by Kate Johnson
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Do you think I have so little of interest in my life that I’d sit around like a Nick Hornby character, reorganising my CDs by the colour of their spines?’
Evelyn said nothing.
‘Hell, I’m surprised they didn’t replace the cupboard door I shot.’
‘I suppose it’s kind of them,’ she said uncertainly.
‘No. It’s not kind. They didn’t have to do any of it. I bet when I go in the bathroom they’ll have lined up all my toiletries in order of descending height and cleaned the hair out of the drain. Probably even put clean sheets on the bed. Bastards.’
He stomped into the bedroom and stood glaring at the bed. Utter, utter bastards. To come in here and invade every bit of his life was one thing, but to tell him about it? To place subtle little reminders everywhere that they’d poked into every little area of his life; that they’d exposed all his secrets.
The bed had been neatly made, even if the sheets weren’t clean. Beside the bed the nightstand bore a tasteful display of condoms which had formerly been left inside their box in a drawer.
The bathroom was immaculate. Some MI5 officer was probably hugging himself with glee that he’d thought of scrubbing the hard-water marks off the shower screen.
But it was what lay on the pillow that filled him up with pure, unadulterated rage.
‘I’m guessing you didn’t leave this here,’ Evelyn said, looking a bit embarrassed.
Luke stared at the photo, a professional print. He’d persuaded Sophie to let him bring a camera into the bedroom one night and the results had been … well, pretty inspiring, if he was honest. But of all the images – which had probably been dug up from his hard drive and perved over – this was his favourite. Not graphic, but intimate.
Sophie lying asleep, her hand curled by her face, hair fanned out over the pillow. The curve of her pale shoulder, the sweep of her bare back, the delicious swell and dip of her buttock and thigh. The sweetest glimpse of her breast. The shadows of her lashes on her cheeks and the exquisite contours of her mouth.
He took this photo out sometimes and just looked at it. At the softness and beauty and warmth of the woman he loved. At the incredible intimacy and vulnerability she displayed, sleeping naked in his bed.
Sophie didn’t know he’d taken that picture. It was just for him.
And now that intimacy was spoiled forever, shared and displayed among untold grubby strangers. His own private memory despoiled. Harrington could have picked an incredibly graphic picture of her from his hard drive, but he’d gone for this one. Known why it was important to him.
Bastard.
‘You can go now,’ he said quietly.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
He was seething with emotions he didn’t have names for. His whole body ached. He needed to sleep so badly it made him want to cry.
‘I’m fine,’ said Luke, and it was the biggest lie he’d ever told.
My head felt hot and heavy even before I woke up. Christ, how much had I had to drink? My mouth was dry and stale and my body ached. Blegh. Whoever invented the hangover wants shooting.
On second thoughts, maybe I’ll just shoot myself. It’s got to be kinder.
I felt at my wrist; I was still wearing my watch. Carefully, I peeled open an eyeball and peered at the time. Just before eight. I stumbled from the bed and made it to the bathroom to gulp down some water –
– and then I froze.
Stubble burn.
I had stubble burn.
I touched my jaw and neck, but it was unmistakeable. Luke’s usually clean-shaven, but my first boyfriend had a weak chin and used to cover it up with what he thought was designer stubble. Took me a while to explain to him that it was the least pleasant thing in the world to have scrubbing all over your face while you were kissing.
And now it was back. Someone had been rubbing his stubble against my face.
Feeling sick, and not just from a hangover, I peeped back into the bedroom. The bed was rumpled on both sides.
Oh God. What had I done?
No, seriously, what had I done? I couldn’t remember. I could have been having rampant sex with Jack all night and I didn’t remember a thing. I remembered the feel of his body against mine, his hands on my skin – but was that from the time he’d manhandled me in France? Or was it a more recent memory?
He’d walked me to my room, and then … did I invite him in for a nightcap? Had he stayed? Did we share a bed, as we’d shared one before?
Did I do more than just sleep with him last night? Did I, well, sleep with him?
