by Denise Mina
Dauphine Loire stood there, smiling coldly, dressed in a white wrap dress, patent nude shoes, steel-framed glasses and a silver belt.
‘Hello,’ said Dauphine. ‘Thank you for coming to see us. Come with me, won’t you?’
She turned and walked down the stairs, inviting us to follow with an imperious wave of her hand.
Her accent was no longer Venetian. Now her inflection was fluent Southern Californian. As an observer of accents, she was very good, I’ll give her that.
We followed her down into a large airy room with wall-to-wall cream carpets. There was no one in there, just a big TV on a wall and a giant cream sofa. The far wall was a sheet of glass looking out on to a long stretch of lawn. At the end of the lawn I saw the roof of a glass tourist boat sliding slowly along the Seine.
Dauphine walked over to the right-hand wall, pressed three fingers into a square and a door swung open on the wall. We followed her through it into a stone corridor. It led down and along the back of the house. It must have been subterranean, the geography of the house was quite confusing, but we came through a door into a Victorian sunroom attached to the side of the house. It had been stripped of shelves and seedling pots and redecorated as a sterile space. It was eye-wateringly bright.
And there, in the bright blaze, sitting in the centre of a white-and-yellow-striped sofa, was a small woman in a blue dress, steel-framed glasses, her hair up in a blonde chignon.
She stood to meet us as we came in. Hands clasped in front of her, a signal that she would not be shaking hands.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I am Gretchen Teigler.’
48
WE WERE BEING OFFERED tea and cakes by both Dauphine and Gretchen. Fin said no, that we’d rather just get on with it, thank you. They agreed that yes, tea and cakes would be nice, yes, I’ll call the maid. It was as if they couldn’t hear him speaking. That’s how I knew that they were almost as nervous as we were.
Dauphine pressed a button on an intercom on the wall and told someone to bring tea and macarons.
A voice crackled back, ‘Oui, madame’.
They were dressed alike but there was no physical similarity between them. Dauphine was slim and tall, her legs were long, Gretchen was short and stubby and wide across the hips. Dauphine sat down next to Gretchen and her pose exactly mirrored Gretchen’s. She crossed her legs, clasped her hands around her knees, it was extraordinary to watch her smile and respond to Gretchen’s every gesture, mimicking, reflecting. When Gretchen looked at me, Dauphine followed her gaze to my face and all the Gretchen-inspired warmth drained from her. I could have been a tree or a table.
‘I hear–’ Gretchen’s accent was Californian, her voice soft–‘that you are investigating my husband Leon’s death?’
I nodded.
‘In a “podcast”?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that you actually met him some years ago?’ She seemed to speak exclusively in questions.
I nodded. My mouth was so dry I didn’t trust myself to speak.
‘Well–’ she gave me a cold smile–‘that’s nice.’
We looked at each other, Gretchen Teigler and I. She had done such awful things to me, brutal things, when I was young and vulnerable, but she looked at me unflinchingly. I wondered how she dared. And she kept looking at me, sternly, as if I were the offender of the piece. What mental processes did she use to justify what she had done? I couldn’t imagine.
She seemed to be having similar thoughts about me though because we were glaring at each other now. Dauphine interjected and I knew it wasn’t to spare me. ‘We have crossed paths before, you and I,’ she said. ‘I believe you used to call yourself “Sophie Bukaran”?’
‘I didn’t used to call myself that. It’s my name. People change their names though, don’t they, Dauphine?’
It was as if Dauphine saw me for the first time. She looked at my face, her head tipped, her cheek twitched a curious smile. ‘Huh!’ she said, suddenly interested.
Gretchen was not interested. My teaser didn’t pique her curiosity at all. She just wanted this to be over. Her mouth turned down at the corners. ‘I have someone here who knows you.’
She glanced at Dauphine, nodding an order. Dauphine stood up and pressed the button on the wall again before sitting back down. They looked expectantly at a door in the back wall. I think I knew who was out there. Why wouldn’t they? He was the only person I was scared of.
