Cold Heart

by Lynda La Plante

  Lorraine held the phone cupped to her shoulder, as she sat on the edge of the desk and took out her cigarettes. ‘Yes, Raymond Vallance showed up here, then shot himself.’

  ‘Good God, not at Sonja’s?’ Feinstein said, stunned.

  ‘No, in the car park of this hotel.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m sorry – I never liked the man.’ Feinstein was silent for a moment, then asked if Lorraine had seen Sonja. She said she had.

  ‘How is she?’ the lawyer asked.

  Lorraine drew an ashtray across the desk. ‘Weird. On the edge.’

  ‘Well, she made it to the finishing tape at least. She’s got the estate in her pocket now. Did you talk to her about the paintings?’

  ‘She says she doesn’t know anything about them. I don’t think she gives much of a damn about the whole thing – it’s her money missing as much as yours, but she just doesn’t seem to care.’

  ‘Yeah, well, if she doesn’t, I do. Haven’t you come up with anything else?’ Feinstein pressed.

  ‘Well, there’s one other thing you might check out – the accounts of the film studio, in case that soaked the money up.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, don’t mention them. I’ve never seen anything like it. The company wasn’t really my department – I handled Harry’s personal affairs – but there was a corporate accountant, total fucking crook,’ Feinstein said loftily, as though his own integrity was beyond question. ‘Plus a show-business lawyer that Nathan used sometimes. We’ve got an auditor in. It’s a mess, but I’ll look into it. Did Sonja tip you off to this other movie scenario?’

  ‘No, the guy she lives with suggested it.’

  ‘You don’t think the two of them are covering their own tracks?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Lorraine thoughtfully. ‘I just don’t know.’

  ‘How long are you planning on staying out there?’ Feinstein asked, in the-meter’s-running fashion.

  ‘I’m coming back tonight,’ Lorraine said, hoping that would make him happy, and thinking again of Jake. ‘I just think this Vallance thing’s suspicious. Everyone connected to Harry Nathan seems to drop dead. I thought I might just call Sonja again.’

  ‘Well, quit thinking and fucking do it,’ Feinstein said. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  When Arthur returned to the house there was no sign of Sonja. His head ached as the hangover kicked in. He felt tired and disoriented, and had woken in a panic, full of the compulsion to rush back to Sonja’s side, make sure she was still there, still okay. Things couldn’t go on this way, he thought. Either there had to be more to their relationship than this babysitting, as she called it, or it would have to end.

  Both kitchen and sitting room were empty, though he noticed that the videos had vanished.

  ‘Sonja?’ he called, as he walked upstairs.

  Her voice floated back. ‘I’m in the bath.’ That was odd, he thought. She didn’t normally bathe during the day, but then, last night had hardly been a normal night.

  ‘May I come in?’ he said. The atmosphere was warm and fragrant with the citrus scent of one of Sonja’s bath essences. He could tell, even before he looked at her, that her mood had lifted. She lay in the pale green water, her long limbs floating, her hair, face and neck all smothered in a layer of some rich turquoise treatment cream. She looked wonderful, he thought, like some richly decorated Egyptian idol.

  She smiled at him. ‘I’m sorry about last night.’ Her eyes were more cat-like than ever, heavy with an expression of deep contentment. God, he thought, she didn’t need him: she had positively restored herself in his absence, seemed happier than she had in weeks. ‘Where did you go?’ she said.

  ‘Into town. I met Mrs Page. She kind of sobered me up. She’s leaving this afternoon.’

  Sonja disappeared under the water for a moment, then sat up and began to rinse the blue cream from her hair and skin. ‘I hope you didn’t say too much to her.’

  ‘No more than you did yesterday, I think,’ Arthur said, with a touch of irritation.

  ‘Oh, Arthur, let’s not start again,’ she said, standing up in the bath to squeeze the water out of her hair. ‘She has no idea that she and I’ve ever met before.’ She swathed herself in a thick white towel and walked into the bedroom. There was some part of Sonja that he could not reach. He had no idea why one day she would be energetic and warm, the next cold and inert. Certainly he had no idea what was responsible for this sunniness, but he decided to postpone the conversation he had meant to have with her about Nathan. How many times had he decided that? he thought wryly.

