Cold Shoulder (43 page)

‘And now?’ he asked.

‘Now I just want you to listen — don’t interrupt me, just listen.’

‘Fine.’ He leaned back against the pillows. He was not disgusted by anything she had said — in some ways he didn’t really believe it.

‘The scar on my cheek was a bar-room fight over a bottle of vodka, that’s about as much as I can remember, nothing dramatic, nothing romantic. I got it, I live with it, and I was, so I was told, lucky not to lose the sight of my eye. I was a hooker but who I was with and when I don’t know. I don’t have AIDS, or any venereal disease, just in case you’re freaking out. I had myself checked. There’s a lot of my life I don’t remember. But I do know about this scar, this one at the back of my head, because this is one of the reasons I’m here.’

She was very still, standing like a statue in front of him. She seemed to be watching him for a reaction, some kind of revulsion that would help her continue, but he gave none. Instead he patted the bed, indicating for her to lie beside him, but she shook her head.

‘I used to be a police officer. I was a lieutenant with the LAPD Homicide Unit.’

He half smiled and she glared at him. He lifted his hands in an apologetic gesture. She continued: she was now acting as a paid street informer for Captain Rooney. He had hired her because she knew the girls on the streets and he needed information about the hammer killer. She looked directly at him as he sat up, no longer smiling, but staring at her. Without any emotion she told him about the night she had been attacked, half turning to reveal the scar again. She then told him how she had made an anonymous call to the police describing the man who had attacked her. As she gave Brad the description, she didn’t take her eyes off him. If she had described his brother, he showed not the slightest sign of recognition. She explained how she had taken Hastings’s wallet. She watched him all the time as she told him about Art Mathews, Didi and Nula. He listened in silence. He only became tense when she described the cufflinks, the S and A logo, the cufflinks worn by the man who had attacked her. Brad got off the bed and crossed to a pine dresser. He opened the drawer and took out a small leather case. He threw it onto the bed. ‘Like those?’

Lorraine opened the box and took out the cufflinks. She looked at them and nodded. He stood with his hands on his hips and after a moment he asked her to go on. She told him how she had gone to his garage, checked out the workers, checked out the cars in the hangar and had discovered that Norman Hastings had parked his car there the day before he was murdered. That no one could recall what time he had removed it or if he took it away himself Perhaps it had been taken by someone working at the company.

Brad returned to the bed. Seeing a muscle working at the side of his neck, she knew he was on edge. His eyes also betrayed him, but he never mentioned his brother, just indicated for her to continue. The more she talked, the more he realized that, just as she had said, Lorraine Page had not come to his home for any sexual or romantic reason, but for information. He had misjudged her, misjudged his own prowess, he didn’t know this woman at all; he was becoming more and more wary of her.

Lorraine detected his anxiety but continued, keeping her eyes on him constantly. She noticed that it was almost five thirty on the bedside clock, and she started to hurry, telling Brad how she and her friend had photographed each of the workers and had eliminated them one by one. The reason she was outside his house was to continue the elimination process. ‘You mean me?’ he asked.

‘Yes, we even took some photographs of your brother, but none were of much use, so I returned to the Hastings murder, to his wife, and to the man who had taken photographs of Hastings. His name is Craig Lyall.’ She waited a beat but he didn’t react so she continued.

‘Norman Hastings was a transvestite.’

Brad’s eyebrows lifted slightly. It was an open reaction without guilt.

‘I think the killer was being blackmailed,’ Lorraine went on, ‘and probably for some considerable time. I think Hastings was too, but he was only able to pay small sums that wouldn’t alert his wife and family. He was very protective towards them, terrified his private life would be disclosed. I believe the blackmailers were Art Mathews and Didi, one of the victims, transsexual. She made up the men for photographs taken by Lyall. She was then able to tip off Mathews and he, I think, instigated the blackmail.’

She had seen it, just a flicker in his eyes, on the word blackmail but he covered it well, nodding as if he wanted her to continue. She was combing her hair, watching him in the mirror. ‘I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee,’ she said, and smiled, then remembered the housekeeper would have left.

He stood up immediately. ‘I’ll make it.’

‘And I still can’t find my shoes.’