Oh God. I cheated on Luke. I’m the lowest rat-bastard in the world.
I fell facedown on the bed, contemplating suicide. How could I even think of having sex with someone who wasn’t Luke? Gorgeous, sexy, clever, kind Luke. Sometimes it amazed me that I was allowed to sleep with him at all. I half-expected some old school chum to turn up and pay Luke on a bet. Sleep with this tub of lard for a couple of months and you can have my Jag.
I’d blown up his car and cheated on him. He was going to hate me. Really, really hate me.
I sank lower into the depths of self-loathing and was somewhere around wishing I’d never been born at all when the door opened and Jack came in, carrying a backpack, looking clean, smelling nice, his eyes the right colour, not some horrible pink shade like mine.
‘Morning,’ he said pointedly.
‘Murgh,’ I moaned into the pillow.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘I wish I was dead.’
‘You didn’t drink that much.’ He sat down on the bed and brushed the hair out of my face. ‘You want some water?’
‘Got any cyanide to go with it?’
Jack cracked a smile. ‘Can’t be that bad.’
Feeling horribly low, I turned my head and said in a small voice, ‘Jack, why do I have stubble burn?’
The smile faded.
‘You can’t remember.’
‘Um, no. Sorry,’ I apologised immediately, ‘I was really drunk. I’m sure it was, um, great …’
Why am I apologising? To him? Stop being so bloody British, Sophie.
‘So great you forgot. You know, I’ve made women pass out before, but they always remembered what I did to them first.’
Oh Christ.
‘Maybe that’s it.’ I latched on to this idea, feeling nauseated by it but not wanting to hurt his feelings, especially not when we’d just declared a truce. Oh God, what if this was his idea of a partnership? ‘Maybe it was so good you wiped my memory?’
‘Maybe,’ Jack agreed, his dark eyes getting darker. Uh-oh. He reached out and pushed me onto my back. ‘Do you remember this?’
He kissed me softly, sweet and clean, his hands on my bare shoulders. I must have tasted disgusting, but he didn’t seem to care. His hands roamed lower.
‘Do you remember this?’
‘Jack,’ I said weakly, trying rather uselessly to push him away.
‘And this?’ His hands went under the covers and I shrieked and shoved them away. I was naked under there!
‘Stop,’ I begged. ‘I – Luke – no, I – we didn’t …’
Jack sat back and regarded me steadily.
‘I have a boyfriend,’ I said shakily, more to remind myself than anyone else. ‘Oh God, I’m such a slut!’
Jack reached out to me and I recoiled.
‘Sophie,’ he said patiently, ‘nothing happened.’
I stared. ‘What?’
‘Well,’ he gave me a little smile, ‘very little, anyway. You snuggle up to people in your sleep, did you know that?’
‘But – but …’
‘You passed out.’ His gaze was steady. ‘I didn’t have my own room to go to so I stayed here. Thought I’d keep an eye on you. There’s one bed. We both slept in it. And you cuddled up to me. That’s about the extent of it. So before you commit hara-kiri, calm down.’
‘So we didn’t –?’
‘Oh God.’ I flopped on my back, relief flooding me. ‘Oh Jesus. I thought we’d –’
‘We could if you want,’ he said idly.
‘No! No. I didn’t even mean to – I was really drunk and I – I love Luke,’ I said firmly. ‘I really do. We love each other. I’d never cheat on him.’
‘Sure?’ Jack said.
‘Sure. Really sure.’
‘Right,’ Jack said abruptly, and stood up. ‘Come on, get dressed.’
‘What? Where are we going?’
‘First, to a new place. And then to Irene Shepherd’s house.’
‘New place? Why?’
‘Because you made such a bloody exhibition of yourself yesterday and I don’t want anyone to come looking here and remember you.’
My face coloured a little bit more. Right.
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘but could you, like, look away, ’cos I’m not wearing anything.’
Jack shrugged, and then a thought occurred to me.
‘Why am I not wearing anything?’
‘’Cos I took your underwear off.’
‘But – even when I was unconscious?’
