Over the way, Sergei’s face hardened and Shelley saw where the roots of his deception lay. He thought again of the old masters reusing their canvases. How the past stayed underneath all those layers, yet at some point would make its presence known again.
‘Yes, Dmitry, you are right,’ said Sergei. He had cast aside all pretence now. ‘And you were right before. Family is what matters. The Kravizes had their time. Now it is time for the Vinitskys to lead.’
Shelley’s bead on Sergei had never faltered. And so he saw what Dmitry did not: an almost imperceptible sideways movement of Sergei’s eyes as he indicated to Bennett. A movement that said, Kill him. Kill Dmitry.
Shelley’s finger tightened on the trigger, ready, knowing he had to fire before Sergei but also that he had to time it right, he had to be sure Bennett had shifted his aim or he would blow the back of Shelley’s head off.
The moment seemed to hang in time.
And then it happened.
All four weapons crashed together. Only Dmitry failed to find a target, his shot going wide. But Shelley’s round hit Sergei dead centre in the forehead, blowing out the back of his head in a welter of blood and skull and brain matter, throwing him backwards at the same time, Lucy crumpling safely to the deck. Bennett’s two rounds were clustered at Dmitry’s heart, opening holes in his T-shirt and sending him staggering back before he dropped to the tarmac.
And Sergei’s round hit Shelley.
He felt it like a heavyweight punch to the shoulder and threw out a hand to support himself as he was thrown back, twisting to the side at the same time, landing bodily on the ground.
How badly am I hit? came the thought. But his next instinct was to protect Lucy, and he pulled himself to his knees, raised his SIG to take aim at Bennett. Why hasn’t Bennett opened fire?
And then he saw why. Bennett stood in the same spot, Glock held loosely in his hand. He was looking down on himself to where a dark, gleaming patch of blood was spreading slowly across the groin of his navy suit trousers.
As Shelley watched, Bennett’s legs gave way beneath him, and he, too, sank to his knees so that they faced one another, both wounded by the same round – a round that had passed through Shelley’s shoulder and into Bennett.
The sirens were getting closer now.
‘Drop it, Bennett,’ said Shelley. His finger tightened on the trigger, and for a moment he almost … but no. His finger relaxed. ‘Drop the gun,’ he said, but realised Bennett had no intention of discarding his weapon. Instead his head dipped, and he pushed the barrel of the gun into his own mouth. ‘Bennett, don’t,’ started Shelley. ‘You don’t have to—’
But he never got to finish that particular sentence.
EPILOGUE
TWO WEEKS LATER Shelley and Lucy manoeuvred their battered, injured bodies into the Saab, complete with crutch for Lucy, and made the drive from Stepney Green to the Drakes’ house in Ascot.
Arriving, they drew up in front of brand-new gates, where Shelley approached the keypad and out of sheer curiosity punched in Susie’s birthday for the code. No way would it still be the same, he thought. Not after all they’d been through.
The gate clicked and began a slow swing open. Shelley shook his head. ‘Fucking idiots,’ he said, and rejoined Lucy in the car.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘“Fucking idiots”, you said. Not exactly the toughest bit of lip-reading in the world. Who on earth were you calling “fucking idiots”? Not our hosts, I hope.’
Shelley grumbled something non-committal and eased the Saab onto the driveway. Being back brought mixed emotions. Lucy, on the other hand, was paying her first visit to the Drake home, and she gawped through the Saab’s window. ‘Woah,’ she said. ‘Big house.’
‘Yeah, big house,’ agreed Shelley.
‘Must be difficult to heat.’
‘Never known it cold, to be honest.’
‘Oh, well, that’s a relief. I was thinking of launching an appeal.’
Apart from his Jag and her Porsche there were no other cars on the drive; evidently the Drakes had cleared their diary. When Shelley and Lucy buzzed at the front door it was opened by Guy and Susie together – apparently joined at the hip all of a sudden – and they were led through to the lounge.
