by Tom Bale
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes heavy-lidded as he studied her. ‘So what did you two get up to last night?’
‘We didn’t do anything. I stayed in, and Joe went out.’ She wouldn’t have said that much, except that a glimmer of light had appeared: a way to divert Glenn’s interest away from Joe’s identity, his history. ‘He had dinner with someone.’
‘What? You mean he’s getting his leg over?’
‘I’m hardly going to ask him that, am I?’ Too late to backtrack. This was going to make things worse even as it made other things better. But it was a question of priorities …
‘Who is it?’
‘You should be pleased. This proves you’ve been worrying for no good reason.’
‘So tell me who it is.’
‘Ellie.’
‘My Ellie?’
If the phrase had been deliberately intended to wound, Diana would have taken a lot more offence. As it was, Glenn seemed to recognise his clumsiness.
‘You know what I mean. Is that where he’s gone today?’
So tempting … but she couldn’t risk an outright lie. ‘It might be. I didn’t ask, and he didn’t say.’
‘I don’t bloody believe it.’ Glenn exhaled loudly. Diana had the impression he was both infuriated and simultaneously very relieved. She chose to share the latter emotion.
Then the doorbell rang, and that relief evaporated like mist over a summer meadow.
Fifty-Five
POUNDBURY WAS A brand new community on the western fringes of the ancient market town of Dorchester. Built on land owned by the Duchy of Cornwall, it had been designed according to the classical architectural principles espoused by Prince Charles. Joe recalled various points of controversy over the years: fears that the alleys and walkways would encourage crime; architects who insisted that design had to look forwards, not backwards. Joe decided he had sympathy with both sides.
It was strikingly different, and the period architecture was grandly impressive, but the pristine stone and brick, together with the absence of modern street signs or road markings, lent it an oddly artificial air. As he got out of his car, Joe felt he’d strayed onto a movie set, or perhaps an elaborate folly. It reminded him of Portmeirion, the Italianate village on the Welsh coast which had provided the location for the 1960s TV series The Prisoner.
And whilst he admired the ideas which underpinned the development, he was reminded of his conversation with Ellie in the Shell Cavern. No matter how honourable the intentions, perfect communities weren’t something you could create on a drawing board. Or impose by force.
Poundbury remained a work in progress, with a large sector to the south excavated for the next wave of construction. Even in the completed areas, the streets were unnaturally quiet. Many had no separate pavements, and the road surface was covered with a layer of pea gravel, adding to the ‘costume drama’ feel of the place.
The address he had for Pearse was a three-storey Georgian-style town house. Joe knocked on the front door, which was opened swiftly by a tall, elegant woman in her early thirties. Mrs Pearse, he presumed.
She had long, straight blonde hair, brilliant blue eyes and just enough of an elitist sneer to be sexy rather than obnoxious. She was immaculately turned out in close-fitting slacks and a pale blue cashmere sweater. Subtle make-up accentuated a face that looked fresh and untroubled, despite the clamour of what sounded like several young children somewhere in the depths of the house.
‘May I speak to Jamie?’ he said. ‘I’m Joe Carter, a friend of Kamila’s. From London?’ He employed the rising inflection for its disarming effect.
Unfazed, the woman smiled. ‘Yes, yes, of course. Do come in, but would you mind …?’ She indicated several robust doormats that covered a couple of square yards of the spacious hallway.
Joe stepped inside, wiped his feet, then decided to stay where he was. Not worth removing his shoes if he was about to get kicked out.
Moving away from him, the woman glanced back. ‘Joe? A friend of Kamila’s?’
Joe nodded, marooned on the doormat as she disappeared into the kitchen. The hall carpet was pure white and spotlessly clean, and he had a vision of the children forced to wear protective overshoes at all times. Or maybe they never went out …
He heard the woman speaking, a good-natured appeal for quiet, and then a man’s voice, one word emerging clearly from the murmured conversation.
‘Who?’
