‘Did you want me to wait outside for a minute?’ I said to him.
‘Not at all, my dear, we were just finishing anyway. Have a seat. Drink?’
‘I’d like a glass of water, please.’
It was Dylan who was sent up to the bar to get me water. I watched him retreat from the room, pulling a face as he did so. He was built like a tank.
‘I wanted to put a proposition to you, Genevieve,’ said Fitz. He was behind the desk now, fingers steepled. The other men were talking among themselves.
‘Oh?’
‘I wondered if you’d be interested in earning some extra money.’
‘I’m always interested in that, Fitz. What did you have in mind?’
He regarded me steadily, as though still uncertain whether I could be trusted. Dylan came back with a tray, a glass bottle of mineral water, frosty, an iced glass with a slice of lemon on a small silver dish, a matching silver bowl of ice. He placed it on the table next to my seat. I looked at him but he didn’t meet my gaze, a face carved out of solid stone.
‘I’m entertaining some clients at home next weekend, a private evening – just a few select guests. I wondered if you’d dance for us.’
‘What’s the room like?’ I asked. I didn’t much care about the room, to be fair; I was stalling for time, to think about whether this was a good idea. Decide how badly I needed the money. I poured some water into the glass, squeezed the lemon, licked my fingers delicately.
He nodded as though this was a legitimate question: I was showing my professionalism and he appreciated it.
‘It’s good,’ he said. ‘You could come and check it out first, if you like. The guys would be close by, the lighting brighter than it is in the club, but the normal club rules apply: no touching, nothing lairy. My guests are all wealthy individuals. I can guarantee you would get good tips if you agreed to do it.’
‘How much?’
‘Two grand, for the night. As many dances as they want, although we’re talking business too so I don’t reckon there would be time for more than four or five. Tips on top of that – you might be looking at doubling the pay.’
I looked into his eyes, saying nothing. One of my favourite sales techniques. He met my gaze resolutely for a few moments, and then laughed. ‘You’re good,’ he said. ‘Very cute. And cheeky.’
I smiled my best cheeky smile.
‘Alright,’ he said, ‘I give up. Two and a half, plus tips. Final offer.’
I’d reached his best price. ‘What about Caddy?’
‘What about her?’
‘Isn’t Caddy doing it too?’
Fitz looked at me for a moment, considering. ‘Nah.’
‘Why not?’
‘Caddy probably won’t want to do it,’ he said. ‘Think she thinks it’s beneath her these days. You can ask her if you want; I don’t mind paying for two as long as she’s prepared to work for it.’
I thought about it, sipping from my glass of water. Something about it made me uneasy. As I’d found this week, as much as I was getting used to working and dancing at the Barclay, it wasn’t nearly so much fun without my mate. But then, the money…
‘I’d love to,’ I said at last. ‘What would you like me to wear?’
When I went to go back downstairs to see if Pete was still around, Dylan walked with me, in silence. I hadn’t asked for him to accompany me, and to my knowledge nor had Fitz; maybe there had been a private nod from him behind my back, some signal. He walked a pace behind me, like my shadow. I wondered if there was something going on in the office, some extra part of the meeting that I wasn’t allowed to hear.
‘Thanks,’ I said to him, when I was back outside the dressing room.
He smiled at me, looked me in the eyes for the first time. ‘You’re welcome,’ he said.
When he smiled, he was a different person. I decided finally he was alright, in the same way that I’d decided Norland was a piece of shit.
He hesitated at the doorway.
‘What?’
‘Just wanted to say,’ he said, ‘I’ll be there. Next weekend. I’ll make sure there’s no trouble.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
He walked off down the corridor and I found myself wondering whether I should have been expecting trouble. I hadn’t factored that into the calculations, but, to be fair, I couldn’t really expect two and a half grand for an evening’s work without there being some additional drama to deal with.
When Caddy got back from St Lucia a week later I told her about my meeting with Fitz. We were in the dressing room, and I was waiting for her to finish getting ready so we could go out into the club.
‘He wants us to dance at a party at his house,’ I said. ‘He wants both of us – you and me.’
She stared at me for a moment, then let out a short laugh. ‘Really? Why didn’t he ask me himself?’
‘You were away,’ I said, hoping that this would sound plausible. ‘What do you think? Go on, it’ll be a laugh if you’re there.’
She set her mouth in a firm line. ‘I don’t know, Gen. Too much hassle,’ she said. ‘I’ve done them in the past. Don’t really want to do them any more.’
‘Hassle? How come?’
She didn’t answer, pulling on a pair of sandals and tugging at the strap.
‘I thought it would be good for the money,’ I said.
‘Yeah. It’s just what you have to do for it.’
‘Fitz said…’
‘I know, I know – same rules. All of that shit. Just be prepared, is what I’m saying. Think about what you’re willing to do for it. If you don’t want to do anything, he’ll be okay with it, but you won’t be the top dog after that.’
‘What? You mean he’s going to ask me to fuck his friends?’
She laughed. ‘No, not you. He’ll just bend the rules a bit, that’s all.’
We were both ready to go but neither of us moved. It felt as if there was something she wasn’t telling me.
