by Jane Holland
‘Bored now,’ I say.
I snap my head back and there’s a loud crack as it makes contact with her face.
Sharon howls and slides to the floor.
‘I told you to let go,’ I say.
It feels good to be rid of her weight. I grab hold of my own shopping bags and head for the exit but there’s someone in the doorway, blocking my path.
It’s Dominic.
Chapter Fifty
‘Hey, sweetie,’ I say calmly. ‘How’s Jasmine? I didn’t like to disturb her when I left this morning. She looked a bit tied-up.’
He is angry but in control. ‘You need to come home, Rachel,’ is all he says.
I glance at the car keys in his hand. ‘Dad’s car. Is he with you?’
‘Robert’s still at the house. Trying to calm Jasmine down. She’s in a terrible state, wants to take the next train back to Birmingham.’
‘Best place for her, I’d say.’
He doesn’t answer.
‘Well,’ I continue smoothly, ‘I have to congratulate you on working out exactly where I’d be. Or have you been cruising the streets for hours, looking for me?’
‘Come on, we can talk in the car.’ Dominic looks past me, a sudden flicker of uncertainty in his expression. ‘What the hell happened here? Looks like you’ve been busy.’
I glance round and see Sharon sitting on the floor, her nose and mouth covered in blood, twin black streams of mascara running down her face. One of her high heels has come off and there’s something ugly about her tan-stockinged foot.
‘She assaulted me,’ Sharon tells him. ‘I’ve got witnesses.’
Dominic looks at me. ‘Shit, Cat.’
‘Wrong name,’ I growl.
He makes a face but says nothing.
I walk towards Sharon and she scrabbles backwards, terrified.
‘You’re a terrible boss, Sharon,’ I say. ‘And you’re such a mess.’
‘A . . . a what?’
‘Why so much mascara? And who wears tan tights these days?’
Sharon stares at me, her mouth open but no sound coming out.
I look back at my husband.
‘I thought we were going home,’ I say, and then head for the door with him following.
It’s cold outside, that grim afternoon-darkening in the sky that means dusk is not far off. Traffic is thickening up, too. But North London is always busy.
‘Okay, where’s the car?’ I ask.
‘Round the corner. Assuming it hasn’t been towed away by now.’
‘Illegal parking.’ I give him a flirtatious smile. ‘How sexy and rebellious of you.’
‘Better move quickly. In case they really did call the police.’
But someone is running after us down the street. I look back, half expecting to see Sharon again.
It’s Petra.
‘Wait,’ she says, gasping. ‘Wait.’
I stop, curious.
Her face is flushed when she gets to us. ‘I just wanted to say,’ she gasps, ‘I’m not going to back her up. Sharon, I mean. What she said back there about you attacking her . . . it’s not true. I saw her push you first. You were just defending yourself. That’s what I’ll tell the police.’
I’m moved. ‘Thanks, Petra.’
‘You’re welcome. You deserve it.’ She looks from me to Dominic. ‘And you have a lovely husband. When he told us about you, I thought it was the most romantic thing ever.’
‘Told you what?’
‘About your . . . your problems.’
I look at Dominic, my eyebrows raised. ‘Oh, you told them all about my problems, did you?’
At least Dominic has the grace to look embarrassed. ‘It wasn’t like that,’ he says. ‘I just wanted to make sure you were getting on okay at the food bank.’
‘Of course you did.’
I jerk away from Dominic’s guiding hand.
‘Rachel,’ he says warningly.
But I don’t intend on doing anything awful. Quite the opposite, in fact.
I lean forward and kiss Petra full on the lips, a real smacker, her eyes widening as I hold on to her.
‘Thanks, darling,’ I whisper when I finally let go. ‘I won’t forget this.’
She swallows, but seems unable to speak.
‘Right, you,’ Dominic says flatly. ‘Time we were going.’
He steers me swiftly down the street and round the first corner, one hand at my elbow. As if he still thinks I might make a dash for it.