Seconds later, he stepped into view. Jamie Pearse was an inch or two shorter than his wife, not unattractive despite narrow shoulders and a weak chin. He was around fifty, with sandy grey hair and bushy eyebrows. He wore dark blue jeans and a brown Tattersall shirt. With his wife hovering at his shoulder, he beamed at Joe as though they were old friends.
‘Joe, hi! I completely forgot. We need to talk about the Lambert account.’ Undetectable in his voice, his expression frantically signalled that Joe should pretend to understand.
Feeling like a louse, Joe had little option but to nod enthusiastically. ‘If you can spare the time. I thought, seeing as I was in the area …’
‘Yes, why not? Good man. We have nothing on this morning—’
‘Lunch with the Vinalls,’ his wife interjected.
‘Oh, bags of time yet. This won’t take long.’
He grabbed a light brown cord jacket from a hook. ‘I say we get a coffee. Not fair to inflict our business woes on the family, eh?’
‘Quite,’ said Joe.
Pearse exuded relief as he called a farewell to the children and shut the front door behind him. He led Joe along the deserted street, the only sound their footsteps on the gravel.
‘Awful, isn’t it? Crunch crunch crunch. Drives you mad. Anyone strolls past, it sounds like a bloody regimental parade. And the mess! Ruins your carpets, scratches the wooden floors to buggery. All because it looks nice from the air, apparently …’
‘You didn’t know about it before you bought the house?’
A sly laugh as Pearse acknowledged Joe’s dig at him. ‘Oh, yes. Small quibble, really. We were one of the first here. Bought two, one for the investment portfolio, and saw prices double in three years. Not a bad return.’
Joe made no comment. What had started as a mild distaste for the man was rapidly transforming into a full-on loathing.
Once they were at a safe distance from the house, Pearse gave him a confiding look. ‘Apologies for the spot of subterfuge. Better all round to keep shtum. Now, d’you want to explain who you are and what this is all about?’
‘I’m doing a favour for a friend,’ Joe said. ‘Kamila’s sister.’
‘Ah. Alise.’ Pearse wrinkled his nose, as if at a bad smell. ‘How did you find me?’
‘The hotel where Kamila worked.’
Pearse frowned, but not at Joe’s use of the past tense. ‘Bit naughty of them. Data protection and what have you. Not a mad axe murderer, are you?’
He guffawed, then abruptly stopped. ‘Or police,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘That would almost be worth the grief. If you’re here to tell me you’ve found her.’
Joe stopped dead. Pearse took a couple more steps before he noticed that Joe was no longer keeping pace. He turned, his feet scraping the gravel like a cyclist slewing to a halt.
‘You know Kamila’s missing?’ Joe asked.
‘Missing? I should think she’s bloody missing.’ Pearse was grinning until he saw Joe’s face and understood that they’d been talking at cross-purposes. But he must have mistaken Joe’s confusion for a sense of fellow feeling.
‘Oh dear,’ he said ruefully. ‘Don’t tell me you’re the latest victim?’
Fifty-Six
GLENN WENT TO the door and returned with Leon Race. That explained the phone call, Diana thought.
Leon wore a broad smile, but his eyes were as cold as the sea in winter. Diana stood up as he opened his arms and embraced her, kissing her cheeks like some exuberant Italian nephew.
‘Di! You’re looking gre
at. It’s been too long, hasn’t it? Glenn never brings you over.’
‘No.’ Her own smile was an invitation to dispense with the soft soap.
‘Drink, Leon?’ Glenn said.
‘Glass of water, thanks.’ Leon sat opposite Diana, in the chair that Glenn had vacated.
‘This is a surprise,’ Diana said, a microscopic pause where the word nice had been omitted.
‘Well, to be honest, Di, I’ve come to talk about this Joe … Carter? Glenn probably told you, we’re a bit worried.’
Glenn gave Leon his water, then jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Need a pee.’
Diana didn’t watch him leave, in case it betrayed her fear. Glenn’s excuse had all the feel of a contrived exit. They were working as a double act, she realised: so grimly ironic that in better circumstances she might have laughed.
Good cop, bad cop.
