Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

‘So what changed?’

  ‘Difficult to say. It started in our late teens.’

  ‘Do you keep secrets from each other?’ Like seducing an impressionable boy, he thought silently. Like murder?

  ‘Of course. Sisters always keep secrets from each other, no matter how close they are. Sisters are genetically predisposed that way.’ Minnaloushe wrinkled her nose. ‘We still have wildly divergent interests and ideas, you know. And we still like nothing better than to argue with one another. But now we tend to look on each other’s idiosyncrasies with tolerance and’—she threw a laughing glance at her sister—‘pity. But, seriously, we’re watching out for each other now. We worry for each other. I certainly worry for Morrighan when she’s out on one of her environmental crusades.’

  Gabriel turned to Morrighan. ‘What was the toughest assignment you’ve ever had?’

  She put her head to one side, considering. ‘Probably the time I spent two months in a tent on Egg Island in the Arctic. The weather was atrocious and it was just me and one other girl and our desktop and digital camera.’

  ‘What were you doing out there?’

  ‘Recording violations by companies drilling for oil.’

  ‘Were you successful?’

  ‘Absolutely. Based on the evidence we gathered, one of the companies was fined very substantially. But it was a tough gig.’

  ‘It was a foolish gig.’ Minnaloushe’s voice was low. ‘Morrighan almost died. She was rigging something on a platform and fell and broke her spine. She was paralysed for weeks. It took months of physio work before she was back on her feet again. She practically lived in the swimming pool.’

  Gabriel glanced out of the window, his eyes drifting to the far end of the garden. The light streaming from inside the house was strong enough to illuminate the brick apron of the pool and the black water, and next to it the humpbacked tree, its fiery flowers colourless against the night sky.

  He felt a chill touch his heart. The water seemed murky in the near darkness. For a fleeting moment he thought back to the ride and remembered how cold the water had felt against his skin. How exhausted and sluggish his limbs. And then his head being pushed under the surface and his lungs exploding in pain…

  He looked back at Morrighan. ‘The therapy obviously worked.’

  ‘I was lucky.’

  Minnaloushe said fondly, ‘It was more than luck. It was willpower. Morrighan is nothing if not tenacious. She never gives up.’

  He could believe that, Gabriel thought. Morrighan’s femininity was unmistakable but there was steel underneath the loveliness. For a moment he remembered the jump they had made together. The feel of her body against his. That look of almost pained ecstasy on her face. The utter fearlessness with which she had tumbled out into space.

  He looked up and straight into those remarkable blue eyes. Their impact was like a small electric current running through his body. Can she tell what I’m thinking?

  Morrighan blinked. Turning her head deliberately in the direction of her sister, she said, ‘Don’t be fooled by Minnaloushe, Gabriel. She’s far tougher than I am. Her way of approaching things is different from mine, of course. I tend to go straight for the jugular whereas Minnaloushe is more circumspect. But she can be relentless, believe me.’

  Gabriel glanced at Minnaloushe, who was listening with a quizzical expression. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Definitely. And she has more courage than I have. Just think about her modelling at the Wine of Life Society. If that’s not heroic I don’t know what is.’

  Minnaloushe’s lips twitched. ‘The men are very professional. The leering is kept to a minimum.’

  Gabriel looked at her directly. ‘Why do it? Not for the money, you said.’

  ‘And not because I’m a narcissist either, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ She twisted a strand of silky red hair round one finger. ‘It’s an exercise in concentration. If I manage to keep my concentration with all those eyes on me, it strengthens my mind. Toughens the brain. To maintain inner stillness when you find yourself in such a vulnerable position requires discipline, believe me.’

  He did believe her, although it still sounded to him a damned weird way to sharpen up one’s concentration skills. Hadn’t she heard of chess? Crossword puzzles? Buddhist zazen?

  ‘So what do you think of when you’re sitting there on the dais? Do you make shopping lists in your head? Count sheep?’