As they sat and waited for drinks to appear, Shelley mused that the last time he’d been in this lounge it was filled with the Met’s tech guys, as well as DI Phillips, who’d been convinced Drake and his men were lying to him. Which of course they had been.
Since then the police had proceeded with varying degrees of exasperation and disbelief, with the dust from the investigation yet to settle. Shelley and Drake received an occasional call from Phillips, being dogged, the way detectives are supposed to be, but that was about as far as it went. The police didn’t like bodies turning up, of course. But the fact that the bodies had belonged to Chechen and British gangsters had sucked a sense of urgency out of the investigation.
What’s more, Claridge had informed them off the record that there was no intention of pressing charges for anything that had happened at Foxy Kittenz that night. Nor, indeed, anything since. If there ever was a hook, Shelley, Drake, Lucy and Susie were off it.
And then one afternoon Drake had called Shelley.
‘Same number, huh?’ the millionaire had said.
‘Told you so,’ Shelley had replied, and for a while they’d chewed over the events of a fortnight previously, with Guy expressing his dismay at the treachery of Bennett’s crew, and finally – ‘At bloody last!’ Lucy had said later – thanking Shelley for everything he’d done.
‘I didn’t do it for you,’ he’d told Drake.
‘I’m well aware of that, Shelley. But thank you anyway. Something else I want you to know: I’m making reparations to the kid who was hurt the night we raided the cam place. He’ll be well looked after, that much I can say.’
Rich-guy solution: throw money at the problem. But, as far as Shelley knew, the kid had made a complete physical recovery, and no doubt he wasn’t going to turn his nose up at a bit of financial help.
And then Drake had asked if he and Lucy would be able to come to the house, and Shelley had been about to tell him to take a running jump when Drake told him the reason for the invitation. And now, here they were.
Susie greeted them both effusively. ‘My saviour,’ she told Lucy, who demurred.
‘Actually, you saved my bacon,’ she said.
‘Really?’
‘You kicked the car door, remember? Throwing off the guy’s aim. Nifty move.’
‘Even so, it’s because of me you need this,’ said Susie gravely, indicating the crutch.
‘Not for long,’ Lucy assured her.
‘And how is the shoulder, David?’ said Susie, turning to Shelley.
‘On the mend,’ he told her.
She took his hands. ‘My lifesaver,’ she said, and gave him a kiss on the cheek, bringing her perfume back into his life. ‘How can I ever thank you?’
Lucy could think of a way, but Shelley had made her promise not to say anything. ‘You and your bloody pride,’ she’d fumed.
Small talk out of the way, Guy collected the urn and all four of them left the house, crossed the front lawn and passed into the field beyond, where Emma used to keep her horses. There they gathered in a semicircle, Susie at the centre, and bowed their heads.
‘I knew this is where you’d want to be, sweetheart,’ Susie said. She upended the urn, a mother saying farewell to her daughter, and they each said their silent goodbyes.
A short time later Shelley and Lucy took their leave, and at last Shelley put the Drake house behind him for what he dearly hoped would be the last time.
For a while they drove in silence, until Shelley cleared his throat. ‘Luce,’ he said, ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘I see,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s like that, is it?’
‘It’s a bit like that, yeah.’
&
nbsp; ‘Okay, but before you go on: are you leaving me?’
‘Can’t I just—’
‘Just answer me that: are you leaving me?’
‘No. Absolutely not. God no.’
‘Then I think I know what it is.’
‘Look, why can’t I just—’
‘Did you sleep with her?’
That was it. The question lay between them.
‘No,’ he said at last.
‘But … okay then. Did you want to sleep with her?’
‘There was a moment outside the hospital where I wanted to put a bullet into Bennett. But that’s all it was. A moment. Like an impulse. Half a second later I knew I didn’t want to do it.’
‘Because it was the wrong thing to do? Or because you didn’t want to do it?’
‘I didn’t want to do it because it was the wrong thing to do.’
‘And you’re saying it was like that with her?’
‘There was a kiss, Luce.’ He saw her flinch and the sight was like a knife into him. ‘But that’s all it was. That was the impulse. Half a second later I knew I didn’t want to do it.’
