by Susan Lewis
Elliot said nothing, only looked at the sharp, watery eyes, with their bristly brows that met on the bridge of his nose and divided in a large V towards his hairline.
‘You’ve gone far enough with your investigation to know that we cannot allow it to continue,’ Gatling stated, coming straight to the point. ‘You’ll never get the evidence you’re looking for, so the wisest course you could follow now is to stop trying and let this go.’
Elliot merely looked at him.
‘It would be in your own best interests,’ Gatling advised.
A few seconds ticked by, then Elliot said, ‘Or you’ll do to me what you’re doing to Colin Ashby?’
Gatling’s eyes were like flint.
‘Or what you had done to Beth Ashby?’ Elliot suggested.
Still Gatling didn’t answer.
‘Or maybe you’ll go as far as to repeat what you did to Sophie Long?’ Elliot said.
Not by even the flicker of a muscle did Gatling show any response to the accusations. He merely continued as if Elliot hadn’t spoken. ‘Your speculations could lead to serious disruption, not only here in this country, but around the world,’ he said. ‘And that’s all it is, speculation. So are you really prepared to face the consequences of going public with your findings, when you have no means of acquiring the proof you’re seeking? Can you afford the considerable legal problems you’ll incur, and that’ll tie you up for years?’
Elliot’s eyebrows went up. Threatening to sue him was not an eventuality he’d expected, though in retrospect he probably should have. ‘So what would you suggest I do with my findings?’ he enquired.
‘Burn them.’
‘Well, we both know I’m not going to do that, so shall we move on?’
Gatling’s face twitched, and for the first time, as he loosened his collar, Elliot got a glimpse of just how pressured he was. He had a mental image of the syndicate’s élite sitting around a table ordering Gatling to go and sort this out. If it weren’t for that silly little hooker, none of this would be happening, and since this was Gatling’s territory, it was Gatling’s problem, therefore Gatling’s neck was on the line. And what was the penalty if Gatling didn’t succeed, Elliot wondered. Just what were they planning to do in the event that Elliot Russell and the two dozen or more reporters already involved in this didn’t play ball? They clearly had to be insane if they thought anything anyone did could alter the course now, and insane they weren’t, so he was more than intrigued to find out where this was going.
‘I know you to be a man of common sense and integrity,’ Gatling said, ‘so I don’t believe you’d act irresponsibly over this.’
Elliot blinked, not entirely sure he’d heard right. ‘Just a minute,’ he said. ‘Are you telling me you believe it would be more honourable for me to save you from a multibillion-dollar loss on put options, than to alert the European public to how you, in the guise of Britain and America, are intending to cripple their economies? Is that what you’re saying? You think I would put your corrupt little power-broking empire before the integrity of this nation? You think I really give a fuck about your assets compared to those of the people you’re trying to cheat out of everything, from their democratically elected governments, to their entire life’s savings? Let me tell you this, I care as much about your syndicate and its diabolical strategies as you and your wife cared about Sophie Long’s life. Now, does that paint the picture of my integrity clearly enough for you? Is there anything about it you don’t understand, because I’ll be happy to explain further, if there’s something you didn’t quite catch.’
The way Gatling had flinched at the mention of Sophie Long’s name should have told Elliot to stop there, but disgust and anger had carried him away, giving Gatling a chance to recover and behave as though it hadn’t happened.
‘I was afraid, or maybe I hoped, that would be your response,’ Gatling said. And leaning forward he opened his briefcase. For one appalling moment Elliot truly believed he was going to bring out a gun, but all that emerged was a single sheet of paper.
Elliot read it quickly. This time there were no surprises, for this proposal, these figures were actually what he’d expected – indeed, they had to know that, apart from murder, inviting him in was the only way they were going to stop him. And certainly the number of zeros on the bottom line was enough to stop most, even if there were thirty or more who needed paying off too. He looked at Gatling and in the dim light saw the beads of sweat on his face. If he played this out long enough he’d either double the figure in front of the zeros or give Gatling a heart attack.