  The phone rang, and Sonja pulled a face, so Arthur crossed the room and picked it up.

  ‘I’m not in,’ she said, selected a comb and headed back to the bathroom.

  ‘Speaking. Who is this?’ Arthur said, gesturing to Sonja to stay in the room. ‘Ah, you didn’t catch the bus then . . . She’s in the bath – do you want me to pass on a message?’ Sonja tucked the towel more tightly around herself. ‘I’m all ears.’ He sat on the bed, then stood bolt upright. ‘What?’ Sonja moved closer, but Arthur’s attention was focused on the call. ‘My God, I can’t believe it.’ He listened for quite a while, then thanked Lorraine for calling, and replaced the phone.

  ‘Raymond Vallance shot himself. He’s dead.’ He turned to face her. ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  Sonja started to comb her hair. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I know. Vern Muller stopped by earlier and told me.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

  ‘I was going to but you started in on me so quickly about talking to Mrs Page. Is that why she’s still here? Vallance, I mean.’

  ‘I dunno, I suppose so. I think she wanted to speak to you, but she didn’t push it.’

  Well,’ Sonja said, ‘she’s not the police. She has no power to make anybody answer questions.’ That seemed an odd thing to say, Arthur thought, almost as though Sonja were hiding something . . . He rubbed his head, which was throbbing.

  Sonja knelt on the bed close behind him and ran her arms around him, her skin still damp from the bath. ‘Does your head hurt?’ Her voice was gentle, almost seductive.

  ‘Yes.’

  Sonja kissed his neck, then rolled off the bed. ‘I’ll get you some aspirin.’

  He tried to catch her arm, but missed. ‘Vallance didn’t come out here, did he?’ he called after her. She was halfway out of the room and, again, he had the impression that she was avoiding any discussion of Vallance’s death.

  ‘No,’ she said, over her shoulder.

  Arthur got up and followed her out of the door. ‘Sonja,’ he said, ‘stop a minute.’

  ‘Arthur, I’m soaking wet. I’ll just get this and come right back.’

  ‘Sonja, were you here all morning?’

  ‘Of course I was,’ she said, looking him full in the eye. Arthur said nothing. ‘You can ask Muller,’ Sonja continued. ‘He was here within five minutes of Vallance’s death. He called to tell me personally.’

  ‘Sonja,’ Arthur said, ‘Mrs Page said something about Vallance getting some call at the dining table in the Maidstone Arms, just before he died. I don’t suppose he called here, did he?’

  He could see her hesitate between a lie and the truth.

  ‘Well, yes, he did, but I wouldn’t speak to him.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  Sonja shrugged. ‘Just that he wanted to see me, said he wanted to talk about old times.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sonja said, her eyes flashing. ‘That’s all. Now stop the investigation, Sherlock. I’ll go and put some coffee on and if your head still aches . . .’

  ‘Yeah, aspirin urgently required.’ He leaned back across the bed, feeling almost sick with the pain. Raymond Vallance was dead: he still couldn’t believe it – he’d seen the man only that morning. The news shocked him, and he had hardly known Vallance – but Sonja had hardly reacted at all and she had known him for years. He sat up, with a sense of foreboding: what if she had called Vall
ance? What could she have said that would have made him shoot himself?

  Lorraine hung up and eased out from behind the desk. She glanced quickly round the reception area, and could see the manager deep in conversation with the journalist. Shielding with her body what she was doing, she began to flick through the accounts, looking for Vallance’s name, noting that all outgoing calls appeared on the bills. She leaned closer to turn over the pages, but there was nothing under the name Vallance. Lorraine straightened up and was about to go when a computer screen caught her eye. She walked over to it. The cursor was blinking on account ledgers. She entered her own name, and her check-out time, outgoing phone calls and other items on her bill came up on room 5. She moved to room 6, and saw that it had been booked, not in Vallance’s name but in that of Margaretta Forwood. The date of arrival and an intended length of stay of two days had been entered, but a cancellation typed in subsequently, with the booking fee, luncheon, wine and phone calls in a column opposite. There were four calls to LA, one to Chicago, and two local numbers, one of which she recognized immediately. Sonja Nathan’s.