  She smiled again. And for the first time that evening there was something in her smile he didn’t understand. Something secretive. ‘No. I can safely say I’m not counting sheep.’ She glanced at her watch and her voice became practical. ‘That lamb should be just about ready.’

  ‘OK, let’s get started.’ Morrighan got to her feet. ‘Gabriel, why don’t you come through to the dining room? We’ll join you in a minute.’

  She looked at him expectantly, waiting to usher him through. He followed reluctantly. He had hoped they would leave him alone in the living room while they dished up. It might have given him just enough time to install the keylogger inside the keyboard of the computer.

  The idea that one of the sisters could be a killer was beginning to seem more far-fetched by the minute, though. Sure, they were not predictable women. And they led rather unconventional lives. But these could hardly be considered indications of a murderous mind. Did one of them really kill Robert Whittington? Drown him? He could almost convince himself it was all a mistake. That he had misinterpreted that first ride. That it was not a death he had lived through. Almost… He glanced out of the window once more at the pool of water gleaming darkly in the far corner of the garden.

  Entering the dining room, he sat down on one of the high-backed chairs. The last time he had visited, he had thought the dining room gloomy and stolid with its heavy pieces of mahogany, but tonight the room was transformed. The crisp white linen on the refectory table, the gleaming cutlery and the graceful candelabra were formal but festive.

  And Morrighan had not been exaggerating when she said they were good cooks. The food was excellent. Against his better judgement, he was starting to relax. He was enjoying himself. This was turning out to be a very pleasant evening indeed. And it was as though time had slowed down inside that room, making everything seem dreamlike. Or maybe it was just that he was drinking a little too much. Morrighan kept refilling his wine glass and the atmosphere was so convivial he had difficulty refusing.

  ‘How long have you lived in this house?’ he asked her as she set down his dessert plate in front of him: lemon tart with what looked like pistachio ice cream.

  ‘It’s been in our family for many years. We grew up here. I was even born in this house. Of course, in many ways a modern flat would be much more practical.’ She sighed. ‘The upkeep of this place is horrendous. The plumbing is vintage. When it rains, the roof always leaks when the wind blows south. Still, I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.’

  ‘Nor me.’ Minnaloushe nodded her head emphatically. ‘This is home.’ She brushed a stray tendril back from her face and for a moment he was distracted. What amazing hair. In certain lights it looked like gold; then she’d move her head and the colour would change to rose madder.

  Morrighan placed her elbow on the table and looked at Gabriel, chin in hand. ‘What about you, Gabriel? Where’s home for you?’

  ‘I grew up in Bristol, if that’s what you mean. But I haven’t been back in many years. So I suppose the answer to your question is London.’ He took a bite of his lemon tart.

  ‘And London is probably a better stomping ground for a thief, I would have thought.’

  He looked up quickly. But there was no disapproval in her voice.

  ‘Tell us about it.’ She fixed her extraordinary eyes on him. ‘What’s it like to be a thief?’

  He hesitated.

  ‘We won’t judge.’ She held up one slender hand as if taking an oath. ‘So don’t be shy.’

  He decided to be flippant. ‘Let’s just say stealing beats working.’

&nbs
p; ‘Why information?’ Minnaloushe’s voice was equally light.

  ‘Information is what makes the world go round.’

  ‘I thought it was love.’

  ‘Sadly, no.’ He shrugged. ‘Bits and bytes and data is where it’s at.’

  ‘How romantic.’

  ‘For some people it can be. Not to mention addictive. Information is the cocaine of the twenty-first century. More seductive than money, more addictive than sex.’

  ‘Are you? Addicted?’

  ‘Probably. But I’m never sentimental about information. Not like my friend Isidore who thinks information should be like oxygen. Free—out there—belonging to no one and everyone. Uncorrupted by issues such as profit and ownership.’

  ‘Your friend sounds interesting. I think I’d like to meet him.’ This was Morrighan.