* * *
‘You don’t have anything to worry about,’ she told Leon. ‘I’ve said this to Glenn.’
‘I know. I know you have. I appreciate that.’
There was a weighty silence. She heard a creak from overhead: Glenn, climbing the stairs. But there was a toilet on the ground floor. Why would he need—?
Joe’s room. Of course.
She said, ‘Why did you offer him a job?’
‘Spur-of-the-moment thing. He sounded useful. He was short of cash. And I was keen to take a look at him, you know?’
‘He’s not spying on you,’ Diana said, and knew at once it was a mistake. She had no choice but to press on. ‘He’s not a threat.’
‘Yeah, but I have to be the judge of that, Di. Not you.’ Leon shrugged. ‘Trouble is, right now he’s starting to remind me of Roy.’
Diana flinched. Leon took a measured sip of water. ‘Joe’s not here today, then?’
‘No. He asked to borrow my car.’
‘Do you know where he’s gone?’
‘Last night he had dinner with Ellie Kipling. Somewhere with her, perhaps.’
Leon’s lips formed a sordid little grin. ‘What did Glenn have to say about that?’
‘Not much. Their marriage ended years ago.’
‘Oh, but you know how it is, Di. A flame still burns.’
‘Maybe.’ He was just trying to rile her, she knew that. But it was working.
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t got a flame burning for dear old Roy?’ Still grinning, Leon lifted one hand to his chest, clamped a fist against his heart. ‘Dear. Old. Departed. Roy.’ With each word he thumped his chest, imitating a slow-beating heart.
Tears rolled down her cheeks. Leon watched them, waiting for a sob, a wail, but Diana didn’t make a sound.
Glenn returned. He registered her tears and his gaze moved swiftly on.
‘Find anything?’ Leon asked, as though Diana wasn’t present.
‘Just clothes. Toiletries.’ He hung back, sheepish, not meeting her eye.
Leon frowned at Diana. ‘Vince at the Britannia said he didn’t have any luggage. When I saw him Wednesday he’d bought shaving gear and deodorant. Who comes to stay and forgets stuff like that, eh?’
He spread his hands in a question, but wasn’t perturbed by her lack of a reply. This was more a demonstration of his knowledge and power.
‘He’s been talking to that foreign bitch about her sister. We caught him nosing round outside my house. Do you expect me to believe he’s pure as the driven snow?’
Diana could feel herself trembling. If Leon got a whiff of Joe’s secret, he wouldn’t fail to capitalise on it. There was a mantra running in her head: Nothing about Joe’s past. Nothing about undercover. Nothing about Joe’s past …
‘You believe what you want to believe, Leon. Whatever I say will make no difference.’
‘Try me. Do you swear he’s not a cop?’
His tone was so reasonable that she hesitated, fearing a trap. Leon might be dressed like someone on Jeremy Kyle, but he was as wily and sharp as any barrister.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I swear.’
‘Why did he leave the police?’
‘I-I don’t know why. We’d already lost touch by then.’
His lips tightened. He didn’t believe her. Glenn was hanging back in the kitchen, examining a National Trust calendar as though it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.
Leon pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘I’m gonna leave it there, Di. But if I were you, I’d make sure Joe doesn’t follow in Roy’s footsteps. I don’t take kindly to betrayal …’
The words floated in the air like poison gas. With a curt nod at Glenn, he walked out.
* * *
The front door shut and Glenn jerked to life, hurrying towards her. Concern in his eyes, eyes that for years had held her spellbound. It was all Diana could do not to slap his face.
She held her arms against her chest, palms out to ward him off. He stopped a couple of feet away from her.
‘That was a bit strong. Betrayal. I’ll have a word with him about that.’
‘You will, will you?’
‘Yeah. I’ll go and see him later.’
‘What was wrong with now, Glenn? What stopped you from speaking up on my behalf right now?’
‘It’s not that—’
‘Get out.’
‘Di. Come on.’
‘No. I want you to leave.’
She spun away from him, waited for what felt like an age until the door shut for a second time and she was alone.