  She heard footsteps behind her, and turned, reaching for her cigarette pack from the desk. ‘Thank you so much, Mr Fischer,’ she said, glancing at his name-badge. ‘I’m sorry to leave my bags for so long and if it’s inconvenient I’ll . . .’

  ‘Not at all. Do you know how long you’ll be here, just in case anyone else should call for you?’

  Lorraine said that she was now intending to take the six o’clock bus into New York.

  ‘I hope you enjoyed your stay with us.’

  ‘I did, very much. It’s been a pretty terrible day for you, though, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, dreadful. It’s tragic, just terrible.’

  ‘How is his companion?’ Lorraine asked, assuming a look of sincere concern.

  The man sucked in his breath. ‘Well, the poor woman is distraught – he didn’t leave a note. They had just decided not to stay over. Mrs Forwood had gone to the bar and their cases were being brought down. Mr Vallance walked past me, and I think he smiled – I know I acknowledged him, because I recall seeing him coming down the stairs. He didn’t appear to be in a hurry, very casual, and he left the hotel.’

  ‘How long after that was the body found?’

  He blinked rapidly. ‘I can’t be too sure, not long. Mrs Forwood was just leaving, and next minute we heard this screaming.’

  ‘You didn’t hear any gunshot?’

  ‘No, nothing. Everything’s pretty confused – the shock, I suppose – but I ran out to the car park. She was hysterical, couldn’t speak, just screamed and screamed, and then I saw him. The gun was in his hand, but he was sitting upright.’

  He was interrupted by the telephone and excused himself to take the call. Lorraine waited, but another phone rang, and then another, lights blinking on the board. She walked out, hearing him refuse to comment on the day’s events.

  Lorraine made her way into the bar. The crowd had thinned, and a stool was vacant at the far side. She ordered a Coke and lit another cigarette, discreetly eavesdropping on conversations which all centred on the suicide of Raymond Vallance.

  Carina, the pretty blonde, now came on duty. She no longer seemed upset, if anything rather enjoying the notoriety of having served Vallance and his lady-friend their luncheon. ‘He was so charming. I was asking for an autograph for my mother – she had been such a fan of his – and he was so obliging.’ Lorraine stubbed out her cigarette, unable to repress a small smile: poor Vallance – the last thing he would have wanted to hear from an attractive young girl was that she wanted an autograph for her mother. The girl went on, ‘They’d finished eating and were just having a Madeira when he left the table and said he had to call his agent. He was here for a big movie – that’s what he told us, wasn’t it?’ The barman nodded, polishing a champagne flute. ‘It was going to be shot here, that’s what he said.’

  ‘Well, he certainly got shot,’ said a man with bushy eyebrows, and there were a few guffaws, but even more murmurs of disapproval at the joke, and he apologized. Lorraine wished he would be quiet, as she was trying to hear the rest of what Carina had to say, but the girl was called out into Reception.

  Lorraine followed and saw her go into the office. The phone was ringing constantly and the manager was clearly at his wit’s end. He covered the receiver and told Carina to get someone to help him. Carina nodded, and turned back, almost bumping into Lorraine.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Lorraine asked, with a show of concern. ‘It must have been dreadful for you. You found him, didn’t you?’

  The girl was clearly happy to talk. ‘No, I didn’t, but I served him lunch.’

  Lorraine waited while she was told the entire story about how Carina had asked for his autograph for her mother. ‘Did he have any calls?’

  ‘Yes. He got up from the table either to go and call someone, or I think there was a call for him.’ She sighed, and tears welled up in her wide blue eyes.

  Lorraine gave a brittle smile. ‘But at least your mother has his autograph, and it’ll be of considerable interest now – the last one he ever gave!’