‘You can become a multimillionaire overnight,’ Gatling told him, perspiring profusely now, ‘and it will all be legal. You won’t even have to make an investment. That’s already been done. All you have to do is collect.’ His hand went up as Elliot started to speak. ‘No, don’t give me an answer now. Think about it first. Think of what it’ll mean to your life, the freedom it’ll buy you, the … That’s it. That’s right,’ he said as Elliot folded the sheet of paper and pocketed it. ‘Think about it, then call me and we can talk again.’
‘You know what I can’t quite believe,’ Elliot said, ‘is that you thought, even for a minute, that I’d go for it.’
‘It’s a lot of money, for Christ’s sake!’ Gatling spluttered. ‘Five million pounds. And that’s just to start. No man in his right mind walks away from that.’
‘Then I guess that puts me in the same league as Colin Ashby.’
There was a moment’s silence, before Elliot crooked an eyebrow, as though expecting an answer. ‘He did walk away from it, didn’t he?’ he prompted.
‘Ashby was a fool,’ Gatling snapped. ‘I never believed he would take it. It was Leonora’s idea. She was always soft on the man.’
‘Until she set up Sophie Long’s murder to make it look as though Ashby did it?’ Elliot suggested. ‘Was that her way of paying him back for turning you down? You were seen coming out of there, you know? A neighbour described you both.’
Gatling’s eyes were bulging. His face was trembling so hard that saliva was sprinkling from his lips. ‘We didn’t kill her,’ he rasped. ‘We were there, it’s true, but Leonora didn’t come in, and that girl was alive when I left. I swear it. She was alive when I left.’
‘So who killed her?’
‘Ashby. Who do you think?’
‘Who do I think?’ Elliot said incredulously. ‘I think it was you. And Beth Ashby knows it was you, doesn’t she?’
It was another bluff that paid off, for Gatling’s face looked as though it couldn’t decide whether to explode or deflate. ‘I don’t know what she’s told you,’ he growled, ‘but I suggest you speak to her again and this time make her tell you the truth.’
‘Would that entail using a whip?’ Elliot challenged smoothly.
‘Yes, it probably would,’ Gatling responded frankly. ‘And if you do then you too will find out that there’s not a single damned thing any of us can do about it. Not a single damned thing.’
Chapter 26
THEO WAS IN his small, one-bedroom apartment, just north of Ventura Boulevard in Sherman Oaks. It was on what realtors termed the ‘wrong’ side of the boulevard, since those with money lived on the south side, and in the hills above, enjoying spectacular views of the San Fernando Valley and San Gabriel mountains beyond. Much like the house he was renting for Ava. In his mind, he still thought of her as Ava, even though he’d started calling her Beth.
She’d be expecting him back any minute, and he wondered what she’d do when he didn’t come. His cellphone was turned off, and no one she knew could tell her where he lived. Not many people knew anyway, just the utility companies, the landlord, his agent and his wife, Jolynne. She had to know in case there was any kind of emergency with their son, Dwayne. There never had been, not in the eighteen months since he’d left their palatial home in Brentwood, though he doubted she’d call even if there were – unless it required money.
He didn’t feel good about this. In fact he fel
t so bad he couldn’t even make himself sit down, for fear the guilt would close around him like a trap and never let go. But he wasn’t going back there, so he’d just have to learn to live with it. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for her, because he did. She was beautiful, loving, responsive, so eager to please and to learn, that it filled his heart with pride every time she produced another scene for him to read. She really was making a great job of the script. Getting her involved like that was doing more to heal her than anything else, but what was the point in continuing when he knew it was never going to be made? The doors were as closed on that as they were on a plague. No one was ever going to touch it – and if he stayed attached no one was ever going to touch him either. That was how his agent had put it that morning. ‘Get out of there, man,’ he’d growled. ‘The project’s poison and you’re going to kill yourself if you stay with it.’