‘What exactly did you tell them about me?’ I demand as soon as we’re out of earshot, trying to contain my temper.
‘Me first,’ he says succinctly. ‘What the hell did you do to Sharon?’
‘Look, she had it coming,’ I say. ‘I have no idea how saintly little Cat stood it for so long. I’d have decked the bitch months ago. And I would never have asked her to my wedding.’
I can see Dad’s Mercedes ahead of us, parked awkwardly on the kerb.
Double yellows.
‘I didn’t think she’s that bad,’ Dominic says.
‘Look, you’ve only met her twice. You can’t possibly make an assessment . . .’ I wince again, stopping as I make a play of fumbling with my shopping bags. ‘Sorry, it’s these bloody bags. They weigh a ton.’
He hesitates, then says, ‘Here, let me take a couple.’
‘Would you, sweetie? Petra’s right. You’re such a good husband, rescuing me like this. And this one too, it’s hurting my hand.’ I hand over all the shopping bags, keeping my handbag firmly on my arm, until he’s laden down instead of me. ‘Thanks, that’s much better.’
‘What have you been buying? Bricks?’
‘Oh, you know. The usual expensive tat from Knightsbridge. Clothes and shoes.’ I look over his shoulder and frown as if I’ve seen something annoying. ‘Hey, is that a ticket on your windscreen?’
‘Shit,’ he says, turning.
And I run.
Chapter Fifty-One
I catch a cab a few streets further on and tell the driver to head for the mainline station at Paddington. Then, if he’s questioned later, he won’t be able to tell the police exactly where I was going. But anyone looking for me will assume I was planning on catching a train out of London.
I sit back and check the address scrawled on a scrap of paper in my bag. The street I want is Eastbourne Terrace, apparently a short walk from the station entrance. I don’t know Paddington well, but I used my smartphone earlier to find the street online, so I have a rough idea where I’m going.
In the taxi bay at Paddington, I hand over some of the big wad of cash I took out on Dad’s card and wait until the taxi pulls away before getting my bearings.
I zip up my bag and sling it over my shoulder, then walk briskly away and head through the busy concourse.
Beyond the station buildings, there’s a huge Christmas tree swaying in the wind, lit up with hundreds of multicoloured lights. Very festive, I think drily, passing two homeless women huddled together in a doorway, their knees drawn up to their chins, arms round each other’s shoulders.
I stop to check the direction on my phone.
A few turns later, I’m wandering along Eastbourne Terrace, gazing through the revolving doors of office entrances and at the brass name plates of buildings. It’s getting on for dusk by the time I find it, at the far end of the street.
Jason Wainwright. Private Investigator.
It’s a third-floor office in a glass-fronted block. I stare up at the windows, imagining I would find the place in darkness. The poor bastard’s just died. It’s the Christmas holidays. Nobody’s likely to be at work under those circumstances.
But there is a light up there. High up, in one of the front windows.
The glass door at the base of the tower block is locked. I rattle it, but it’s shut firm. And there’s no sign of life inside. The lobby is dark. I can’t see a concierge.
Keeping my head low, I study the metal name plates with their matching buzzers. I need to
be quick. The light is failing and I don’t know where else to go.
I press the buzzer for Jason Wainwright, third floor.
Nothing.
No surprise there.
I hesitate, looking at the other name plates on the upper floors. Two accountancy firms and a Tempest Textiles, second floor. George’s Gardening Supplies is the only occupied office on the fourth floor.
I press the buzzer.
A moment passes, then to my relief there’s a crackle. ‘Hello?’ a male voice asks in a puzzled tone through the intercom. ‘Can I help you?’
I adopt a deep voice. And add a Scottish accent for good measure. ‘Delivery for George’s Gardening Supplies.’
‘A delivery? At this time?’ Puzzled pause. ‘I didn’t know there were any deliveries over the holidays.’
I grunt. ‘They work us like slaves, these corporate bastards.’
‘I’m not expecting anything.’