  Carina blinked, aware of the sarcasm, then hurried into the bar.

  Lorraine decided to screw subtlety, and went into the manager’s office. ‘Sorry to bother you again.’

  Fischer looked up, one phone in his hand, a second off the hook in front of him. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Page, but I really am very busy. If you need—’

  She interrupted, ‘I do need something – I want to know who called Mr Vallance. If you don’t have the name, then I would like to see the number.’

  He gaped, then flushed. ‘I’m sorry, that’s private information.’

  ‘I know, and I’m a private investigator.’ She took out her wallet, and showed her ID.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve been instructed by the police not to divulge any information or discuss the incident with anyone.’ Lorraine took out her wallet, and the man stood up, flushing a still deeper pink. ‘Please don’t even consider offering me money.’

  She slipped her wallet back into her purse. Since the direct approach hadn’t worked, she tried another. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m conducting an investigation into the murder of Harry Nathan. Raymond Vallance was his closest friend. I have to report back to LA this evening, and until I have the coroner’s report, I have to consider the possibility that Mr Vallance was also murdered.’

  The manager’s flush drained, leaving his face chalk white.

  ‘I don’t want anyone to know what I’m investigating. I have full co-operation from the East Hampton police, and I’m sure you will assist me.’

  He opened a drawer and took out a sheet of computer printout.

  He looked down at Mrs Forwood’s account, and said that some local calls had been made when Mr Vallance arrived and some to Los Angeles during the early part of the morning. The last call, though, had been on Vallance’s mobile, and the hotel had no way of knowing who or where it came from.

  ‘So, Mr Vallance left the dining room because a call came through?’

  ‘Yes, on the mobile. We don’t allow them in the dining room so he had checked it at the desk. He was speaking to someone on the phone when he went upstairs to his room.’ Lorraine watched while the man went to the computer, and typed the commands for a printout of the Forwood account.

  ‘Has Mrs Forwood left?’ Lorraine asked, as the machine printed.

  Fischer turned back to her, folding the sheet. ‘Yes, she ordered a helicopter to take her to New York. We’re arranging for her car to be returned, after the police get through with it.’

  ‘Did they also remove Mr Vallance’s luggage? You said you were arranging to take it to the car, so it wasn’t in the car already?’

  His mouth opened a fraction, and he frowned. ‘Well, it must be still here, unless . . .’ He walked across the room to a large double-doored cupboard, opened it and looked inside. ‘It’s still here.’

&nb
sp; He took out an old-fashioned pigskin case and matching briefcase. ‘I’d better contact the police. I think the confusion may have been caused by Mrs Forwood because she took hers with her.’

  ‘Could I see it?’ Lorraine asked, stepping forward. Fischer tried to open the case, but it was locked. He set it down and took the briefcase to his desk: Lorraine saw that it fastened with a zipper, had flat, beaten metal handles and two outside pockets – in one of which was a mobile telephone.

  ‘Could I see that?’ She already had her hand out. The manager hesitated, then passed her the phone. She pressed the green power button, then Recall. The telephone bleeped, and Lorraine began to scroll through the digits logged in the memory.

  ‘Should you be doing that?’ Fischer asked nervously.

  ‘It’s all right, I’m not using it to make a call, just checking something.’

  She took out her notebook and jotted down number after number – none she recognized – then tried to bring up the last number dialled, but got a blank screen and a bleep. She noted the make and serial number of the phone, then turned it off. ‘Thank you.’ She handed it back, and the man put it back where he had taken it from.

  ‘Perhaps there’s a note inside the briefcase,’ he said.

  He was now very uneasy, but Lorraine moved quickly to unzip the case. Like the locked suitcase, the briefcase was old and worn, but had been expensive. It opened into two halves and Vallance’s name had been monogrammed on one corner. The compartments on one side contained writing paper and envelopes, some letters held together with a rubber band, a paperback novel, a manicure set, some hotel toiletries, and a Cartier pen. On the other side were three scripts, some flattering publicity photographs of Vallance, some postcards of India and, tucked deep inside, a worn manilla envelope.