‘He doesn’t seem to be here that often,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘What’s he like?’
‘He’s alright, as long as you don’t piss him off.’
‘What happens if you piss him off?’
Caddy stood up abruptly. Nicks was at the door. I wondered how long he’d been there, listening.
Fourteen
I couldn’t get the thought of the man Pat had seen by the office out of my head. The more I considered it, the more convinced I became that it had been Dylan. Who else could it have been? I tried to call him for the third time in as many minutes, but still the same result:
The number you have dialled is currently unavailable. Please try later.
In the end I put a second coat of paint on the spare room. With another coat, the paintwork on the cladding was looking less patchy and more like a reasonable coverage. I would make curtains next, put in a chrome bar at the bottom to tuck the curtain into so that it didn’t swing when the tide came in and the boat rocked. I would build a shelf unit for the walls, use it for books. I might even build a cabinet for bed linen and towels.
I turned the radio up loud and thought again about the process of building the conservatory, wondered how much it would cost to get a bespoke glass roof made and whether it was something I could actually make myself, or if it was beyond my level of expertise. I needed something waterproof for the bad weather, with a reasonable degree of insulation, so that even in the dead of winter my plants would survive. I thought about how feasible it would be to have an outside shower, draining via a duct straight into the river – no detergents out there – and whether I could put in a coil radiator so I could even use my shower in the winter when it was cold outside. Showering in the snow – imagine that! But how cool would that be?
As hard as I tried to distract myself, the thought of Dylan kept coming back to me. Where the hell was he? Why wasn’t he answering the phone?
By the time I was at the sink cleaning the brushes again, it was dark outside and the marina was qu
iet. Tomorrow I would start planning the bathroom. I’d put it off long enough, finishing off the easy jobs first. It would be a new project, something to get my teeth into; something that would take all of my time and tire me out every day.
The radio was still blaring in the spare room. I should turn it off; it was getting late to be playing music so loud. The instant the radio went off, the silence descended again.
Something was wrong.
A sound, from overhead – on the deck? No – on the roof of the cabin, directly above my head.
I froze, listening with my whole body. No sound, nothing – just the waves lapping against the side of the hull.
A scrabbling, a scattering sound. It was probably a bird, I thought, exhaling. A gull… sometimes they landed on the pontoons and on the boats, especially when it was windy.
I went back to the sink and rinsed it with bleach, trying to cover up the smell of the paint. After that I decided to have a beer, maybe two. My nerves were jangling as it was; alcohol might numb them a little. Was every night going to be like this from now on? Waiting to get tired enough to go to bed and sleep?
I heard another noise from outside when I’d just opened my third beer. It wasn’t on the deck, and it wasn’t a bird, I was sure of it. It was an animal noise, a yowl, a yelp. Maybe Oswald was having an argument with the foxes.
Alcohol made me brave.
I unlocked the door to the wheelhouse, which made a noise, and took enough time to scare whoever was out there away.
I stepped outside.
‘Hello?’ There was no figure on the pontoon. The marina was in darkness all the way up to the car park, a brisk wind blowing from the water, bringing with it the smell of rain.
I took a step forward on to the deck and stood for a moment, looking across the water to the lights on the opposite bank. I looked down on to the pontoon and I could see a dark shape lying on the wood at the end of it. Whatever it was hadn’t been there this afternoon. I went down the gangplank, trying to get a closer look, my arms folded across my chest against the chill of the wind.
The pontoon was completely dark; even right next to the object, staring down, I couldn’t see what it was. I nudged it with my foot and it moved – something soft. I crouched low, feeling with my hand.
Fur, soft fur. Cold. Wet. I stood and lifted my hand to the little light that came from the motorway bridge. I could see dark on my fingers.
‘Oh my God, oh my God,’ I found myself muttering under my breath. Again, looking out across the pontoon, over to the office, the car park. There was no sign of anyone.
I went back up the gangplank and turned on the light in the wheelhouse, the one I never bothered using because it attracted moths in the summer – and when I went back to the pontoon I saw what it was. A bundle of fur, black. Blood on my hand.
It was Oswald. Malcolm and Josie’s cat. Someone had killed him and thrown him on to the pontoon.
I bit back a scream, my breathing shallow and fast. I had a sudden notion that whoever had thrown the cat on to the pontoon had had no time to leave the marina and was probably hiding somewhere in the darkness, just out of sight.
I ran back up the gangplank, turned off the light in the wheelhouse and jumped down the steps into the cabin, slamming the door and locking it as fast as I could.
From outside came the sound of footsteps, someone walking away quickly, fading and then louder again on the gravel in the car park. Whoever it was had been just the other side of the Scarisbrick Jean.
I stood in the galley in a panic. Everywhere I turned were the black circles of the portholes. Anyone outside on the pontoon would have been able to see in, to see me. I washed my hands in the sink, rinsing the blood away and scrubbing with soap, tears pouring down my cheeks.
Who could I call? Who could I talk to? I tried Dylan’s number again. The same message.
I kept coming back to the same, reluctant thought. He was probably at the club.
I didn’t even stop to think about what I was going to say to him. I put Dylan’s phone back down and picked up mine. I rang the office number for the Barclay and waited an age for it to be answered.