The door opened and the man stepped into the room, presenting himself to the company. He was big, dressed for a fight, badly scarred on his neck and jaw. I would have known him without the white squares of grafted skin on his cheek and jaw. Dark hair, long lashes, narrow chin. For a moment I was back in my mum’s kitchen, oil spluttering in the pan behind me, flinching from the sight of Patricia’s name on the face of my ringing phone.
I think he expected me to scream or something. He had been waiting for this moment. He had probably thought about me more than I had thought about him. Every time he had an operation, when his scars ached, when anyone flinched at his scars. He had been waiting to meet me again and I spoiled it for him by not reacting at all.
‘Do you know me?’ he said.
‘You’re that oily boy,’ I said and shrugged. ‘So what? Second time lucky?’
He tried a threatening scowl but it didn’t take. What he didn’t know was that I wasn’t going to get scared. I was already scared and had been for a long time. My blank reaction annoyed him. He scanned the room for someone to frighten and saw Fin, skinny, effete. He turned square to him, expecting at least a cower.
But Fin sauntered over to him, stepping protectively in front of me, holding out his hand. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Very nice to meet you. I’m Fin Cohen.’
Perplexed, Scarface smiled and took Fin’s hand, squeezing tight. I noticed he planted his feet carefully, as if he was expecting Fin to try a throw or a punch. But Fin didn’t do any of that. He just shook the man’s hand and stared into his face.
All the women watched them shake hands for too long. It was a peculiar moment but Fin knew what he was doing: he was getting a good, clean look at his face. When Scarface finally realised that there would be no bouts of wrestling or judo, just a whole lot of handshaking, he let go and shuffled back to the wall, cupped his hands in front of himself, waiting.
I said to him, ‘You and Ms Teigler have known each other for a long time. Where did you meet?’
He looked at Gretchen, who gave a non-committal roll of her shoulder. She didn’t really care what anyone said now. We were coming to the end of it.
‘London?’ I said. ‘When the rape case was going on?’
They looked at each other. Gretchen gave a little head shake.
‘The rape case,’ I said. ‘The court case against the men who raped me.’
No one said anything. I could see Gretchen losing patience and squirming. I liked it.
I asked Scarface, ‘Did you kill the other girl and set fire to her house?’
He gave a slow blink.
‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘Let’s assume you killed her after you tried to kill me. Your blood was all over my kitchen, wasn’t it? Bet the police kept some of that.’ I turned to Gretchen. ‘I heard you’re pawning the stadium in Fulham.’
She curled her lip. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She turned towards Scarface, opened her mouth and drew a breath, on the brink of telling him to get me out of here, but was interrupted by the sound of rattling china outside the door.
‘Ah!’ Dauphine clapped her hands together. ‘Tea!’
The maid, it turned out, was the Filipino woman who had opened the front door. She arrived with a tea trolley carrying an elaborate china tea service and a plate of multicoloured macarons, set out in circles of red, green, yellow. I think Gretchen and Dauphine had been on a diet or something because they were mesmerised by the sight of the cakes.
The maid rolled the trolley into the middle of the room, picked up th
e teapot to pour, but was ordered to leave, which she did.
Dauphine stood and poured. Fin and I both realised at the same time that there were only two cups. We were not expected to be here for very much longer.
Fin went for it. ‘We really came here to ask you about the sinking of the Dana, if possible, Ms Teigler. It should only take a few minutes.’
Gretchen looked from the cakes to Fin’s phone in his pocket. ‘You’re not recording this?’
Fin said, ‘There wouldn’t be any point, would there? I think we all know how this ends.’
Gretchen shrugged, dispassionate to the brink of bored.
Fin ploughed on. ‘We all know Amila Fabricase is innocent,’ he said. ‘That someone else was on board the Dana that night and got off. You have the necklace that should have gone down with the ship. That story about it being posted is tissue-thin. There are traces of a Zodiac ripcord in the wreck dive film. We know someone flew Violetta into Saint-Martin, paid for her hotel suite, bought her two dresses in different sizes. There was someone else there and that person cast the Dana off from the dock. They drugged the Parkers and then left on the Zodiac lifeboat before it sank. They had the necklace with them. They couldn’t stand to leave it. But they didn’t keep it. They gave it to you.’
Gretchen gave a sickly smile. ‘You don’t believe in ghosts then?’