‘It’s marked urgent. And I need a signature.’
‘Oh, very well . . . hang on.’ The crackle stops, and for a few uncomfortable seconds I think I’ve lost him. Then George presses the intercom again, sounding weary but resigned. ‘I’ll come down to you. Wait there.’
Chapter Fifty-Two
George is a hulking great bloke in his thirties with an ill-fitting plaid shirt hanging open over jeans, and stubble. As soon as I see him emerge from the lifts a few minutes later, I turn my back and pretend to be rummaging through my bag.
He pushes out through the door. I glance round at him and smile invitingly. He looks me up and down, then stares at the empty street. He has an unkempt brown fringe that lifts in the wind.
‘You seen a delivery guy?’ he asks, sounding irritated.
‘Oh, was he for you?’ I point vaguely along the road. ‘He rode off on his bike about thirty seconds before you appeared. Some courier service? I think he had a parcel with him. I guess he couldn’t wait any longer.’
‘For God’s sake,’ he mutters, and pulls a face, beginning to retreat back into the building.
‘Hang on,’ I say, and grab the door before it closes. He stares round at me in surprise, and I smile cheerfully, putting on a breathless little-girl-lost voice. ‘George, isn’t it?’
‘Erm, that’s right.’
‘Linda. Tempest Textiles. I’ve left my phone up in the office. Can you believe it?’
My heels clacking, I walk breezily past him and across the black-tiled vestibule, heading for the lift with purpose. As if I have every right to be there.
‘Had a good Christmas?’ I ask.
He follows more slowly, frowning. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t . . .’
‘You don’t remember me? Oh George, I’m wounded. We’ve met several times.’ I press the button to call the lift, and then burst out laughing at his blank expression. ‘I’m obviously not that memorable.’
George looks me up and down again, taking in my fuck-me heels, the PVC skirt, the skin-tight black leotard visible under my open coat. ‘I think I would have remembered you.’
I laugh. ‘You flirt!’
The lift arrives. We both get on, his gaze on my legs. ‘You’re fourth floor, yes?’ When he nods, I punch the ‘4’ button for him, then hit ‘2’ for myself and check my reflection in the mirrored wall. Ugh, my little tussle with Sharon has taken its toll on my lipstick, which is looking a bit smudged. And there’s a long scratch down one cheek.
No wonder he’s staring.
‘Party,’ I say, tweaking my short skirt.
His eyebrows rise. He hasn’t missed my scratched face. ‘Did it get rough?’
‘I haven’t gone yet. So who knows?’ I give him a dangerous smile. ‘Would you like to come?’
George takes an instinctive step backwards in the constrained space, his eyes widening. ‘No . . . no thanks. I need to get home to my wife.’
I pretend to study him with interest. ‘Pity.’ The lift stops at the second floor, and the doors slide open. ‘Well, this is me.’
‘Good luck with the party,’ George says awkwardly as I give him a little wave. ‘See you after the holidays.’
I saunter away from the lift, my hips swinging. The doors close.
At once, I return and watch the light display above the door as the lift rises to the fourth floor. Above, I hear the doors open and close again.
Then silence.
I turn to the staircase, and head up one floor. The stairs are chilly and deserted. Reaching the third floor, I swiftly locate the office of Jason Wainwright and check the door. It’s locked, unsurprisingly.
I knock, just to be sure. No reply.
The lock is a Yale.
I check the other offices. There are three suites on this floor. Jason Wainwright’s, and two that appear to be unoccupied. The office doors are locked, but the toilets and communal kitchen are both open.
I close the kitchen door and put a chair under the handle to prevent it from opening. Just in case. There probably isn’t a guard who patrols the office building at night. But better safe than sorry.
To my relief, my phone has several bars when I stand by the kitchen window. I hunt through my bag until I find the business card Bianca gave us at La Giravolta, then ring the number and stare out at the city lights.
It rings three times before someone picks up.
‘Pronto?’
A husky male voice. Rather gorgeous. Very Italian.