‘Because it was the “wrong thing to do”,’ she parroted unhappily.
‘Yeah, but what made it wrong was the fact that I loved you – loved you then, love you still. More and more every day.’
They drove a while in silence.
‘You know what this means, don’t you?’ she said at last.
‘What?’ he replied, fearing her reply.
‘It means you owe me brainstorming, Shelley. A lot of bloody brainstorming.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks of course go to James, as well as our brilliant editor, John Sugar, and copy-editor Alison Rae. Also my agent, Antony Topping, and Dave Taylor. ‘Do a good show, all right?’
—A.H.
ONE
BALANCING A TRAY loaded with dirty glassware, Darrien Summers dodged the masked men and women in evening dress as he made his way through the dining room. The annual Mardi Gras ball at the country club in Williams County, Mississippi, was in full swing, the dance floor so crowded that many guests swayed to the jazz band in the narrow spaces between the tables.
Darrien shouldered his way through the door into the kitchen. As it swung shut, the heavy door caught his bad knee. He grimaced and dropped his tray on a metal counter by the dishwasher. Limping over to a chair, he sat to massage the knee with both hands.
A white-haired waiter stood by the back door, blowing cigarette smoke into the outside air. He pointed the cigarette at Darrien. “That football knee still hurting you?”
Darrien nodded with a rueful laugh. “Sometimes it sure does.”
“You played at Alabama? Or was it Arkansas?”
“Arkansas,” Darrien said. He added, “Arkansas State. Not good enough for U of A.”
The flare-up in his knee was a painful reminder. He’d been a strong player at the high school level—maybe not enough of a star for Ole Miss or the Crimson Tide of Alabama or University of Arkansas, but he’d been signed for a full ride at Arkansas State, not far across the state line from Mississippi.
“Bet your daddy was proud. You going back in the fall? When your knee gets better?”
“No,” Darrien said, and turned away to discourage further conversation. He’d been answering that question since he was sidelined with a knee injury back in his sophomore year. He’d needed to remain on the team to get his degree, but shortly after, he’d been busted at a campus party in possession of a joint. They’d pulled the scholarship, and here he was.
Darrien’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he reached for it under his white waiter’s jacket. Reading the text, Darrien smiled, whispering, “Sheeiitt” under his breath.
The club manager, Bert Owens, came into the kitchen, pushing the door open with a bang. Darrien rose from the chair, and the other waiter pitched the cigarette out the back door. Owens marched over, tilting his head back to look Darrien in the eye.
“Summers, you get paid by the hour. I want you working all sixty minutes of it, not sitting on your ass and playing with your phone.”
Darrien slipped his phone into the pocket of his jacket.
“Mr. Owens, can I go on break now? Sir? I haven’t had a break all night.”
The manager pointed a finger at Darrien’s chest. “Twenty minutes. Then I want you back on the floor.”
Before Darrien could make his exit, the swinging door opened wide and a man in a black tuxedo stepped into the kitchen. His hair was parted on the side with razor-like precision, so that Darrien could see the white skin of his scalp. The man leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms on his chest.
“Damn, Owens. Have to chase you into the kitchen to get a word with you.”
The manager wheeled around, snatched a towel, and wiped his right hand before extending it.
“Mr. Greene, sir. We’re mighty happy to have you here tonight. What do you think of our shindig?”
Owens was grinning so hard, it looked like his face might crack.
Greene accepted Owens’s hand and gave it a brief shake. “Y’all put on a fine Mardi Gras party, that’s for sure. But I just heard that the band will stop playing at midnight. Owens, we can’t have that.”
As if on cue, the whine of a saxophone drifted into the kitchen.
“Mr. Greene, the band’s got a contract.”
“Is that so?” Greene’s blue eyes fixed on Owens. “Well, I do know a thing or two about contracts.”
“Yes, sir. You should, working with the law firm in Jackson.”