Fin gave her one back. ‘You don’t seem very surprised by any of this. I mean–’ He stepped forward and did a strange thing: he picked up a bright green pistachio macaron and took a big bite. ‘Why aren’t you surprised?’ He spluttered bits of green powder on to the floor. ‘You know all of this already, don’t you?’
She gave an incredulous lady laugh from deep in her throat. ‘Whatever can you mean?’
I hated her at this point. I loathed her faux innocence, her decor choices, her bringing Scarface back to frighten me. Leon was no hero but how could he marry her? How could he stand her? Maybe he needed cash to support his families but there must have been less disgusting billionaires in his social circle, someone with a bit of panache or style or a bit of something. Gretchen was revolting.
‘Leon was broke, wasn’t he?’ I said loudly. ‘Did you know that when you married him?’
Gretchen sniffed and pursed her lips. ‘He covered it well.’
‘You were angry when you found out.’
‘Well, I had already married him by then.’
At this point I thought fuck it and stood up to take a raspberry macaron without being offered. ‘But you were angry enough to withdraw all financial support to Julia?’
I took a bite. Christ, it was gorgeous. So sweet and acid, lemon and raspberry, soft and crunchy, that I almost didn’t hear Gretchen mutter, ‘I didn’t withdraw Julia’s financial support.’
She looked at Dauphine who leaned towards her and explained softly, ‘The lawyers had a problem with Julia’s papers. She wouldn’t sign the contract. They’re sorting it out now. It’s just temporary.’
Gretchen grumbled, ‘I didn’t hear anything about that.’
‘They’re sorting it out now.’
Fin said, ‘You could have sent her a suitcase of cash,’ and waved his half-eaten macaron at the fancy room.
Gretchen smiled bitterly. ‘Yes, well, other people’s money is always infinite, isn’t it?’
‘Dauphine is lying,’ I said. ‘It’s not temporary. Julia hasn’t had any support for two years.’
Gretchen frowned, in as much as she was able. ‘What’s she living on?’
‘She’s fine,’ said Dauphine dismissively. ‘She has a house that an old boyfriend lets her live in.’
‘It’s two damp rooms,’ I said.
Dauphine raised a shoulder and told Gretchen, ‘She’s happy there.’
‘No, Julia is not happy there. Julia is dead. She was murdered. Two days ago she was stabbed repeatedly in the chest. She dragged herself ten feet across the room, bleeding out, drowning in her own blood, to get a photograph of Violetta. She was clutching it, face out, on her chest when we found her.’
Gretchen was genuinely shocked. Her hand began to shake. Dauphine put a protective arm around her shoulder. ‘Don’t upset yourself, darling.’
‘Do you feel bad about that?’ I said to Dauphine.
She was wary. ‘Of course. It’s terrible.’
‘No, I mean, just leaving your mother lying there like that? You killed Julia, didn’t you, Violetta?’
Violetta stood up suddenly and her plate crashed to the floor. Her lemon macaron shattered like a yellow dust bomb. She looked at it, moved to say something but stopped. She looked at Gretchen. A warm, loving smile broke out on her face. But this time Gretchen didn’t reciprocate the warmth. She shrank away from her and whispered, ‘What did you do?’
Violetta ignored her and nodded Scarface to me but Gretchen held up a staying hand.
‘Violetta,’ she whispered, ‘what did you do?’
Violetta turned to her and tried the loving smile again. ‘Protecting you, Gretchen, that is all I want to do.’ Her accent was Italian now. She sounded like an off-echo of Julia’s gorgeous drawl.
They looked at each other, Gretchen cowering and horrified by what she had heard, Violetta’s expression happy and loving, like a mother on a Christmas card. Her reaction to Gretchen’s shock was wrong, so wrong that it was clear Violetta was fluently expressing emotions she wasn’t feeling. I remembered the restaurant in Venice, the eerie sense that she could eat soup or stab me in the face and feel nothing much about either.