Fifty-Seven
PEARSE LED JOE to a rather featureless cafe and ordered coffees. After exchanging greetings with a couple of other customers, he chose a table at a discreet distance from them and sat down, throwing aside a discarded supplement from one of the Sunday papers.
‘Kamila’s vanished,’ Joe told him. ‘Alise last spoke to her at the end of August. Since then there’s been no contact whatsoever.’
‘Well, I can’t help you there. She ran out on me well before that.’ Pearse explained that he ran a successful executive recruitment agency, a job that entailed plenty of domestic and international travel. His family home was in Poundbury, and although he had an apartment in London he didn’t always use it.
‘I have a grown-up daughter from a previous marriage who sometimes breezes in for a week or two, not always when it’s entirely convenient. I can’t indulge my dalliances in her presence, so I take myself off to a hotel. That’s how I met Kamila.’
He laughed to himself, but there was a sour look on his face. ‘Damn clever, these Eastern European girls. Know exactly what they want and how to get it. Devious bitches.’
Joe knew he couldn’t afford to antagonise the man, much less punch him in the face, so he sipped a bitter espresso and let him continue.
‘After a marvellous night, I invited her for a few days in Gloucestershire. I have a cottage in Bourton-on-the-Water. Use it as a bolt-hole when I have reports to write or need some space to chill out, away from the brats …’ Pearse smirked. ‘Didn’t get much work done then, though. A bloody demon between the sheets. Did all those things the wife will never countenance. Too good to be true, I thought, and of course it was.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I woke one morning and she’d decamped with nearly two thousand pounds from my safe, plus jewellery and a Rolex worth another three grand.’
Joe was instinctively suspicious. ‘Why did you have so much cash?’
‘Self-preservation.’ Pearse snorted. ‘How’s that for ironic? I’ve experienced the hazards of a stray receipt here, a bank statement there. To dally in safety takes cold hard cash.’
‘Did Kamila know it was merely a “dalliance”?’
Pearse regarded Joe as though he’d let the side down. ‘Oh, come on. You must get plenty of interest from the ladies, am I right? You ought to know the score.’
‘So you didn’t tell her you were married?’
‘Look, we’re not talking about some innocent little maiden here.’
‘I was given the i
mpression that Kamila was quite naive, actually. I was wondering if she found out you’d been lying to her – maybe that was what prompted the theft?’
Pearse grunted. ‘Is that the spin she put on it for her sister?’
‘I don’t think Alise knows anything about this.’
‘There you are, then. She set out to rob me. I dare say that’s why you haven’t heard from her since. Boil it down to basics, these girls are whores, that’s all.’
When Joe said nothing, Pearse’s gaze drifted towards the newspaper supplement. He gave a wistful sigh, as though it represented the kind of day he should be having.
‘I assume you didn’t go to the police?’ Joe said.
‘Of course I didn’t. In the scheme of things it’s not a great deal of money. I took it on the chin and resolved to be more careful who I play with in future.’
‘And you’ve had no contact with Kamila since the day she left?’
Pearse shook his head, but his eyes slid away. ‘Not really.’
‘So you have?’
He shrugged irritably. ‘She also took an old phone. I use several at a time, and upgrade regularly, so it was a couple of months before I realised. I tried calling but didn’t get an answer. Then, out of the blue, she phoned me.’
Anticipating Joe’s question, he frowned. ‘It could well have been late August. It was very brief, along the lines of: “I’ve spent your money and it serves you right.” I told her what I thought of her, in no uncertain terms, and she responded with another taunt.’
Pearse looked down at the coffee he’d neglected until now. He took a sip. Over his shoulder Joe saw a familiar figure advancing on the cafe.
‘Which was?’ he asked quickly.
‘Basically, that I was a stepping stone, and she’d hooked up with somebody far more profitable.’
‘Did she say anything else about him? A name? Where he lived?’
The cafe door opened forcefully enough to capture Pearse’s attention. He half-turned while replying to Joe: ‘Not that I recall.’ Then he gave a spasm as he realised it was his wife bearing down on them. ‘Hello, darling. What brings you—?’