‘Hello. Are you Bianca’s brother, Giacomo?’
‘Yes, who’s this?’
‘I’m a friend of Bianca’s. From La Giravolta bistro.’
‘Is Bianca in trouble again?’
I smile.
‘No, it’s nothing like that. But I’m in a bit of trouble myself, and she gave me your number. She said you might be able to help me.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘I’ve locked myself out of my office.’
Slight pause. ‘Whereabouts?’
I tell him the building address, and he changes his tone, asks me to wait. I hear frantic whispering in the background. Definitely female. I wonder if it’s Bianca, or if he has a wife.
‘I’m sorry,’ Giacomo says, coming back to the phone. ‘It’s late, you know, and the kids need their bath.’
‘I’ll pay double.’
Another pause. More urgent whispering.
‘Okay.’ He takes a moment to write down my name – in a moment of inspiration, I tell him I’m Joyce Wainwright, the investigator’s late wife, which will fit the name on the door when he arrives – and the address and my mobile number. ‘I’ll meet you there?’
‘Thanks.’ I can’t resist adding, ‘Bring your tools.’
He laughs and disconnects.
I set my phone alarm to go off in forty-five minutes. That should be enough time for a quick nap.
I should really stay alert, in case someone comes along. But I’m a bit ragged with exhaustion now, and all I can think about is lying down. Sad old lady, or what? I check my reflection again in the darkened glass of the microwave door. Hair all over the place, which isn’t necessarily bad. But there are distinct shadows under my eyes too, and a weary look in my eyes.
I used to be able to pull all-nighters, no problem. But I suppose all that frenetic rolling about with Dominic in the early hours used up my reserves of energy.
I grin at myself, and flick back my messy hair. Too much sex is always an acceptable excuse for fatigue.
There are two shapeless fabric chairs in the dining area of the kitchen.
I study them, then pull down the window blind as far as it will go, which is only three-quarters of the way. I push the two fabric chairs together to make a rough sort of bed. Not desperately comfortable, but it will do for a nap.
Forty-five minutes later, my phone buzzes.
As I sit up on my makeshift bed, surfacing from a confused dream, my stomach rebels and I feel suddenly nauseous.
Bloody hell.
I groan, closing my eyes and clutching my belly. S
omething I ate? Though I haven’t eaten since breakfast, I realise. Low blood sugar, perhaps. No wonder I was so tired before.
I shake off the sickness with an effort and reach for my phone. It’s a text from Giacomo.
I’m outside your building. Where are you?
I text back, Down in five, and splash my face with cold water a couple of times, then pat it dry with kitchen paper. Finally, I reapply my lipstick, and blow my reflection a kiss.
I feel better after that, if a little unsteady on my feet.
Weird though.
It’s only as I’m heading down the stairs to let Giacomo in that I think of another, more horrifying possibility for my moment of sickness.
I can’t be. Am I . . . pregnant?
I push the thought away, unable to cope with it.
Downstairs, I open the front door to the building and Giacomo looks at me, toolbox in hand.
He’s broad-shouldered and broad-chested, but tall with it, like his sister Bianca. He looks strong, too. A guy who can handle himself. With thick black hair and the typical olive complexion of the Mediterranean region.
‘You okay?’ he says.
‘Bad tummy.’
He looks me up and down, incredulous, even a little mocking. I glare back at him without smiling. I’m seriously beginning to regret my outrageous outfit now. Though maybe he’s amused because I’m holding my heels in one hand rather than wearing them.
‘My feet were hurting,’ I say.
He shrugs. ‘No problem.’
The third floor is dark and silent. The lights come on automatically the second we leave the elevator.
I come to the door. ‘This one’s mine,’ I say.
Giacomo stops and looks at the door plaque. Jason Wainwright, Private Investigator. I half expect him to ask for ID. But without even waiting for an answer, he crouches to open his large blue toolbox and search through it. ‘Yale lock. Shouldn’t take long. You’re paying double, yeah?’