I carried on, trying not to look straight at Fin. ‘Julia dragged herself across the room to get to a photograph of you. Did you watch her? Did you watch her die? Or were you already busy raking through her belongings, looking for the luggage from Hotel Toraque. You couldn’t believe she still kept the luggage the hotel sent back, could you? She kept it all that time. But you needed it back because it proves Dauphine was there. Her DNA is all over it. It wasn’t even your size. That’s Dauphine’s body rotting in the Dana’s dining room. You got her to take you to Saint-Martin in Gretchen’s plane, to hire the hotel suite for you–’
‘They were great friends!’ said Gretchen.
I couldn’t stop myself. ‘You are a fucking mug, lady! Violetta has been playing you all along. Was Dauphine a bit needy? Was she friendless? Isolated because she worked for you, was she?’
Gretchen flinched.
‘Of course she was. And she was blown sideways when beautiful Violetta wanted to be friends with her. She couldn’t believe it. Violetta made the overtures, didn’t she? We’ve got so much in common! Think about it.’
I could see her rolling through the history, realising how Violetta had played her chubby sidekick Dauphine before she turned all that charm on Gretchen.
‘Violetta, did you pick the dresses and charge them to her? She probably thought it was a friendly gesture. Familial. But she was a size 42, and you’re not.’
‘Look, Dauphine never meant to harm them.’ Gretchen was on her feet. ‘She was a good person. She was a good person.’
‘Dauphine never meant to harm them?’ I couldn’t believe we were back here. ‘What is wrong with you?’
Gretchen was not only fooling herself, she was weeping with the strain of denying it all. ‘Dauphine was so protective of me. Yes, she loved Violetta but she didn’t want me supporting them all. She was worried for me. She went crazy, it was so out of character: she poisoned the champagne. She killed them all. Vio was only trying to protect me.’
‘Why is everyone trying to protect you? You’re a spoiled-shitless billionaire.’
She didn’t like that at all. ‘Yes, Violetta took the Dana out and sank it.
She did it for me and I am grateful. She knew I couldn’t live through another public scandal. I can’t–’ At that Gretchen sank to the sofa, covered her face and sobbed. Violetta sat down next to her, head tilted, rubbing Gretchen’s back sympathetically.
‘Darling, no,’ murmured Violetta, ‘don’
t cry, please. If you cry, I’ll cry, please.’
I watched them and I knew that Gretchen was crying because, deep down, she knew. The real Dauphine didn’t poison anyone. She knew it was all Violetta and she helped to cover that up because it suited her better than confronting Violetta, calling the police, sitting through a tawdry, exposing investigation and a court case that asked humiliating questions about her relationship with Leon, about his money.
I spoke up. ‘None of it was Dauphine. Violetta did it all. You know that.’
Gretchen sobbed louder, trying to drown me out. She cried open-faced, her hands limp on her knees. Violetta leaned towards her, holding her hands, nodding encouragingly. I saw now that Gretchen thought I was victimising her by telling a truth she didn’t want to hear. It made sense of the way she behaved during the rape case and why she felt OK about trying to shut me up. Even now, even after the other girl and her attempts on my life, Gretchen still felt that I was attacking her. Self-pity makes tyrants, it’s the defining characteristic of brutal regimes, but it was more than that with Gretchen. It was laziness too. Violetta suited her, flattered her, coddled her, and Gretchen would harbour Violetta until it no longer served her to do so.
‘Poor Gretchen,’ I said. ‘You won’t get to choose.’
She looked up at me, her face wet and red. ‘Choose?’
‘Choose when it ends. With Violetta. She’ll choose.’
Gretchen looked at Violetta’s hands cupped around hers. ‘I think you should shut up.’
I didn’t. ‘Does your will leave everything to Dauphine?’
Gretchen flinched and shut her eyes. Violetta’s back straightened and she looked at Scarface, trying to catch his eye, but he was looking to Gretchen and didn’t see her. I carried on.
‘Violetta is Dauphine now. You vouched for her, she has Dauphine’s passport, her identity, her life. You know what she’s planning, don’t you?’
Gretchen stood up and snarled at me, ‘You disgust me, you know that? Drunk in a hotel room with four men? What do you expect to happen?’
She was trying to shock me, to stop me saying it out loud, but I’ve heard much worse. ‘She’s going to kill you, you stupid, self-indulgent bitch.’