Part 19 (2/2)

Sally got to her feet and went to the Welsh dresser. She took a small key from her pocket, unlocked a drawer and took out a tin, which she opened and carried to the table. It contained an a.s.sortment of objects: some photos; David Goldrab's signet ring with the four diamonds and the emerald one diamond for every million he'd made in profit, the emerald for when he'd hit five million; the keys to his house, bristling with electronic fobs, two solid gold dice hanging from the ring; and five teeth. Steve had chosen the ones that were the most distinctive and had been the most visible in the photos: two incisors, which were filled with white composite, and another three, all molars, with gold fillings across the crowns. Their fine sharp roots were dull and brown with blood. 'I can't keep these things here any longer. You never know, with Millie in the house.'

'I'll find somewhere to hide them. Somewhere safe.'

'Are we ... going ahead? You know, with-' She bit her tongue. She'd nearly said Mooney. 'With the people in London.'

'I'm seeing them tomorrow. Then it will all be sorted.' He looked at the date on his watch. 'I was supposed to be coming home from America today.'

'I know.'

'I'm still going to have to make that trip. And soon. I've postponed it once, but I can't again. I've got to keep going on with my life. We both do. We have to behave as if it never happened.'

'Yes.' Sally nodded. 'I know that too. It's OK.' She pushed her chair back, got to her feet and began pulling on the HomeMaids tabard. When David had hired her, he'd asked the agency to adjust the days she and the Polish girls went in. Today was the day the management had chosen. There had been nothing in the news about David Goldrab, so she knew she had to go along to Lightpil House as if nothing had happened. If she cancelled, or did anything out of the ordinary, the police would be bound to turn their attention to her. The slight bruise on her cheek left from David pus.h.i.+ng her into the boot lid had already disappeared. Really, there was no excuse now. 'You go to America. I'll be OK.'

'Sally?'

She looked up. 'What?'

'You know it's all going to work itself out?' In the morning light Steve's face was older. His beard coming through made him look as if he'd lived a hard life for many years. 'Don't you?'

'Is it?'

'You made the best of a bad situation. And there isn't going to be some sort of divine retribution for it. You won't get punished. Do you believe me?'

She closed her eyes. Then opened them slowly. 'Maybe,' she said. 'Maybe.'

7.

The moment Zoe crested the horizon on the lane at Lightpil House she knew Jacqui had been right and that something along the line had changed seriously for the London boy who'd come out west in the 1990s. The house on the other side of the wall looked more like a Mediterranean palace than anything else, with its white walls and bal.u.s.traded terrace basking in the sun. David Goldrab must have discovered someone in Bath's Planning Department on his p.o.r.n mailing list to have got Lightpil House through the application. It was horrific. Truly horrific.

She slowed about twenty yards from the front gates, pulled the Mondeo into a small layby and studied her reflection in the mirror on the sun visor. If he was at home he would never recognize her after all these years. But he might recall the name Zoe Benedict. In her pocket she had her own police warrant card, but there was a second one too, with the name Evie Nichols on it. She'd found it years ago, kicked under a table at a riotous police party. She should have done the right thing and given it back, but she hadn't: she'd kept it all these years, sure one day it would come in handy. Anyway, she told herself, she was fairly sure she wasn't going to need it. If phone calls were going unanswered Goldrab probably wasn't there. Even so, she was shaking as she nosed the Mondeo forward to the gate, leaned out and pressed the buzzer.

No one answered. She waited two minutes, then rang again. When still no one answered, she parked the car on the side of the lane and wandered along the perimeter fence until she found a gap in the hedge. She squeezed through, emerging in the garden, and stood on the lawn, brus.h.i.+ng off her clothes, looking up at the house with its enormous windows and gla.s.s atrium. Lorne, she thought, did you ever stand in this garden? Or on that patio? Or behind one of those windows? Wouldn't it be something if your life turned out to have this in common with mine, as well as all the rest?

