In many ways there was an increasingly clear pattern to his life, he thought: constant crap at the office, mounting debts at home and a permanent stiffy.
He began mixing Kellie a massive drink as she gave the chicken casserole a stir, watching her, in admiration, simultaneously lifting the lid of a saucepan full of potatoes and checking something inside the oven. She multi-tasked in the kitchen in a way that was totally beyond his abilities. ‘Is Jess OK now?’
‘She’s being a little madam today, that’s all. She’s fine. I gave her some aspirin which’ll get rid of the pain. How was your day?’
‘Don’t even ask.’
She cupped his face in her hands and gave him a kiss. ‘When did you last have a good day?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to moan.’
‘So, talk about it. I’m your wife; you can tell me!’
He stared at her, cupped her face in his own hands and kissed her forehead. ‘Over supper. You look so beautiful. Every day you look more beautiful.’
She shook her head, grinning. ‘Nah, just your eyesight – happens with age.’ Then she took a step back and pointed at herself. ‘Do you like these?’
‘What?’
‘These dungarees.’
Gloom momentarily enveloped him again. ‘Are they new?’
‘Yes – they came today.’
‘They don’t look new,’ he said.
‘They’re not supposed to! They’re Stella McCartney. Really cool, aren’t they?’
‘Paul’s daughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought her stuff was expensive.’
‘It is usually – these were a bargain.’
‘Of course.’ He continued mixing her drink, not wanting an argument tonight.
‘I’ve been checking the Web for holiday bargains. I have the dates when Mum and Dad could take the kids – the first week in July. Would that work?’
Tom dug his Palm out of his pocket and checked the calendar. ‘We have an exhibition at Olympia the third week – but early July would be fine. But it’s going to have to be something really cheap. Maybe we should just go somewhere in England?’
‘The prices on the net are unbelievable!’ she said. ‘We could have a week in Spain cheaper than staying at home! Check out some of the sites – I’ve written them down. Take a look after supper. Holly, down the road, has a friend who got a week in St Lucia for two hundred and fifty pounds on the net. Wouldn’t the Caribbean be great?’
He put the Palm down, took her in his arms and kissed her. ‘I thought I might give my computer a break tonight – and concentrate on you.’
She kissed him back. ‘I’d hate to think of the withdrawal symptoms you’d suffer.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘And there’s a Jamie Oliver programme I want to watch. You can’t stand him. You’d be much happier for half an hour on your little machine upstairs.’
Handing Kellie her drink, he said, ‘Where would you most like to go if we could afford it?’
‘Anywhere they don’t have screaming kids.’
‘You really don’t mind leaving them? Haven’t changed your mind?’ Are you certain?’ Kellie had never before wanted to be apart from their kids.
‘At this moment, I’d happily sell them,’ she said, and drained half her sea breeze in one gulp.
An hour later, shortly after nine o’clock, Tom went upstairs and into his small den, with its view out across the street. It was still full daylight; he loved the long summer evenings, and for a few more weeks they would continue getting longer. He could see a small blue triangle of distant English Channel, between two roofs of the flats above the shops opposite him. Above them a flock of starlings darted into view then was gone again. The smell of a neighbour’s barbecue wafted in through the window, tantalizing him even though he had just eaten.
Inside the gym he could see some poor sod doing bench presses, the trainer standing beside him. It reminded him that apart from taking Lady for short walks around the block, he’d done little exercise for months. Too many business lunches, too much booze and now some of his favourite clothes were getting too tight. Kellie was always telling him he was daft, living across the road from a gym and not using it. But it was yet another expense.
Maybe he’d just take Lady for a longer walk on these fine summer evenings. Perhaps get back into swimming. Golf once a week just wasn’t doing it for his waistline; he hated seeing all those men with flaccid beer bellies in the golf club locker room, and was uncomfortably aware he was close to developing one of his own. As if signalling to himself, he pummelled his stomach with his fists. Going to make you into a six-pack by the time we go on holiday!
He sipped his third large vodka, feeling mellow now, the cares of his day receded into a pleasant alcohol haze, and set the glass down beside him, glancing at the webcam on its stalk mount on his desk, through which he had the occasional communication with his brother in Australia, then tapped a command on his laptop and ran his eyes down his in-box. Almost immediately he came to a message from his old boss at the Motivation Business, Rob Kempson, with whom he had remained friendly.
Tom
Check out the gazonkas on this one!
Rob
Instead of clicking, Tom took the CD the dickhead had left on the train out of its case, and inserted it into his laptop. His virus protection software kicked in, but when the CD icon finally stabilized on his desktop there was still no clue to its identity. He double-clicked on it.
Moments later his entire desktop went blank. A small window appeared on the screen with the message:
Is this Mac address correct?
Click YES to continue. NO to exit.
Assuming it was a normal Windows-to-Apple Mac problem, Tom clicked YES.
Moments later another message appeared.
Welcome, subscriber. You are being connected now.
Then the words appeared:
A SCARAB PRODUCTION
Almost instantly, they faded. At the same time the screen steadily lightened into a grainy colour image of a bedroom, as if he was viewing it through a security camera.