So here he was, distancing himself and protecting his future for the sake of his son. It wasn’t that he wanted to let Ava down, he just had to. God knew, he hated thinking of her up there on that hill all alone, scared because he hadn’t come back, terrified in case Wingate or Kleinstein turned up. But she had a gun now. It wasn’t as if he’d left her unprotected. He just wished he’d been able to pay the rent too, at least to the end of the month. He didn’t know how much cash she had, but her friends in Britain would take care of her. Georgie would come get her, or pay to fly her back. She’d be all right. It wasn’t as if she had no one. She could survive without him, he’d just made it easier for a while, nursing her, the way he’d nursed his mother. He had a gift for that, but he had a terror of it too, because his mother had died and left him. He didn’t want to be left again after he’d put in so much care and love. He didn’t want to get that close again, which was why none of his marriages had worked; he had to leave them before they left him.
Walking through to the kitchen he took a beer from the icebox and popped the tab. The session with his therapist that morning had been the toughest yet. He was still shaken by the admissions he’d made, about his mother, his wives, his girlfriends, even his son. He hated to love. He could do it, but he couldn’t sustain it. He was a failure at love. In a way he was like Carlotta, who was driven by her weaknesses and eaten up by her obsessions, though perhaps not as extreme.
He’d cried during the session and he was crying again now. Beth’s novel was a beautiful story, it deserved to be published, and the movie ought to be made. He wanted to make it. He wanted to go back. He wanted to love. But he didn’t have what it took to fight Kleinstein, nor his own demons. She was a special woman, worthy of someone far nobler than he, so he’d just stay right here and wait until someone told him she’d gone.
‘Mitzi? It’s Ava.’
‘Ava? This is a surprise. How are you?’
‘Is Theo with you?’
Mitzi laughed. ‘Are you kidding? He won’t talk to me after what happened. You know that.’
Beth looked around the wide, familiar sitting room with its sprawling sofas and chairs, strange abstract paintings, and eclectic cabinets and tables. It was all so silent and still, hushed as though listening to her speak. She didn’t like it. She was trapped in here by the darkness outside. She wanted to cower away and hide. ‘I don’t know where he is,’ she said brokenly. ‘He went out this morning and he hasn’t come back.’
‘Did he say where he was going?’
‘He had a couple of appointments. I don’t know where. I tried his agent, but he says he hasn’t seen him.’
‘What about the office on Wilshire?’
‘He closed it down a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Well, he’s probably just got caught up in a meeting.’
Beth started and gasped as an old chest suddenly creaked. Trembling she turned to stare at it, willing herself to stay calm. Old pieces of furniture did that. There was no one else here. No one hiding, or watching. The blinds were all drawn. The doors were locked. There was nothing to be afraid of. She had a gun. ‘He said he’d be back for lunch,’ she told Mitzi. ‘So why hasn’t he called? Something’s happened to him. I know it. I’ve called the hospitals, but no one’s heard of him, so where else can he be?’ Her hand was full of tissues. She dragged them over her tear-stained face, then reached for the Valium they’d given her when she’d left the hospital. ‘Do you think they’ve got him?’ she whispered to Mitzi, hugging the bottle to her.
‘Who?’ Mitzi responded.
‘Kleinstein and Wingate. Do you think they’ve got him?’
There was a pause before Mitzi said, ‘Listen, honey, he’s going to be back any minute, you’ll see. So you just hang on in there. OK?’
‘I’m so afraid, Mitzi.’
‘I know. But nothing bad’s going to happen. Theo won’t let it. Now you just hang up the line, and I’ll make some calls, see if I can find out where he is.’
‘You’ll ring me back, won’t you?’
‘Sure I will. You just relax now. Everything’s going to be OK.’
Leonora Gatling was sitting very still; her beautiful face, though deathly pale, registered little emotion as her husband related the details of his short meeting with Elliot Russell. It was late, she’d just returned from an intense three days in Zurich and Liechtenstein, going through all the stress of relocating funds, checking and double-checking multimillion-dollar accounts, reporting constantly to Kleinstein, Wingate and Brunner, while keeping an open line to the Far East, where more bad news was coming in by the minute. And now this.
‘Have you checked to find out if this neighbour exists?’ she said tightly when he’d finished.
He nodded. ‘She’s been to the police and given them a description.’
‘So what’s to lead them to us? We have no connection to Sophie Long. We made sure of that.’
‘Russell’s convinced it was us.’
Her dark eyes flashed with fury. ‘Then we need to convince him otherwise, don’t we?’ she said through her teeth.
