Rhona had insisted he felt the same way she did. If she could make herself believe that, then she might make herself accept that he was waiting for her to speak first. She wanted to, more than anything, but his next words told her that his mind simply wasn’t in the same place as hers.
‘I keep asking myself about that book,’ he said, returning with two smaller helpings than before. ‘It was obviously written before Sophie Long’s murder … Has Ashby read it, did he tell you?’
‘Yes. But he only said it was good, and that she’s got talent. He didn’t tell me what it was about.’
‘Mm, we definitely need to get our hands on it,’ he stated. ‘Remind me of the title again.’
‘Carlotta’s Symphony of Love and Death. And it shouldn’t be so hard to get a copy now that the film company has it,’ she suddenly realized. ‘Or at least something that’ll tell us what it’s about. Don’t the trade papers in Hollywood announce that sort of thing when a project goes into development?’
‘Mm,’ he responded. ‘Usually, yes, they do. We’ll probably need more than a synopsis, but it’ll do for a start.’
‘I’ll get on the Internet tomorrow, see what I can turn up.’
They ate in silence then, immersed in their own thoughts, until they’d finished and he got up to clear away the plates.
‘I don’t think I’ve given this enough consideration before,’ he said finally, ‘but if that book does contain something they’re not comfortable with, or has some kind of obscurity that’s bothering them, they’re not going to let it rest.’
Laurie was watching him closely.
‘My guess is,’ he continued, ‘that it’ll get pulled before it ever hits the shelves.’
‘But even if they do that,’ she stated, ‘it’s still not dealing with Beth Ashby herself.’
‘Precisely.’ He was very still, his eyes like steel. Then looking at his watch, he picked up his keys and said, ‘Get some more sleep. Stan’s outside. I’ll call you in the morning.’
He was gone almost before she could catch her breath – a quick brush past her, footsteps on the stairs, and the front door banging behind him. She considered calling his mobile to ask where he was going, but then decided just to leave it and carry on clearing up, stacking the plates in the dishwasher, wiping down surfaces and putting the leftovers in the fridge. The place felt depressingly empty now, as though the life had gone from it, and the splash of the rain outside seemed lonely, and sad. She thought of the moments during the past hour that had felt so intense, and knew with a growing dismay that none of the mildly flirtatious exchanges reached him the way they did her. In fact, if he noticed them at all they seemed simply to amuse him, as they had when Lysette was alive. So nothing had changed. Rhona was wrong. He still considered himself to be some kind of older brother, or good friend, or a mentor even. The part that had changed, though, was knowing now how desperately he’d wanted to end his relationship with Lysette. So what must it be like for him spending time with her, who looked and sounded so like the woman he’d wanted to get out of his life, who had resorted to suicide rather than go on without him? Was she some kind of penance, maybe? A way of purging his guilt?
Chapter 19
BEING AN AIRHEAD was absolutely the way to go. Ava’s sophistication and subtlety might work in England, but in LA it was about as effective as a whisper in an uproar. Here, everything was totally out there, in your face, brazen, wicked, glittering and sensationally overdone – the perfect backdrop for the showy world of make-believe and mega-bucks. It was OK to be anyone or anything you wanted in LA, because here, amongst all the millionaires’ mansions, up-thrusting palms, and dazzling beaches, the arcane and outrageous weren’t only expected they were demanded. And pretending not to have a brain, when she’d fenced for so many years with all those insufferable pseudo-intellectual friends of Colin’s, made life so wonderfully easy and fun. She didn’t have to think about anything she didn’t want to. Life before LA was over, all hail the great culture of soundbites and silicone.