“And I didn’t come all the way from Jackson to go home at midnight, not at Mardi Gras. No, sir.”
Beads of perspiration shone on Owens’s forehead. “Mr. Greene, if the band plays past midnight, we got to pay them extra.”
Mr. Greene’s face broke into a smile. “Well, if that’s all.” He pulled a wallet from his pocket. He folded several bills and slipped the money into the manager’s hand, then pushed the door and walked out, with Owens at his heels.
Seizing the opening, Darrien slipped through the back exit out onto the patio, then walked toward the swimming pool at a brisk pace. The pool was drained, the lounge chairs and snack tables locked up until Memorial Day weekend. A dozen cabanas made a semicircle beside the women’s dressing room—and the door to cabana 6 was ajar.
Jewel Shaw would be waiting for him inside.
TWO
SHE WAS BAD news, he knew that. At twenty-eight, she was seven years older than Darrien; and as the only daughter of one of the club’s founding members, Jewel Shaw was forbidden fruit. Even in the twenty-first century, rich white women usually didn’t mix with the black waitstaff at the country club. Not in Rosedale, Mississippi.
But Jewel was a wild child.
He pushed open the door to cabana 6 and slipped inside. It was dark, but Darrien knew from experience there was a light switch somewhere on the wall. Feeling for it with his fingers, he bumped against a table—with his good knee, thank Jesus. He found a lamp and switched it on.
He saw Jewel lying on the chaise lounge near the far wall of the small space. Her left arm dangled off the side, and it looked like her purple dress had stains all over it.
He hesitated. Maybe he ought to turn around and head back to the kitchen. If Jewel was passed out—and that had happened before—he was in no position to deal with it.
But he reconsidered. It wouldn’t be right to leave her like that. He’d best check on her, make sure she was okay. He approached carefully in the dim lamplight.
“Jewel?” he whispered. “What you doing, baby?” When he got to the lounge, Darrien muffled a groan.
Blood was seeping through slits in the fabric of her purple dress, where she had been slashed in her chest, abdomen, and side. The green and gold Mardi Gras beads at her neck were wet and blood matted her blond hair, where it fell past her shoulders.
Her eyes were open and her chest heaved.
Darrien squatted on the
floor beside her, barely noting the pain that knifed through his knee. “Oh, Jesus.” He picked up her limp wrist and, not feeling a pulse, pressed his ear to her chest to try to listen to her heart, smelling the coppery odor of Jewel’s blood.
Nothing. Her chest didn’t move again. Leaning over her, he lifted her head and spoke her name. “Jewel.” Then louder: “Jewel?”
Dropping her head back onto the chaise, Darrien squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think what he should do. He pressed his hands onto her chest, trying to revive her with CPR. It didn’t help. He reached into his pocket for his phone, registering with panic that his hands were bloody, and his white jacket was smeared with blood.
He would dial 911. But his hands shook so violently, he couldn’t enter the passcode.
Footsteps sounded on the cement outside the cabana and he heard men’s voices. Darrien tried to shout, “Hey!” but it came out like a squawk.
As he held the phone, a flashlight beam cut into the dim room. Darrien dropped the phone and said, “Oh, my God.”
THREE
THE CLUB SECURITY guard, a reserve deputy for Williams County, tackled him to the floor. Bert Owens trained the flash-light on Jewel, then turned the light into Darrien’s face. “What have you done?”
Darrien shook his head, pinned beneath the deputy, trying to frame the words: I tried to help her. Owens said to the deputy, “Stand him up.”
The man pulled Darrien to his feet and with the help of another security guard pinned his arms behind him. Owens swung the flashlight and smashed it into the side of Darrien’s head. “Boy, what have you done to Miss Shaw?”
“I didn’t—”
Owens punched him. Darrien felt his lip split over his teeth and tasted blood.
The reserve deputy said in a doubtful tone, “Read him his rights, you reckon?”
Owens said, “Fuck that.” He swung the flashlight again, hitting Darrien’s scalp near his left eye. His knees sagged, but the security guards held him upright.
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