Jack gave a small smile.
My face went very hot. I remembered the first time I’d met him in that tent in France, the sleeping bag and the faked orgasm and him seeing my breasts before I’d even seen his face.
‘You need to get yourself a girlfriend,’ I said, and Jack eyed me for one long, inscrutable minute.
‘It’s on my to-do list,’ he said eventually, and turned away.
I pulled myself into my clothes, washed last night’s gunk off my face and stumbled down to the lobby after Jack, who paid the bill in cash. The receptionist gave me an amused glance, but said nothing as we left the hotel, got into Jack’s hire car, and set off across Hartford. It was a Friday, and traffic was busy. The endless stop-starting made my stomach heave and even behind my dark glasses my eyes smarted from the sun.
Jack checked us into the new hotel, another big, faceless chain, while I hung grimly onto the counter and tried not to throw up.
‘Here.’ Jack threw a little box at me when we were in the room, and after I’d picked it up from the floor (okay, so I can’t catch. So what) I realised it was a hangover remedy. Paracetamol and Pepto-Bismol and lots of lovely, stomach-settling chemicals.
‘You’re a saint,’ I croaked, tipping a load of it down my throat and locking myself in the bathroom to take a very long power shower and tell myself I wasn’t going to die.
Being clean and moisturised made me feel a bit better – at least I didn’t stink of Jack’s cigarettes any more. I hung last night’s clothes over some bathwater scented with shampoo and zipped myself into a dress, tights, shoes and coat. I made myself up and styled my hair as well as I could, and eventually emerged to meet Jack, who had long ago changed into a suit and was reading a newspaper, looking bored.
He ran his eyes over me, and seemed to be impressed. I struck a pose.
‘Amazing what make-up can do,’ he said, and I scowled.
‘Are we going to Irene’s house?’
‘Yep.’ He picked up my gun brace and fastened it over his shoulders.
‘Hey!’
‘What?’
‘That’s my gun. Give it here.’
‘Nope. What happened to mine?’
‘A friend is looking after it,’ I said.
‘Your boyfriend?’
‘No. He’s got plenty of his own. Give it back.’
Jack shook his head at me and said, ‘Look, don’t argue. Just come on.’
I sulked and looked out of the window on the way over to Irene Shepherd’s expensive neighbourhood. The late judge’s house was on a wide avenue with well-tended lawns and locked gates. Jack drove up to number 2455, wound down the window and pressed the button on the intercom.
‘Fancy,’ I said.
Jack ignored me. ‘Hello,’ he said pleasantly when a crackly voice answered. ‘My name is Detective Laurence Danson. I’m here to talk to you about Judge Shepherd?’
American accent. Pretty flawless, too.
There was a pause, then we were buzzed through.
‘Laurence Danson?’ I asked, as we went through the electric gates.
‘That’s what it says on my badge.’
‘What badge?’
Jack grinned. ‘The one in my wallet.’
‘And why do you have a police badge in your wallet?’
He raised an eyebrow, and I realised. ‘You stole a cop’s wallet?’
Jack looked smug.
‘You stole a cop’s wallet?’
‘I didn’t know he was a cop when I took it. He was in plainclothes.’
‘Jesus.’ I slumped in my seat. ‘Oh Jesus.’
‘He won’t help you.’
‘As if we weren’t in enough trouble.’
‘Ah, come on. He won’t miss it. He’ll get another one. I picked it up at JFK. Doubtful anyone around here will have a clue it’s nicked. Do you have a badge or anything on you?’
‘I still have my SO17 ID –’
‘Perfect.’
‘But it’s out of date …’
‘You’re not going to be showing it her long enough for her to see the date.’
‘Her?’
‘The maid. Consuela Sanchez.’
We pulled up in front of the house and rang the doorbell. It was opened by a middle-aged woman in an apron. Her dark hair was pulled back in a bun and she looked suspicious.
‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Sanchez?’ Jack’s accent was back. ‘Detective Danson, homicide.’ He showed her the badge in his stolen wallet – his finger, I noticed, obscuring the photo – and she glanced at me.
