Deadly Intent (Anna Travis Mysteries)

by Lynda La Plante

“Maybe I am, but I also take my job very seriously. If I was foolish enough to start smoking dope, I could jeopardize my career. You only have to be caught once, you know.”

  “I daresay that is true, but I’m in my own home and I use it to relax. And, may I say, it would do you a hell of a lot of good to try it. It would maybe let you relax and get off this case for a few minutes.”

  “What you don’t take into consideration is that you have to score it from someone, which means that he or she is also aware of your addiction.”

  “I am not a fucking addict.”

  “Nevertheless, the risk of it being known to another party means they could have a hold on you.”

  “In what way, for Chrissakes?”

  “Well, for example, say you get some evidence that is detrimental to one of these people you score your dope from—they could get in touch with you and say that they would like you to lose the evidence.”

  “Blackmail me?”

  “Yes, that’s a risk.”

  Pete leaned back against the sofa. “Well, I’ll have to warn my brother.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He grows it.”

  Anna finished her wine. “You don’t have a brother; you told me about your family.”

  “Ah, this is my Australian stepbrother. He lives in Dorset.”

  “You get it from him?”

  Pete turned to look at her. “This is getting really boring, Anna. I smoke dope, and I will continue to do so. I am at risk only because I let you in and you are a policewoman—a detective, no less! Any risk I am getting into will probably come from Miss Super Sleuth. Now, can we change the subject?”

  “I’m going home.” She stood up.

  Pete remained lying on the floor, his head resting back on the sofa. He watched her put her empty wineglass on the counter.

  “I’ll show myself out.”

  “Fine.”

  Tight-lipped, Anna walked to the front door. Pete made no effort to get up, so she let herself out. He stayed on the floor for a while longer, then crawled to the ashtray and took out the half-smoked joint. He was about to light up when the doorbell rang again.

  “It’s me,” Anna shouted.

  Pete opened the door and stood back in mock horror. “Oh Christ! You’ve come to arrest me!”

  “Very funny. I’ve got a bloody clamp on my car.” She slammed the front door closed. “I’ll have to call and get it taken off. How long will it take?”

  “I have no idea. Could be hours—depends on where the clamping buggers are.”

  Anna sat down and opened her briefcase, taking out her mobile. Pete poured her another glass of wine and topped his own up.

  Keeping her voice controlled, she explained that she wanted the clamp taken off her car immediately. She was a police officer interviewing a suspect and required her vehicle to return to the station.

  She snapped off her phone in a fury. “They said it’ll take at least an hour! I don’t believe it.”

  “Am I the suspect you told them you were interviewing?” Pete said, grinning.

  “Oh, shut up. They won’t let me off the fine because it’s a private vehicle. It’s bloody outrageous.”

  “Double yellow lines, sweetheart—you know about the parking. You should have driven round to the garage at the back of the house.”

  Anna accepted a fresh glass of wine and sat on the sofa.

  Pete lay prone beside her. “I was just about to light up.”

  “For Chrissakes, don’t do that! If they come, they’ll smell it.”

  “I’m not going to let them in! Your car is outside—they won’t smell it from there. Besides, they’re clampers, not police.”

  Anna sighed with frustration.

  Pete lit up the joint, took a big lungful and then held it up. “You know, you should just try it at least once, so you’re experienced in the field of marijuana smokers. It will give you a better insight into the farce of it being illegal. You know as well as I do the cops go easy on it; it’s the hard stuff they are trying to stop.”

  “Well, they say it’s the stepping-stone to hard drugs.”

  “Bullshit.” Pete leaned on one elbow and held out the joint. “Go on, try it. Heave in the smoke, just as if you are smoking a cigarette and let it out slowly.”

  “No way. I’ll go and stand by my car.” Anna drained her glass.

  “You’re over the limit,” Pete said, grinning.

  “I am not.”

  “Yes, you are. Women can only drink two very small glasses of wine and you’ve had a large double measure.”