  Gabriel grinned inwardly. Isidore had trouble keeping his cool around women. Gabriel had been surprised by how much at ease his friend had been when he was introduced to Frankie for the first time, but then Frankie had that effect on people. They always felt as though they had known her for years and would open up to her in the most amazing fashion. It had stood her in good stead during her time at Eyestorm. These two, on the other hand, would have poor Isidore reduced to tongue-tied incoherence in the time it takes to say ‘Linux’.

  ‘Well…’ For just a second Minnaloushe’s eyes met Morrighan’s and that mental acknowledgement he had noticed the last time he had seen the sisters together crossed between them. But it was over so quickly, he could have imagined it. Minnaloushe looked back at him. ‘Time for coffee, I think. And what about a brandy, Gabriel?’

  ‘A brandy would be great, thanks.’

  ‘Good. Let’s go back to the drawing room. Sis, will you take care of the coffee?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Gabriel pushed his chair back. ‘Let me help you clear the table.’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Morrighan was firm. ‘But thanks for offering. Maybe next time.’

  So there was to be a next time. Way to go, Blackstone.

  But as he followed Minnaloushe into the living room, his eyes fell on the two computers and he experienced a slight feeling of shock. He had almost forgotten what he came here for. He still needed to install the keylogger. But how?

  Unexpectedly, he was given the opportunity. Minnaloushe was just handing him his brandy when the phone rang in the hallway.

  ‘Excuse me.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I need to get that.’

  He waited until she had disappeared into the hallway and then moved quickly over to the computers. He ignored the laptop, which was connected to a modem. Isidore’s virus would take care of that one. He turned his attention to the desktop, which was not connected to the Internet. It was switched off, the screen black. But that did not concern him. He was interested in the keyboard only. He glanced at his watch. Three minutes to eleven o’clock.

  Turning the keyboard over, he examined the three tiny screws that held it together. As he would not be able to simply plug the logger into a porthole, he would have to open up the keyboard in order to slip in his little spy. Some keyboards were held together by plastic plugs that could be popped out, but from his first visit to the house he knew this one was not so accommodating. He had come prepared: before setting out for Monk House he had slipped a small power screwdriver into his jacket pocket. And he had practised this afternoon as well, opening and closing keyboards and timing himself.

  He started work on the first screw, forcing himself to keep his eyes on his hands, even though the compulsive urge to glance at the door leading to the hallway and the one giving access to the dining room was strong. But he could hear Minnaloushe’s voice as she talked on the phone and from the direction of the kitchen came the clatter of crockery.

  The first screw was out. He placed it carefully to one side and inserted the point of the screwdriver into the head of the second tiny screw. His hands were sweaty and the screwdriver slipped slightly in his palm, causing his heart to miss a beat.

  Calm down. Concentrate. In the hallway, Minnaloushe was laughing.

  He cursed the candles. They made a great atmosphere but provided poor light to work by. He deliberately slowed his movements. If one of these screws fell to the ground, it would be impossible to find it in the shadows. The image of himself on hands and knees, wildly searching for a screw only millimetres long, crossed his mind and he swallowed hard.

  Before tonight he had considered simply substituting the old keyboard with a completely new one, the keylogger gadgetry already installed. It would have saved him having to mess around with fiddly little screws and it was a trick he had used before. He had a variety of used, deliberately dirtied ones of all different makes and sizes at home and usually the targets never even noticed that their keyboard had been replaced by another. But he had decided against it. The sisters were too observant. The feel of the substitute—the resistance of the keys and their texture—might be just slightly different. They would pick it up.

  Two down. One to go. It was quiet in the hallway. He glanced nervously at the door. Was she on her way? But then the wispy voice started talking again.

  A breeze stirred gently in the garden, lifting the curtain at the window. The third screw was already slightly loose and he was able to remove it at speed. Great. He carefully separated the two leaves of the keyboard before taking out the small oblong tin from his inside pocket. He opened it.

  The logger looked like a shiny steel button. As he placed it in his palm, it flashed silver in the gloom. A tiny spy with an electronic heart, the most sophisticated he had ever worked with. No files to install. No giveaway signs of log files or processes running at operating-system level. Undetectable by software. And no clumsy cables either. It would be totally invisible. In a few days’ time, he’d come back to retrieve it and the keystrokes it had recorded should allow him to crack the password of The Promethean Key.