She’d been here for almost a month now, sharing a chic, art deco-style house in the Hollywood Hills with Mitzi Bower, whose big, fluffy blonde hair seemed to float like a cloud around her head, with two little Heidi plaits poking out underneath. Her legs were long and skinny, her breasts were like melons, and her regularly peeled face was as exquisitely smooth as her lips were spongy and plump. Though she might look, and occasionally behave, like a Barbie doll, between the hours of ten and three she was a serious, disciplined and extremely talented writer, whose face, without all the paint, was actually more beautiful than with it. There was no doubting how much she adored her work, for her attention to detail and dedication to character dominated her mind, even outside of her scheduled hours. So even when being a serious party animal, schmoozing and grooving, dancing and romancing, for Mitzi it was all about reaction and relations, pushing limits, breaking barriers, raising money, generating buzz and being prepared to try just about anything once for the sake of her art.
Ava was getting that way too. The freedom to be this whole other person who didn’t have to worry about morals, or money – or much of anything, actually – was so exhilarating that she never wanted to come down from the high. There were certain substances guaranteed to keep her there, of course, and for a while now she’d been psyching herself up to try them, but for some reason she couldn’t quite bring herself to yet. Of course, it was Beth holding her back, for handing her look and lifestyle over to Ava was one thing, losing control of her mind was another altogether.
‘But that’s OK,’ Mitzi told her, sitting up on her lounger to rearrange her towel. ‘You see, you got to know your limitations, and it sounds like you do. That’s good.’ Her tight, tanned limbs, hand-span hips and huge breasts were all bared to the sun, though her cotton candy hair was currently undergoing a touch-up inside a clipped-on plastic bag, while her forty-two-year-old face was fighting off the ageing process under a creamy white goo.
On the bed next to her Ava was massaging sun cream into her legs. ‘I’m not saying I don’t want to try it ever,’ she assured her, ‘and don’t think I’ve got a problem with you taking it –’
‘I don’t,’ Mitzi interrupted. ‘Now, how’re you feeling? Still sore?’
Ava looked down at her new D cup breasts and felt almost light-headed, even slightly nauseous at what she’d done. Not that she regretted it for a minute, for already, even though they’d only been out of bandages a week, they looked and felt fantastic. ‘I just wish I’d done it years ago,’ she confessed. ‘They’d have changed my life.’
Mitzi laughed. ‘They still will, girl, believe me,’ she responded, reaching over to answer her cellphone.
As she talked, Ava stared across the pool towards the beautiful golden mountains way out on the horizon. No matter what else was going on in this house, how many visitors they might have, how loud and raucous the parties or intense the writing, it was impossible to be unaware of the sheer loveliness of the scenery the place overlooked. It was so soothing and entrancing, it was almost transcendent. She recalled the day Theo had first brought them here, having collected her from the Beverly Hills Hotel to drive her up through the canyons to a place she’d never have dreamt existed, right in the heart of LA. And that was where they were, for just along the road, almost hidden in the wilds of Franklin Canyon Park, was a small concrete plaque marking the geog
raphical centre of Los Angeles. Theo had seemed to take great pride in showing them that.
She wondered where he was now, New York or Memphis. He hadn’t called for a few days, so she’d lost track of his movements, though the last time they’d spoken he was at his office in Manhattan. He took his work even more seriously than he took himself, she’d discovered, and with so many projects, at so many different stages of development, he almost literally never stopped. Which meant she’d hardly seen him since arriving – just the odd day here and there, and a few hurried phone calls as he moved from one city to the next, on a perpetual quest for investment, talent or just the need to expand his contacts. It was funny how she seemed to miss him, when she hardly even knew him. She couldn’t even say they’d connected particularly, though she guessed the warmth she felt towards him was because he was a kind of connection with home. A very nebulous one, it was true, but actually that was all she wanted – a virtually transparent thread to link her to where she had come from, but that didn’t make any demands or inspire any guilt.
‘So what were we saying?’ Mitzi said, dropping the phone back in the basket beside her.
Ava screwed up her nose. ‘Can’t remember,’ she responded. ‘But I was just thinking about Theo. Have you heard from him lately? Do you know where he is?’
‘Still in New York, I think, and no contact suits me just fine, because the last thing I need is a producer breathing down my neck while I’m trying to create. Did you take a look at the scenes I did yesterday, by the way?’