Brad opened the bedroom door. The shoes were neatly placed outside. He picked them up, held them by the straps and tossed them to her. Lorraine slipped her feet into them before she remembered they had fallen off as he carried her up the stairs. Who had placed them outside the door? The housekeeper? Or someone else? Down in the kitchen, Brad sweated. Had Steven come home? He couldn’t recollect the alarm being triggered, and the security system worked on a timer device so would have automatically switched on. By now the gardener would also have left. He looked out of the window and couldn’t see the Mercedes. He was sure he hadn’t heard Steven return. Maybe he was still out. But if he was, who had put Lorraine’s shoes outside the bedroom door?

Brad jumped when he heard her footsteps on the marble hall. She went into the drawing room and collected her purse and then he heard her walking towards the kitchen.

‘Did you say the housekeeper left at four?’ she asked nonchalantly, as he ground the coffee beans. She was trying to remember what time they had gone up to the bedroom. ‘I wondered who left my shoes outside your door.’

‘Probably Maria, she’s obsessively tidy. Am I one of your suspects?’ he asked, smiling.

‘No, of course not.’

He sat on the stool next to her. ‘Do you need me to call you a cab?’

She touched his face. ‘No, I have a car. Now, can we stop playing games?’ She withdrew her hand. ‘Tfell me about Steven.’

‘What about him? Oh, you wanted to see him. Well, he’s out but if you leave me your number I can get him to call you tomorrow.’

‘Don’t protect him, Brad. You’d better be honest with me. That’s what I meant about stopping playing games. I want to talk about him, I want to see him to eliminate him. It was your brother I came to see — see him face to face.’

Brad pointed at her. ‘Why don’t
you
stop? You eliminate him?
You?
There’s a warrant out for your arrest, as we both know.’ Brad smiled as he poured the coffee. ‘You know, I’ve been fascinated by this monologue you’ve just delivered. The rogue cop, is that how you see yourself? Maybe the booze did something to your head, Lorraine. I know why you’re here.’

She was off the stool, heading towards him. ‘Who told
you
about the warrant out for me? — was it Rooney? Did he speak to your brother?’ Brad put his cup down. She’d changed suddenly. He thought she was just scared but she said, steadily, ‘You’d better tell me, Brad. This man has killed nine times. He knows I’m alive and he’s looking for me. I’ll be the next. Who was here and what did he tell you? Was it Captain Rooney?’

‘No, it wasn’t him, whoever he is.’

She pushed at him. ‘Who was it? Did he speak to Steven?
For God’s sake, stop playing around and tell me who was here?

Brad gripped her wrist. ‘It doesn’t matter. What matters to me is you have to stop this right now — whatever you’ve dug up on Steven, whatever filth you want to make up about him, about this family.’

She jerked free. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘How much do you fucking want? You’re very clever at what you do, Lorraine. I’ve had it before, I just didn’t think I could be so wrong about someone. So how much and what have you got on Steven? Is that why you took such pains to explain the blackmail by those two whatever-their-names-were?’

‘You think I want to blackmail you?’

‘Isn’t that what you came here for? This family has always been an easy mark, so name your price.’

She snatched up her purse. ‘Nothing you could pay, Brad Thorburn. You just think what you want, I didn’t come here for any other reason than to—’

‘What?’ he interrupted. He was angry but controlled.

‘I think your brother is a killer. You won’t be able to protect him or buy him out of this. You know why? Because I’ll prove it.’

Brad sneered, ‘You expect me to believe a word you’ve told me? I’ve had threats from a lot better than you, sweetheart.’

‘What about your brother? Has he had threats?’

‘My brother is no concern of yours. Now get the hell out of my house! Now! Get out!’ Lorraine turned on her heel. He could hear her walking across the marble hallway, the front door slamming behind her. He waited a moment before he called his lawyer, asking him to come to the house immediately.

She was almost at the gates when she saw a reflected blue light and knew a patrol car was near or heading close by. She pushed the gate closed and ran to the shrubbery. She only just made it out of sight as Rooney appeared.

The front doorbell rang and rang. Brad stared out of the window and could see a figure standing outside the gates. For a moment he thought Lorraine had returned. He went out onto the porch, and Rooney announced himself. Brad stood at the door as Rooney walked up the path and stopped on the bottom step. ‘Is Steven Janklow home?’