‘Hello?’
I could hear the music, a low, thumping bass in the background. It sounded like Helena’s voice, but I couldn’t be sure.
‘Can I talk to Dylan, please?’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Who is this?’
‘Genevieve.’
‘Who?’
‘Genevieve. Viva. I used to work there?’
‘Hold on.’
The music cut out and was replaced by an ‘on hold’ bleep. I waited. This is ridiculous, I thought: what am I even going to say to him if he’s there? What could I say about Caddy? Was he grieving for her, or had he not given her death a second thought?
‘Genevieve.’ Fitz’s voice was loud and took me by surprise.
I swallowed. I should have disconnected the call the moment the woman had told me Dylan wasn’t there. I just hadn’t quite believed her.
‘Hi,’ I said, as cheerfully as I could manage. ‘How are you?’
‘Well, this is an unexpected treat. What can I do for you?’
‘I just – just wanted to see how you all are. And I wanted to say I’m sorry – about what happened to Caddy.’
There was an awkward silence, a long one. I could hear him breathing and, muffled this time, the low percussion of the music.
‘You don’t really want to know about everyone, do you? You were asking for Dylan. He’s not here, though. You want me to pass on a message?’
‘No, no,’ I said, too quickly. ‘Is he in tomorrow? I could try then. It’s not urgent.’
‘Yeah, alright. I’ll tell him you rang, shall I?’
‘Whatever,’ I said, hoping that I didn’t sound as panicky as I felt. ‘If you like.’
‘So what are you up to, these days?’ he asked then.
‘Oh – nothing much. I moved out of the city,’ I said.
‘How’d you hear about Caddy?’ he asked, his tone casual.
I had no idea what to say. My hands were shaking and then I felt the tears starting at the horror of it, the shock at finding the cat, covered in blood, and the madness of ringing the Barclay and ending up with Fitz, of all people – and that Dylan was obviously fine, still happily working there and deliberately not answering my calls.
I couldn’t think of anything to say and the prolonged silence had become too much to deal with. I disconnected the call. Cut him off. Well, I thought. That was an unbelievably stupid thing to do.
There was only one place left to turn. I took the bit of paper with Carling’s number on it from the table and turned all the lights off in the galley and the saloon. I went through to my bedroom and scrambled on to the bed, the far corner, tucked into the side of the hull. Above me, the skylight – anyone looking in would not be able to see me, here, in the shadows – but I would see them, outlined against the dark sky.
I crouched into the corner and dialled the number.
It rang for ages and I thought he wasn’t going to answer.
And then: ‘Hello.’
It took a long moment for me to find my voice, so long in fact that he said, ‘Hello?’ a second time.
‘Is that Jim Carling?’
‘Yes. Who’s this?’
‘It’s Genevieve.’
There was a pause. I wondered if he was trying to remember who I was.
‘Hi. How are you?’
‘I’m sorry to call you so late,’ I said. My voice was hoarse. ‘I’m… I’m afraid. Something’s happened.’
‘What is it?’
‘I was here on my own and I heard noises outside. I heard a bump on the deck. I went up to look, and… and…’
‘It’s okay,’ he said gently. ‘Take your time.’
‘Someone’s killed Oswald. I found him outside. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Oswald?’
/> ‘The cat. Malcolm and Josie’s cat. He’s lying outside and I’m afraid, I’m so scared. Please help me.’
There was a pause. I realised that maybe I should have just dialled the number for the police, whatever it was. Called the main switchboard.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask if you were on duty. You said I could ring you.’
‘To be fair,’ he said, wearily, ‘I did say to call me if you remembered anything else, not if you found a dead cat.’
I felt very small and suitably chastised.
‘I’m coming over,’ he said.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Don’t go anywhere, okay? I’ll give you a ring on your mobile when I get to the marina, so you won’t get a fright when I knock on your door. Alright?’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much.’
I shrank back into the corner in the darkness and waited. On the deck above my head I could hear more noises. Bumps, scrapes. As though someone was crawling over the roof of the cabin. I stared and stared at the skylight, but all I saw was the dark, stormy sky.
Fifteen
I didn’t even have to get myself to the venue for Fitz’s private party: he arranged for Dylan to pick me up in the BMW X5. It meant I had to be ready early, of course, but on the other hand getting a lift to wherever it was was certainly preferable to public transport.
Dylan rang the bell for the flat, and when I went downstairs he was holding the rear door of the car open for me.
I laughed. ‘Are you my chauffeur, Dylan?’
‘Something like that,’ he growled, and climbed in the driving seat.
‘Does Fitz not trust me to get there on time, do you think?’ I asked, as we headed towards the main road.
‘Don’t ask me. I think he thinks this is a perk.’
‘A perk for you, or for me?’ I asked cheekily, then instantly regretted it. He gave me a look through the rear view mirror, a look that said, Don’t take the piss.
The busy streets of London gave way to the leafy, dark suburbs. I had no idea where we were; I hadn’t been paying attention. And that, I thought with a sudden understanding, was probably the real reason I was being driven – so I didn’t know where I was going.
Revenge of the Tide Page 11