  “I also had that glue coffee you made.”

  “Ah, it won’t count, sweetheart.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

  “It’s just a term of endearment.”

  “I hate it.”

  “Well, dearest, I won’t call you sweetheart again.”

  Langton had always called her sweetheart. He probably called most of his women that.

  Anna reached forward. “All right, let me try it.”

  She coughed a lot to begin with. Then Pete rolled a smaller and thinner joint, without tobacco. The clampers arrived and Pete dealt with them as Anna was unable to stand up straight.

  He left her lying on the sofa, listening with headphones on to the Doors. She said, very loudly, when he returned, “I really like this band!”

  He grinned and opened up a bar of chocolate from the fridge. Anna was lying back, eyes closed.

  She wafted her hand, singing, “I’ll never look into your eyes again, my friend.”

  He popped a slice of black, ice-cold chocolate into her mouth and then rolled another joint. The room was hot and the fire blazing, as he kept on stacking more logs onto it. They opened another bottle of wine and finished the bar of chocolate. The curtains drawn, Pete lit scented candles and then lay beside her on the sofa. She was loath to part with the headphones, but he switched discs and put on his favorite compilation of seventies and eighties rock music. They lay together, wreathed in smiles. He found her adorable, as she burst into song, singing the odd lines.

  The first kiss was light. She eased her body around to face him, pressing herself against him. She cupped his face in her hands and they had a long, lingering, passionate kiss. There was no thought of James Langton, no jigsaw puzzle of facts and suppositions of the case. In the warmth of the room, wrapped in his arms, Anna felt incredibly happy. She also felt safe and, he was so gentle and considerate, she felt loved.

  The following morning, Anna knew they had made love—in fact, a number of times—but wasn’t too clear about how she came to be in his bed. She remembered talking about mundane things like childhood memories of holidays with her parents. She had never had this experience of sharing so much of herself, nor had she ever been stoned, and with more wine than she had ever drunk in one session before. She didn’t, at first, regret a moment but, as she slowly woke up to exactly where she was and who she was with, she had terrible misgivings and, when she tried to sit up, and her head felt as if it was about to explode, she questioned how she could have allowed herself to be so foolish.

  Pete lay beside her, still deeply asleep; she eased back the duvet and inched to the edge of the bed. Slowly, she swung her legs over and got to a sitting position. This made the room spin and her head throb. Wrapped in a towel, Anna moved slowly down the narrow staircase into the living room. She drank some water and then started to collect her clothes, which were strewn around the room. Each time she bent to pick up an item, she felt dizzy and, by the time she had managed to track down her knickers and bra, she had to sit down on the sofa. It took her even longer to dress, and when she caught sight of herself in a mirror, she had to look away fast.

  Her hair was standing up on end and she had black rings beneath her eyes from her mascara. She looked really wretched. She splashed cold water over her face and used a dishcloth to pat it dry. She combed her hair and, with her head still throbbing, brewed up some coffee. There was not a
sound from above, for which she was thankful, because she wasn’t sure if she could talk. By the time she’d downed two cups of black coffee and found a bottle of aspirin to ease her headache, she at least felt as if she could function. She cleared the room, washed up the wineglasses, emptied the ashtray of its roach stubs, and was about to pour her third cup of coffee when she heard movement from the bedroom.

  “Anna?” Pete called out. He came thudding down the stairs; his hair, like Anna’s, was standing up on end, and he had pulled on a pair of jeans but was bare-chested and barefoot.

  “I’ve made some coffee,” she said, not looking at him.

  “Great. Don’t you want a shower?” he said as he looked around the room.

  “No, I’d better get back home to change.”

  He peered at the clock on the mantel. “Is this the right time?”

  Anna looked at her wristwatch; at least she hadn’t taken that off. “Oh my God—it’s half-past eight. I’m going to have to go straight to work.”

  “Me too. Do you want some toast?”