Brad shook his head and introduced himself. Rooney showed his ID, badge and repeated his name as they entered the house, Brad ushering him ahead. As he closed the door, he saw a police patrol car draw up outside the gates.

Lorraine watched the interaction from the shrubbery. She felt safer now that Rooney was here. She wanted to get back inside the house and remembered the door at the rear opening onto the small corridor leading up to Brad’s bedroom. She crossed her fingers that it would be open and that the alarms had not been switched on.

Rooney looked around the impressive drawing room. Brad offered a drink but he refused. ‘Do you know where your brother is, Mr Thorburn?’

‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t. What is this about?’

‘I think you know. Andrew Fellows called by earlier, didn’t he? So let’s cut the bullshit. Is Lorraine Page here?’

‘She was but she left.’

‘Do you know where she went?’

‘No, I don’t. I’m surprised you didn’t see her, she was here about ten minutes ago.’

‘Mr Thorburn, I won’t keep you, I’d just like a recent picture of your brother, Steven Janklow.’

Rooney wandered over to a grand piano and looked at the silver-framed photographs. He picked one up and held it out. ‘This him?’

Brad said no, it was his father. He suggested that the following morning, when he had had time to speak to his brother, he would ask him to let Rooney have a photograph.

‘I’d like to take a look at one now,’ Rooney said stubbornly.

‘Is it really necessary?’

‘Yes, sir. This is a murder investigation.’

Brad disappeared and Rooney stood with his feet planted apart. He was on dangerous ground, he knew, standing in the Thorburn household demanding a photograph without any warrant or back-up evidence except Lorraine’s theory. He waited, then crossed to the telephone and punched out Lorraine’s number. Rosie answered.

‘Ifs Rooney. Is she back yet?’

‘No.’

‘Call me as soon as she gets in.’

He put in another call to Bean. Still no sign of Lorraine. Suddenly, Rooney heard a car driving up the gravel path. He wondered if it was Janklow. His heart sank as he heard voices, Brad saying something about a police officer, a long, whispered conversation. Then Brad walked into the drawing room, with a small balding man wearing rimless glasses and carrying a briefcase.

‘This is Alfred Kophch, Captain Rooney.’

Rooney shook the pallid little man’s damp hand and remained standing. He didn’t need to be told that the balding man was one of the most high-powered criminal lawyers in LA. Kophch sat down and opened his case. ‘You want a photograph of my client Steven Janklow, is that correct? Do you have a warrant to be on the premises?’

Rooney huffed and said that at this stage of his inquiries he did not require a warrant. It was an informal visit and Brad Thorburn had invited him in.

‘Why do you want a photograph of my client?’

Rooney went a deep red. ‘Elimination purposes.’

‘I would like to know why no one has contacted Mr Janklow before, and why you have made an informal house call at six thirty p.m.’

Rooney sat on the edge of the plush sofa. He was beginning to sweat, not with nerves but with contained agitation. This grilling made him feel as if he was the guilty party. He reached into his pocket and took out a dog-eared envelope with scrawled dates on the back.

‘I would also like to ask — informally — Steven Janklow to tell me where he was on these dates. As he is not here, you can bring him with you in the morning, with a photograph.’

Why do you need this photograph if Mr Janklow is prepared to come in to see you in person?’

‘An attack took place in a multi-level garage. We believe the man that attacked the woman, our witness, is involved in the murders.’

Kophch sighed. ‘So now you’re saying that Mr Janklow is also a suspect for this attack?’

‘Possibly.’

‘And the name of the witness?’

Brad leaned forward. ‘It’s a prostitute called Lorraine Page. There’s a warrant out for her arrest and she’s involved in a blackmail case.’

‘Is this correct?’ snapped Kophch.

Rooney shuffled uneasily. ‘I am not prepared to disclose the identity of the witness.’

Kophch gave Rooney a warning look. ‘Blackmail? This is all getting out of hand, isn’t it? I suggest that when you have charges you wish to relate to my client, you contact my office. Until then you should leave these premises immediately and I will forward a complaint to your superiors.’

Rooney stood up slowly. ‘Fine. All I’m trying to do is track down a killer.’