It was a good-sized room, feminine-looking, with a small double bed covered with a duvet and scattered cushions, a plain dressing table, a long antique wooden mirror that might have come from a dressmaker’s shop, a wooden chest at the end of the bed, a couple of deep-pile rugs on the floor, and closed vertical blinds. Two bedside lamps lit the room, and there was another light source from a bathroom door, partially open. A couple of black and white Helmut Newton photographs of nudes hung on the walls. Opposite the bed were large mirrored cupboard doors, and reflected in them was a door leading, presumably, to a corridor.
A young, slender woman emerged from the bathroom, adjusting her clothes, glancing at her watch, looking a little nervous. Elegant and beautiful, with long fair hair and wearing a slinky black dress with a single strand of pearls around her neck, she was holding a clutch bag as if on her way to a party. She reminded Tom a little of Gwyneth Paltrow, and for one fleeting moment he wondered if it was her; then she turned her head and he could see it wasn’t, although she looked quite similar.
She sat, perched on the edge of the bed, and to Tom’s surprise kicked off her high-heeled shoes, seeming totally unaware of the camera. Then she stood up again and began unbuttoning her dress.
Moments later the bedroom door opened behind the woman, and a short, powerfully built man, a hooded balaclava over his face and dressed entirely in black, came in and closed the door behind him with a gloved hand. The woman either had not heard him or was ignoring him. As he walked slowly across the room towards her, she began unfastening her pearl necklace.
The man pulled something from inside his leather jacket which glinted in the light, and Tom craned forward in surprise when he saw what it was: a long stiletto blade.
In two quick strides the man reached her, jerked an arm around her neck, and plunged the stiletto between her shoulder blades. Frozen by the surreality, Tom watched the wom
an’s gasp of shock, unsure whether she was acting or this was for real. The man pulled the blade out, and it was covered in what appeared to be blood. He stabbed her again, then again, blood spraying from the wounds.
The woman fell to the floor. The man knelt, tore away her dress, then slit her bra strap with the blade, pulled the bra away, and brutally rolled her onto her back. Her eyes were rolling, her large breasts falling to one side. He slashed through the top of her black tights, then pulled them completely off, stared down at her naked, exquisite body for some moments, then plunged the knife into her belly just above her Brazilian-cut pubic hair.
Tom stared, sickened, about to exit the site, except curiosity kept him watching. Was she acting, was the knife fake, was the blood gouting from her belly stage blood? The man plunged the knife in again and again, savagely.
Then Tom jumped as the door behind him opened.
He spun round in his chair to see Kellie standing there, holding her wine glass, clearly tipsy.
‘Did you find us anywhere nice, darling?’ she asked.
He swivelled back round, and slammed down the lid of the computer before she could see what was on the screen.
‘No,’ he said, his voice quavering. ‘Nothing, no. I . . .’
She put her arms around his neck, slopping some wine onto the laptop. ‘Ooops, sshorry!’
He tugged out his handkerchief and dabbed it off. As he did so, Kellie slid her free hand down inside his shirt and began to tease a nipple. ‘I’ve decided you’ve done enough work for today. Come to bed.’
‘Five minutes,’ he said. ‘Give me five minutes.’
‘I might be ashhleep in five minutes.’
He turned and kissed her. ‘Two minutes, OK?’
‘One!’ she said, and retreated from the room.
‘I haven’t walked Lady.’
‘She had a long walk this afternoon. She’s fine; I already let her out.’
He grinned. ‘One minute, OK?’
She raised a mischievous finger. ‘Thirty seconds!’
The moment she closed the door, he opened the lid of his computer and tapped a key to wake it up.
On the screen appeared the words:
Unauthorized access. You have been disconnected.
For some moments he sat, thinking. What the hell had he just seen? It had to have been a movie trailer, it must have been.
Then his door opened again and Kellie said, ‘Fifteen seconds – or I’ll start without you.’
5
It was the best birthday present ever, in all her life, in all fifty-two years of it! Nothing had ever come close before, not within a million miles. Not the MG sports car wrapped up in a pink bow that Don had given her for her fortieth (which he hadn’t really been able to afford) nor the silver Cartier watch he’d given her for her fiftieth (which she knew he couldn’t really afford either) nor the beautiful tennis bracelet he’d just given her yesterday for her fifty-second.
Nor the week at Grayshott Hall health farm that her two sons Julius and Oliver had clubbed together to buy her – fabulous indulgence but did they think she was overweight or something?
Whatever. Hilary Dupont was beyond caring, she was walking on air, all twelve stone of her, floating out the front door, jangling Nero’s lead, proclaiming to herself, ‘A handbag, Mr Worthing? A handbag?’
Peacehaven, the suburb where Hilary lived, was part of the eastern urban sprawl of Brighton, a wide cross-hatch of residential streets stretching back from the cliff-top coastal road to the edge of the rural South Downs, densely filled with bungalows and detached houses all built since the First World War.
A wide expanse of farmland began just one row of houses back from Hilary’s street. Any neighbour chancing to glance out of their window shortly before ten o’clock on this cloudy June morning would have seen an overweight but strikingly handsome blonde woman, dressed in a smock over a spotted leotard, her feet clad in green gumboots, talking and gesticulating to herself, being followed by a rather plump black Labrador zigzagging from lamp post to lamp post, and pissing on each one.