  As he expected, installing the logger was the quickest part of the operation. And replacing the screws was easier than removing them. He sneaked a look at his watch: eleven o’clock exactly. It had taken him three minutes flat. So far, so good.

  But as he was tightening the third screw, he thought he detected from the corner of his eye movement in the near corner of the room.

  He turned his head and squinted. Nothing. Only the shadowy flicker of the candles against the wall.

  He turned away, but there it was again and this time he caught it. It was his old nemesis: Bruno, the demon cat. As if in sympathetic reaction, the scratch on his wrist, which had scabbed over, started to itch.

  The cat stared at him, back arched. Then it jumped with feline grace onto the seat of the wing-backed leather chair, the chair he had sat in earlier that evening, as though daring him to claim it again.

  The sound of cups rattling in their saucers shocked him into awareness. Shit. Morrighan had left the kitchen and was in the dining room. Her shadow was already at the door. He dropped the screwdriver into his pocket and pushed the keyboard back into place. Somehow he managed to put six feet between himself and the computer before Morrighan entered the room, in her hands a tray bearing a cafetière, cups and a plate of biscotti.

  ‘Let me help you with that.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She relinquished the tray. ‘I see Bruno has taken over your chair.’

  ‘Well, he looked so comfortable; I didn’t want to disturb him.’ In fact, the cat did not look comfortable at all. It was still standing on tiptoe on the seat of the chair like a nervous ballerina, narrow eyes fixed on Gabriel with chilling intensity.

  Morrighan leaned down and scooped the cat into her arms. ‘Hey, you,’ she said and buried her face in its fur. ‘Where are your manners?’ Bruno meekly placed his chin on her shoulder but his tail was swishing.

  Minnaloushe walked hastily into the room. ‘Sorry, you two. That was Katrina,’ she said to Morrighan by way of explanation. ‘You know what she’s like. You simply can’t get her off the phone.’
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  Morrighan set Bruno gently on the ground. Kneeling down in front of the coffee table, she started pouring coffee into one of the cups. ‘Gabriel, biscotti? And you haven’t had any of your brandy yet.’

  He sat down in his chair again, Bruno having mercifully disappeared behind the sofa, and picked up the big-bottomed glass. The adrenaline that had poured through his body while he was working on the keyboard was starting to subside and in its place was that heady mixture of relief and satisfaction he always experienced after pulling off a job without being caught. Face it: he liked the rush. He looked past Morrighan to where the computer stood on the table, keyboard neatly centred in front of the screen. Good work. He really had to give himself credit. Three minutes was just about a personal best.

  He relaxed deeper into his chair. Minnaloushe was busy at the music system, slipping a CD into the player. As the first notes filled the air, he recognised the music. Tchaikovsky. ‘Andante cantabile’, string quartet no. 1, opus 11. The soaring violin notes almost unbearably poignant.

  Minnaloushe sat down on the sofa and picked up her brandy glass. ‘Here’s to the future.’

  ‘And to new friends,’ Gabriel added expansively and raised his glass. The gleam of the candle flames filtered through the amber-coloured brandy, making it appear as though the liquid was magically glowing.

  ‘New friends,’ the women repeated in unison.

  They smiled at him and their smiles were full of promise. Their eyes looked like jewels. Morrighan lifted her glass once more in a final toast:

  ‘To us. To getting to know one another…’

  Entry Date: 9 July

  G. surprised me tonight. Behind the carefully crafted smile lies something quite disturbing. A coolness. A cruelty. Sometimes I glimpse it in his eyes. He does not realise it himself, I think. There is no sense that this quality is cultivated—it is more a kind of unconscious power. Dangerous. Very sexy. This guy comes from deep within the forest of a woman’s fantasies.

  Only once before have I encountered someone like him: a man who gave the same impression of lazy ruthlessness. And maybe my memory of him is no longer accurate. I was only thirteen years old, after all.