She went silently up the steps on to the huge sandstone terrace, and wandered along the back of the house, peering into the two-storey conservatory at the tall palms and the wicker furniture. The place was flooded with sunlight. She put a hand against the window to shade her eyes, and saw the filaments of the halogen lamps all lit, a newspaper discarded on one of the cus.h.i.+ons. A little bud of curiosity opened in her. She went to the gla.s.s door and tried it. It was unlocked. She put her head inside, looking up at the gla.s.s ceiling, waiting for the familiar beep-beep-beep of an alarm system. But there was nothing.

'h.e.l.lo?' she called. 'Anyone home?'

Silence. She sniffed. The air was stale and the house was hot, as if the heating had been left on. There was condensation on the ceiling panes of the atrium. Missing, huh? Missing? She ferreted around in her pockets and found a pair of latex gloves. Pulled them on and stepped inside, looking around at the huge s.p.a.ce. Amazing, she thought. All this because people liked to watch other people having s.e.x. She went into the huge kitchen and looked at all the gilt and marble and downlighting. Two gla.s.ses sat on the kitchen table, one half full of champagne. There was a half-eaten sandwich on a plate next to the fridge, going hard and grey. In the microwave oven she found a plate of pasta, also dried up and congealed. She opened the fridge and saw a bottle of champagne with no cork in it. She sifted through the other things in there bottles of vitamins, cartons of orange juice, packets of bacon and sausages. There was a marble cheeseboard with four wedges of cheese on it, covered with clingfilm. She picked up a bag of salad and checked the date: 15 May. Yesterday.

'h.e.l.lo?' She stood in the hallway and called up the stairs. 'Mr Goldrab?'

No answer. She went up the marble staircase, her footsteps echoing round the hall, and checked all along the first floor, both wings of the house, opening doors and peering into rooms that looked as if they'd never been set foot in since the day the house was finished. There was a gym, a home cinema, a clawed bath with a tap in the shape of a swan, and a four-poster bed in one room that could have slept ten people. No David Goldrab. Back on the landing she noticed a gla.s.s case standing open, a picture of a night safari in the back of it. Two aluminium arms were mounted in the picture. It was a display cabinet. Empty. Zoe experimentally opened and closed the gla.s.s door, looking at the lock, then at the stand. Whatever was missing from it was important.

She searched downstairs and still found no sign of him. Overlooking the back garden, an office was filled with banks of computers and DVD players all black, red lights blinking from their s.h.i.+ny surfaces. A bespoke bookcase made of a reddish wood, maybe walnut, lined one wall, full of photos. There were two computers, each with a light on. When she touched the mouse of the first, the screen came to life. A spreadsheet with figures entered in three columns. The second PC also sprang to life with a quick nudge. This one showed an array of video icons. She peered at the t.i.tles: Bukkake in Gateshead Bukkake in Gateshead; Bukkake in Mayfair Bukkake in Mayfair. Bukkake like Jacqui had said. Christ, she thought. Lorne, if I see your face in any of these, I promise I'll find a way to keep it secret.

She closed the blinds, sat down in the swivel chair, and began opening files, watching them with her elbows planted on the desk, her mouth tight. Jacqui had been right about how nasty bukkake was. None of it actually broke any laws that she could think of, but it was pretty disgusting nonetheless, and Zoe had a high threshold for things like this. She truly, truly hoped she wasn't going to see Lorne staring back at her from the floor of one of these bear-pits.

She was concentrating so hard on the faces of the girls that it wasn't until the third video that she recognized the male star of the show. Jake the Peg. Jake the Peg! G.o.d, she thought, she could be as dumb as a bag of hammers sometimes. The whole station had been wondering how Jake had sharpened up his act lately knowing he had to be up to something more than just dealing to the schoolkids. But a p.o.r.n star? Old Peggie? No one had guessed that one. And no one would have guessed how he'd got his nickname. She gave a small, dry laugh. 'So, Peggie,' she murmured, looking at the screen, 'that's your secret.' Christ, the world was a screwy place. your secret.' Christ, the world was a screwy place.