‘Alice Robinson.’ I flashed my ID very quickly. ‘Department of … Investigation.’ Crap. Should have thought about that in advance. I hadn’t realised until I opened my mouth that I was going to be affecting an American accent either. I really wasn’t sure how convincing it was.
Sanchez opened the door wider and stepped back to let us in.
‘I tell you what I tell all the others,’ she said with a strong accent, as she led us down the hallway towards a large living room. ‘I don’t know who did it. The police say they have a suspect but I don’t know why he kill her.’
‘We need to know exactly how and where you found her,’ Jack said.
‘Didn’t you look at the reports?’
‘Yes, but I need to see for myself.’
Sanchez shrugged, and took us back out into the hallway and up the extravagant Twelve-Oaks-style staircase to a pink-carpeted landing. The walls were striped with pink and white and the drapes were pink and mauve. I pressed my hand to my forehead. This was not good on hungover eyeballs.
‘I find her in here,’ Consuela Sanchez said, gesturing to an office full of boxes. ‘They come for all her paperwork, soon they say. But I have boxes and boxes of it to keep clean. Is not easy.’
‘Where exactly was she?’ Jack asked.
‘Sitting in her chair with her head on the desk.’
‘Shot from behind?’ I asked, and Sanchez looked up. ‘I haven’t seen any reports yet,’ I improvised, ‘I’ve only just flown in. Could you excuse us? I need to talk to my colleague.’
Grumpily, she left the room, and I closed the door.
‘Shot from behind at her desk,’ I said. ‘Pretty cut and dried.’ I walked over to the desk and could see, under the boxes, a bloodstained blotter. ‘Did you come up here when you came to see her?’
‘Who cares about that?’ Jack was staring at me. ‘That’s the worst accent I’ve ever heard.’
I scowled at him. ‘I didn’t want her to know I’m English.’
‘You sound like you have special needs,’ he said.
‘Oh, like you’re perfect,’ I said, despite that his accent damn well was. ‘And concentrate. Did you come
up here when you visited?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you come to see her?’ I asked, overwhelmed with curiosity.
‘Tracing a skip.’
‘All the way up here?’
‘He came from here. She set bail on him.’
‘Did you find him?’
Jack gave me a steady look. ‘No, but then I was on the run.’
Fair enough.
‘Consuela doesn’t recognise you.’
‘She wasn’t here. Already left for the night, I guess.’
‘How did the cameras have you going in and out?’ I asked. ‘I mean, aren’t there timers on those things?’
‘Yeah, but you can mess ’em around. I’d been here earlier, remember? Someone just probably messed with the loop,’ he murmured, looking out of the window. ‘Those front gates are electric,’ he said.
‘Yeah, and …?’
‘I mean they’ll shock you if you get too close.’
I joined him at the window and looked out over the pleasant back garden. There was spiky wire along the top of all the fences.
‘The whole place is wired,’ I said. ‘Someone must have found a weak spot …’
‘Or switched the power off. In the middle of the night, on her own, Shepherd wouldn’t have noticed.’
‘That the house was in darkness?’
‘Probably a separate circuit.’
‘But surely you must need to get in to switch the power off? And what about the security company? Aren’t these things usually run remotely?’
Jack nodded. ‘If it just went out for a short while they probably wouldn’t have bothered. We’ll check the garden,’ he said.
The garden was huge and the electric fence ran all the way around the outside, occasionally hidden by hedges. It was all in good shape, and we tested it all the way around with a stick. No weak spots.
‘They patched it up.’ Consuela’s voice came from behind us, and I jumped.
‘Patched what up?’
‘Where he got in. There was a dead dog on the fence to hold it down.’ She pointed to a shiny new bit of fencing. ‘So he wouldn’t electrocute himself when he climb over.’
Clever. Gross, but clever.
‘Were the door locks tampered with?’ I asked, remembering to try the accent again. Come on, Sophie, how much American TV do you watch? This shouldn’t be hard! ‘Had they been forced?’