  “No, I’ll get something from the canteen.”

  He came to stand behind her, reaching around her for his mug of coffee. “You okay?”

  “Yes, my headache is fading fast. Want an aspirin? I found some in your cupboard.”

  “Nope.” He slurped his coffee, then wrapped his arms around her, nuzzling her neck. “Any regrets?”

  “No, of course not,” she said, but still turned away from him.

  “Look at me,” he said gently, and turned her to face him. “What’s the matter?”

  “I haven’t cleaned my teeth,” she said.

  “I’ve got a spare toothbrush in the bathroom.”

  “I’d better just get going.”

  “Not until you’ve looked at me. Stop turning away.”

  She sighed, and slowly turned to him, looking up into his face. He bent down and kissed her softly. “Last night was special,” he said, and cupped her face in his hands. “No regrets?”

  “You already asked me that.”

  “Well, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Good, I’ll call you this evening.”

  “Okay.”

  He turned away and picked up his coffee; she moved quickly to collect her briefcase and handbag.

  “You sure you don’t want to have a shower with me?”

  Anna lifted up her coat. “I really have to get going, or I’ll be late. As we had the weekend off, I don’t think Cunningham would appreciate it. She’s sort of got it in for me anyway.”

  “You going to give her the update from what we picked up at the farm?”

  “Not straightaway.”

  “Well, if you want that van towed in to be checked over, you’ll have to give details.”

  “Yes, I know, but just let me get sorted and I’ll call you later this morning.”

  Anna made her way to the front door, where the Sunday papers protruded out of the letter box.

  “It’s Sunday,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I said, it’s Sunday!” She felt such relief, she laughed.

  “Christ, it’s bloody Sunday!” he repeated.

  “I don’t have to go into work until Monday!”

  “Nor do I.” He laughed. He then came to her and picked up the papers. “Tell you what. Put your stuff down, I’ll go out and get some fresh bread, and we’ll have bacon and eggs or bagels and smoked salmon.”

  “No, I think I should get home.”

  “I can’t tempt you? How about we meet for lunch?”

  She hesitated. She still had a load of clearing up to finish.

  He shrugged. “Up to you. I could come over and help you out?”

  “Let me think about it.” She opened the front door.

  “Well, you know where I am,” he said.

  Anna took a long shower, trying to get her head around exactly what had happened the night before. She changed into a tracksuit, made herself some tea and toast, and sat on her small balcony. It was after eleven when she began to unpack some more cases and it took her by surprise: she was humming. Suddenly, she realized that she felt really happy. Was it because of Pete? Because they had made love all night? Or was it because it felt as if she was, at long last, freeing herself from Langton’s domination?

  At just after one, Anna called Pete. It had to be telepathy, he said, as he had his hand on the phone to call her. They agreed to meet for a late lunch at San Frediano’s, just off the King’s Road. Anna dressed in jeans and a pale blue cashmere sweater that she knew always made her eyes seem bluer. Again, she felt a sort of warm glow: she was eager to see Pete again. She had a new relationship blossoming. For someone like Anna, who had had so few, it gave her confidence in herself—a confidence that had been lacking for so long.

  By the time she had driven to Chelsea, it was exactly two-fifteen. Pete was already there waiting; she noticed he had shaved and washed his hair. He had on a denim jacket and check shirt, tight jeans, and cowboy boots. When he saw her, he opened his arms to give her a big hug. “You look fabulous,” he said. Arm in arm, they went into the restaurant and were directed to a small corner table for two.

  As they were perusing the menu, a lovely tall blond girl came over. “Pete, how are you?”

  He lowered the menu and half rose from his seat. “Daniella, good heavens! It’s been ages.”

  “I’m living in Spain,” she said. Judging by her golden tan, she was taking in a lot of sun.

  “This is my girlfriend, Anna.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Daniella said, then gestured toward her table, where there were several young men with sweaters slung around their necks. “We’re all going to a funfair on Wimbledon Common after lunch.”