‘And just how do you propose to do that?’ he responded in equal tone.
Getting up from her chair she walked to the drinks trolley and poured herself a large Scotch. ‘You have to get those fibres out of police hands,’ she declared. ‘That’s all that can tie us to that place. The rest will be surmise.’
‘You’re surely not forgetting Beth Ashby,’ he sneered.
‘For Christ’s sake, she’s not going to tell them anything.’
‘Are you sure about that? Laurie Forbes is already out there in LA and Russell’s on his way. They’re going to talk to her …’
Leonora dashed her glass back on the trolley and spun round. ‘Then we’d better make sure they don’t, hadn’t we?’ she seethed. And picking up the phone she thrust it in his face. ‘You know Kleinstein’s number. Call it.’
Laurie was sitting in one of the chic, tented cabanas poolside at W Hotel in Westwood, the trendy, villagey enclave of central LA. The front drapes were scooped lavishly aside, allowing her to watch the comings and goings of the young, rich and famous, as well as the wannabes and star gazers as they lolled on the low-lying double beds that were spread about the harem-style, Zen-like terraces of the gardens and pool. Others were schmoozing their way through late hot-deal lunches, or parading the flowered walkways to be seen, or simply swimming in the crystal-blue water, while catching those vital rays in order to enhance the masterful work that their surgeons and trainers had put into creating those gorgeous bodies.
Though still bedazzled by the glamour – fake and real – and blown away by how many film and rock stars she’d recognized gliding in and out of the hotel, right now none of it was holding Laurie’s fascination more than the woman who was sharing the cabana with her, whose nest of dyed-blonde hair, cutesy little plaits, pluscious lips – to borrow a phrase she’d overheard in the bar last night – and startlingly large blue eyes, made her so like Barbie that it might have been hard to take her seriously were it not for the throaty timbre of her voice that made her words quite compell
ing to listen to.
‘In my opinion,’ Mitzi was saying, checking the top of her strapless Lycra top to make sure it hadn’t slipped down too far, ‘the book’s a literary ballet, with all the grace and style, drama, tragedy, fantasy and reality that goes with it, and some. She’s not only an accomplished writer, she’s out-and-out gifted. It’s a crime they’re not publishing it, and it breaks my heart to think of the movie not being made.’ Her languid, though intensely perceptive eyes moved to Laurie. ‘This is off the record, right?’ she said.
Laurie nodded.
‘OK. Well, Abe Kleinstein’s people have put the word out, and now no one in their right mind’s going to touch that project.’
‘When did that happen?’ Laurie asked, shifting on her pile of downy cushions to tuck her feet in under her.
‘A couple of weeks ago. After the incident at the house.’
‘Kleinstein’s house?’
Mitzi nodded.
‘Were you there?’
‘At the party? Sure, but not while they were doing that to her. No way was I there during that. I didn’t even know it had happened until after they’d taken her to the hospital. Someone called me, don’t ask me who, he didn’t give his name, to tell me where she was. So I called Theo and went straight down to Cedars.’ She was unscrewing the cap of an expensive tube of sun block, which she rubbed into her neck as she continued. ‘I thought she’d stayed the night at Kleinstein’s because she wanted to, not because they had her as some kind of prisoner,’ she said. ‘Believe me, if I’d known what they were doing I’d have called the police. It’s sick, that kind of stuff. I mean sick.’
‘Have you seen her since?’
‘No. Theo’s kept her under wraps, won’t let anyone near her. She called, though, last night. Didn’t know where he was. She seemed to think Kleinstein might have him, so that’ll tell you what a bad way she’s in since they half killed her. She’s paranoid they’re going to do something like it again. To her. To Theo. To anyone, I guess.’
Laurie watched Mitzi’s square-topped acrylic nails as she put the sun cream down on the polished wooden block that was centred in the slew of cushions they were sitting on, then pick up her glass of iced tea, which she sucked in through a straw. ‘I’ll guarantee you Theo was back there before she had a chance to ring anyone else,’ she said. ‘She’s just all worked up since it happened. Shame, because she could do with a break after all that stuff with her husband.’