Zoe spent two hours going through the hard drives with a fine-tooth comb and by the end of it she was about 99.9 per cent sure Lorne wasn't in the videos. The faces of one or two actresses who'd made brief appearances weren't completely distinct. She made notes of the frames they appeared in. The girls weren't blonde, like Lorne, but she could have been wearing a wig. When someone from HQ came over to pick up the computers Zoe'd ask for those faces to be enhanced. She pushed the keyboard away and gave the swivel chair a push with her foot, making it twirl. The bookcases sped by, then the window, with a view over the lawns, the swimming-pool and the trees outside. All the DVDs and the computers.

She brought the chair to a stop. Folded her arms and sat there, considering this situation. Half-eaten food? A computer like this left on standby with all the sensitive s.h.i.+t on it? Doors unlocked? Lights on and phone calls not answered? She didn't know, just didn't know, but if it wasn't too good to be true, just too d.a.m.ned convenient for words, then the cop in Zoe would have guessed that Mr Goldrab, the only man who could link her back to that Bristol club, was no longer alive.

8.

Even though their hours at David's had been cut, the Polish girls were in a good mood that morning. Marysieka was going on holiday with her bus driver boyfriend next week, and Danuta had met a nice Englishman in Back to Mine, a nightclub in the centre of Bath. He was tall and he had plenty of ... She rubbed her fingers together. 'If you got that,' she told Sally, on the back seat, 'then you don't gotta have that.' She held her hands apart about nine inches, then shortened the distance to two inches. 'It don't matter.' Next to her Marysieka let out a howl of laughter and banged the steering-wheel with the palm of her hand. 'It really don't matter!' She laughed. 'Don't matter if you got a c.o.c.ktail sausage down there.'

The sun was high in the sky when they arrived at Lightpil House. They stopped the little pink Smart car in the gravel car park at the foot of the estate. Sally couldn't take her eyes off the ground. But there was no blood left, no stain. Nothing. She got out and gazed up at the house. The place seemed much quieter than usual but, of course, that was because she knew. She followed the other women up the path. Danuta had taken off her high heels and put them in her cleaning kit so she could walk barefoot. Everywhere flowers were coming out the fluffy purple b.a.l.l.s of allium, and already some bleeding hearts, their white drooping flowers like little bells. You'd never guess what had happened here. It would be the last thing you'd picture.

The utility-room door stood open, as it often did. They walked in, putting down their cleaning kits. The place was exactly as Sally had left it. Maybe cobwebs were already forming, growing on the ornate wall lamps, maybe dust was settling on the surfaces, the computers and huge TVs, but it all looked exactly the way it had been. The champagne gla.s.ses were still on the table where David and Jake had sat drinking.

'No list,' Danuta said, lifting a couple of newspapers and checking under them. 'b.l.o.o.d.y fat man, you didn't leave a list.'

'Dum-de-dum-de-dah,' Marysieka hummed. She went to the doorway and shouted into the hall, 'Mr Goldrab?'

Silence.

'Mr Goldrab?' She wandered to the bottom of the stairs, pulling on her rubber gloves, looking up to the landing. 'You there?' She waited a moment. When there was no answer she wandered back into the kitchen, shrugging. 'Not here.'

She flicked on the coffee-maker, opened the fridge, got out some milk and filled the frother while Danuta rummaged for mugs. Sally put her kit down and made a play of pulling things out, getting ready for a job that wasn't going to happen. She was concentrating so hard on making it look natural that it took her a moment to realize the girls had gone quiet. They had stopped what they were doing and were standing, hands frozen on milk bottles and coffee cups, their faces turned to the door.

When she turned she saw why. A woman was standing in the doorway. Very tall, dressed in jeans, her red hair loose across her shoulders, a police card thrust out at arm's length. Sally stared at her, her heart doing a low, disorienting swoop in her chest.

There was a moment's silence. Then the woman lowered the card with a frown. 'Sally?' she said. 'Sally?'

9.

'Sally Ca.s.sidy.' Zoe wrote the name. She'd interviewed both the Polish girls already and let them go. Now she and Sally were in her office, the door closed. 'I'm using your married name.'

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