  “Sounds fun,” Pete said, smiling.

  “Well, look me up. I’m here for a month before I go back.”

  “I will—you look terrific!”

  Daniella gave Anna a smile before she sashayed back to her table.

  “You chosen what you want to eat?” he said, picking up his menu.

  “She was very glamorous.”

  “Yes, and her sisters are even better-looking. I’ve known them for years, but I’m not really in their league. They are stinking rich and just want to party. They have a big yacht…”

  “Pete, if someone has a boat, do they have to record ownership? You know, like a racehorse?” she asked when they had ordered their food.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, no two racehorses can be called the same name—they have to be recorded at Wetherby’s. I wondered if it was the same with a boat. Do owners have to register the name for permits and things, or when they come in and out of this country?”

  “I don’t know. I can ask Daniella, but I doubt she’d know.”

  “Never mind—I just wondered.”

  Pete sat back as the waiter brought their wine. He picked up his glass and tapped Anna’s. “Cheers. To us?”

  She smiled and sipped her wine. She had felt so touched when he had introduced her as his girlfriend; in fact, she could not recall anyone ever doing so before. Certainly not Langton—he was even loath to admit he was having an affair with her.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asked softly.

  She flushed and shrugged her shoulders. “You introduced me as your girlfriend.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I liked it.”

  He cocked his head to one side, then he gave that lovely warm chuckle, reaching over to take her hand. “That’s good. You know something? I have never been so grateful for a Sunday before. I think if it hadn’t have been for you, I would have gone off to work like a grouch, and I would have had a hard time persuading you to agree to ever see me again.”

  “I called you, remember,” she said.

  “So you did. Maybe I underestimated myself. I have in the past. So why do you want to know this stuff about a boat registration?”

  As their lunch was served, Anna descr
ibed the oil painting of the yacht at Honour Nolan’s farmhouse and how Gordon had taken a photograph of it. It was not clear if it did have the same name or was in fact the boat that they knew Alexander Fitzpatrick had previously owned, but there was, she felt, a possibility that it could link him to Honour and Damien Nolan. They had no way of checking as the painting had been taken down when Anna had returned with Pete to the farmhouse. Which in itself was suspicious, as both had denied knowing Anthony Collingwood, the man Anna believed to be Alexander Fitzpatrick.

  Throughout, Pete listened and threw in the odd suggestion. Anna loved being able to talk about her work with someone who understood it. Though his own connection to the police was scientific, they nevertheless had so much in common.

  Anna and Pete were one of the last couples to leave the restaurant. Hand in hand, they walked to her car and he agreed, without any pressure from her, to let her go home and have an early night, so as to be refreshed for the morning.

  She hesitated, unsure how to approach the subject but, yet again, he seemed to intuitively know she wanted to say something. “Go on, what is it?”

  “Well, this situation between us. I want to see you and I think you feel the same way, but, Pete, I can’t if you continue to smoke. It would be unethical for one, never mind illegal, and I am not prepared to take the risk or try it again. So really, it’s up to you.”

  “I hear you, and I promise no more. I think I want you more than any gear—agreed?”

  “Thank you.”

  He stood on the pavement and waved her off, then returned to his Morgan. He lit up a joint, smoking it in his car, before deciding that a night at the funfair in Wimbledon might be entertaining.

  13

  Anna didn’t just feel relaxed and rested, she felt like a new woman. She had taken care when dressing, and blow-dried her hair; she was even wearing a little more makeup than usual. Her suit was one of her best, gray Armani, and she wore a crisp white linen shirt, the collar and cuffs pressed and starched. She had arrived at eight-fifteen and made a report about the weekend’s activities. She did wonder how she would get around to presenting the findings without a snide put-down from Cunningham about her solo investigations; however, she knew she had made a lot of progress. When she got a call from Cunningham to be in her office immediately, however, she wondered exactly how she would pass on the details.