Hilary turned left at the end of the street, following the road round, warily watching her dog for a moment as a double-glazing delivery van roared by, then she crossed the road, went up to a gate that led through into a field of brilliant yellow rape, and called out to Nero – who was about to do a dump in someone’s driveway – in a stentorian voice that could have silenced the whole of Wembley stadium without a microphone, ‘Nero! Don’t you dare! COME here!’
The dog raised his head, saw the open gate, trotted joyfully towards it, then broke into a loping sprint and was off, away up the hill, and lost to her sight among the rape in seconds.
She closed the gate behind her, then repeated yet again, ‘A handbag, Mr Worthing? A handbag?’
She was glowing, she was on fire; she’d already called Don, Sidonie, Julius, Oliver and her mother telling them the news, the incredible news, the best news ever: the phone call, just half an hour ago, from the Southern Arts Dramatic Society, telling her she had got the part of Lady Bracknell, the top role! The star!
After twenty-five years of amateur acting, mostly for the Brighton Little Theatre Group, always hoping to be discovered, finally she had a real break! The Southern Arts Dramatic Society was semi-professional, putting on an open-air play every summer, first on the ramparts of Lewes Castle, then touring all over the UK, right down to Cornwall. It was famous; it would get reviewed in the press; she was bound to get noticed! Bound to!
Except, oh God, the nerves were already starting to kick in. She had been in the play before, years ago, in a minor role. But she still knew chunks of it by heart.
Striding off up the hill, around the edge of the field, thrusting with her arms as she spoke, she proclaimed, at the top of her voice, what she considered one of the most dramatic and funny lines of the play. If she could get that line right, she would have captured the character. ‘A handbag, Mr Worthing? You were found in a handbag?’
An airliner circled low overhead, positioning itself for its final approach to Gatwick, and she had to raise her voice a little to hear herself. ‘A handbag, Mr Worthing? You were found in a handbag?
‘A handbag, Mr Worthing? You were found in a handbag?’
She carried on walking, repeating the line over and over, each time changing the inflexions and trying to think who else she could phone and tell. Only six weeks to the opening night, not long. God, so much to learn!
Then doubts started. What if she wasn’t up to it?
What if she froze or corpsed in front of such a big audience? That would be the end, completely the end!
She would be OK; she would somehow get through. After all she came from a theatrical family. It was in her blood; her mother’s parents had been music hall artistes before they’d retired and bought a bed and breakfast business near the sea in Brighton.
As she crested the brow and saw the next hill unfurling for a mile ahead of her, and wide open farmland to either side broken by just a few solitary trees and mesh fences, she could see no sign of Nero. A strong breeze was blowing, bending the rape and the long green wheat sheaves. She cupped her hands over her mouth and shouted, ‘NERO! Come on, boy. NERO!’
After a few moments she saw a wide ripple in the rape, something zigzagging through it – Nero seemed incapable of ever running in a straight line. Then he broke cover, and came bounding towards her, holding something white and dangly in his mouth.
A rabbit, she thought at first, and hoped at least the poor thing was dead. She couldn’t bear it when he brought a live, wounded one and plopped it proudly at her feet, wriggling and screeching in fright, which he was fond of doing.
‘Come on, boy, what’s that you’ve got there? Drop! Drop!’
Then her own mouth dropped.
A shiver rippled all the way through her as she took one nervous step forward, staring down at the motionless white object.
Then she began to scream.
6
> Roy Grace did not enjoy holding press conferences. But he was well aware the police were paid public servants, and therefore the public had a right to be kept informed. It was the spin that journalists put on everything that he hated. It seemed to him that journalists weren’t interested in informing the public; that their job was to sell newspapers or attract viewers or listeners. They wanted to take news and slant it into stories, the more sensational the better.
And if there wasn’t anything sensational in the story, then why not have a pop at the police themselves? Few things grabbed the public’s attention better than a whiff of police negligence, racism or heavy-handedness. Car chases going wrong had been a particular hobby horse in recent years, especially if members of the public were injured or killed by reckless police driving.
Like yesterday, when two suspects being chased in a stolen car had crashed off a bridge and drowned in a river.
Which was why he was here now, standing in the Briefing Room, facing a open-centred rectangular table with not enough chairs for all the press present, his back to a large, smart, curved board bearing an artistic display of five police badges on a blue background, with the www.crimestoppers.co.uk number printed prominently beneath each of them.
He guessed there were about forty media people crammed in here – newspaper, radio and television reporters, photographers, cameramen and sound recordists – most of them familiar, among them some young fresh-faced ones working for the local press and stringing for the nationals, hoping for their big break, and some old, weary ones just waiting to get out of here and into a pub.
Flanking him, more to show that the police were taking this seriously than to actually contribute much to the conference, was the Assistant Chief Constable, Alison Vosper, a handsome but hard-looking woman of forty-four with blonde hair cropped short, standing in for the Chief, Jim Bowen – away at a conference – and Grace’s immediate superior, Gary Weston, the Chief Superintendent.