Never Coming Home (2 page)

The paint on the house was shiny; the windows were clean, with boxes on the sills overflowing with spring stuff. He could recognise daffodils but the other things, blue and white, kind of like bells? No idea what they were. Pretty though. Like someone cared. There was a slim tree in a pot beside the door, with more daffodils. Someone had made an effort. Life was going on here.

If the woman has got herself together? Are you just going to fuck it all up?

Leaving now would be the easy way.

Since when did you choose the easy way? If it was you – God help you – you’d want to know. Maybe she’d been afraid to ask?

He crossed the street and rang the bell.

He thought for a moment that there wasn’t going to be an answer. He couldn’t deny the flicker of relief. Then the door opened.

‘That was quick. I didn’t expect – oh!’

The woman was a looker. Still youthful, with a pale cashmere sweater and jeans, clinging to an admirable figure – but the expression lines around the eyes and mouth told him she was too mature to be the one he was looking for.

‘Can I help you?’ She’d taken a pace back, frowning, as if she was trying to place him.

‘My name is Devlin.’ He had a card ready. Not that it said a lot. He handed it over. She was frowning now at the slip of pasteboard in her hand.

‘Security consultant?’

‘I was hoping to see Mrs Elmore?’

‘Ah.’ She looked as if she was about to hand the card back. Instead she slipped it into a pocket. No reaction to his name, Devlin noted, puzzled. ‘My daughter isn’t here at the moment. Perhaps you can call again.’ She was closing the door.

Devlin tamped down the gut reflex to stick his boot in the narrowing gap. The palm of his hand was the civilised way. ‘Can you just tell me when she will be home?’ He’d started this thing, now he had to finish it. Besides, there was something going on here that he didn’t understand.

‘I
 
…’ The woman hesitated.

‘It’s important that I speak with her.’

Something in the woman’s expression changed. Her focus on him sharpened.

‘Important to whom, Mr Devlin?’

‘I think to both of us. You, too.’ He took a breath. ‘I was there
 
… I was with your granddaughter when she died.’

Chapter Two

‘With Jamie? Oh God!’

The woman’s hand went to her mouth and her eyes widened. Devlin had a sudden panic flash that she might faint.

Keep talking Devlin. Keep her attention.

‘Look – I’m sorry. I know it’s been a while. I didn’t know whether I should get in touch or not. I thought that if Mrs Elmore wanted to speak to me then she’d have contacted me. But as I was in London
 
…’

She wasn’t reacting, just staring. She was made of sterner stuff than he’d thought, though. There was a little more colour in her face.

‘Look
 
–’ He was floundering. ‘Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all. I’ll just go.’ He raked his hand into his hair, starting to turn away.

‘No! Please.’ She did react then, putting out a hand to him. ‘It’s just
 
… No one told us
 
… We didn’t know anything about you.’ She let the door swing wide. ‘I think you’d better come in, Mr Devlin.’ She gestured for him to enter. ‘This has been a shock. I think we should start again. I’m Suzanne Saint.’ She held out her hand. Devlin took it. The familiar ritual of a handshake seemed to steady her. ‘My daughter should be home at any minute. When she gets here you can tell us both. Go through, please.’

Devlin went through the door she indicated. The room stretched from the front to the back of the house, cool, airy, lots of white paint, luxuriant plants, pictures on the walls. One in particular.

It was hanging alongside rather than over the fireplace. The oil paint was thickly applied. The smudgy, mixed-white background made the central tracery of lines, in multiple shades of red, stand away from the canvas. The pattern seemed abstract until you looked closer. Then you saw it – the clear profile of a woman.

Devlin’s eyes went automatically to the right-hand corner. The signature he’d expected was there – a slashing letter K incised, like the mark of Zorro, in red paint. ‘An Olivier Kessel.’ His voice sharpened. ‘This is you, isn’t it?’ Realisation hit him as she nodded. ‘Hell – you’re the other Suzanne!’

She grimaced before she smiled. ‘A long time ago. I’m flattered that you saw it. Not so many people remember that story now – which can be a blessing.’ The smile grew rueful. ‘It got a little stale, hauling around that
other
label.’

Devlin raised his eyebrows, intrigued, betting that if he kept quiet, she’d say more.

She hooked a strand of pale gold hair behind her ear. ‘It was one of those bright ideas that got stuck and kept being replayed.’

Devlin suppressed a smile. Let a silence lengthen for long enough and the impulse to fill it became almost unbearable. First rule of interrogation. Her eyes had narrowed, assessing him, aware of what he was up to. Smart lady. He nodded encouragingly and got a soft laugh in response.

‘You want me to rake over my old glories for you, Mr Devlin? All right then. It came from a young journalist who interviewed Oliver, oh – sometime in the early seventies – Oliver was still Oliver then, that important extra ‘i’ came a little later.’ The expressive eyes sparkled with knowing mockery. ‘The reporter needed an original angle to sell a story about a more-or-less unknown artist. He came up with this idea of linking two
brilliant
 
–’ she made quotation marks in the air with her fingers, grinning ‘– artistic talents, who’d both used a woman named Suzanne for inspiration. Of course, at the time, Oliver was delighted to be linked to Leonard Cohen. People were only just beginning to suggest that
his
talent was in any way remarkable and not many of them
 
–
 
’ The grin was decidedly wicked now. ‘It was a totally daft comparison – there was absolutely nothing else to link Oliver with Cohen, but you know how these things go. Then the article got syndicated in the States. Oliver’s career began to take off and he declared, very dramatically, that I was his Muse.’ The grin widened. ‘Being a muse is a very ambiguous activity, you know. No job description. In retrospect it seems principally to have consisted of cleaning a great many paintbrushes and standing around in draughty studios, half-naked. But I was young, and in love to the point of imbecility.’ She gave the painting a considering look. ‘I sat for hours for that thing. It seemed only fair that I should end up owning it. And a few others.’ She was still smiling, but her eyes had narrowed again. ‘Oliver’s early work isn’t that well publicised these days. You know your art, Mr Devlin.’

‘Just Devlin, please.’ She’d given him information. Interesting information. He’d enjoyed hearing it, so he owed her. ‘I once babysat a private art collection from L.A. to New York, for an exhibition, and back again. There were a number of Kessels. The guy was a fan. The whole art thing interested me, so I did some research, browsed a few galleries.’

‘Babysat? Oh yes – Security consultant.’

Abruptly her face folded in on itself. She’d remembered why he was here.

That’s how it must be, this far down the line. For a few minutes you forget – have a conversation, get lost in a memory, something from before
 
… Then the unthinkable comes crashing
in again.

‘Would you like some tea?’ she asked jerkily. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

He let her go ahead, taking time to survey the rest of the room. There were photographs, family groups, in happier times. Katarina Elmore – another looker, if these informal shots were anything to go by – but in a totally different style. The husband was there too – ex-husband – tan, good chin, good teeth. And a child. Another girl, dark like her mom, aged about four or five. Devlin picked up the slim silver frame to get a closer look. He hadn’t realised there was a younger daughter. No pictures of
his
girl. Too painful to have the memories around? Might be a comfort to the mother and grandmother, but for the other kid? How hard was it going to be, growing up in the shadow of an older sister? A dead older sister.

He followed the sound of clinking china into the kitchen. A big room, with the evening sun coming in through the window, mismatched wooden units, warm terracotta tiles. Suzanne was fiddling with cups and saucers. A large spanner sat on the work surface.

Suzanne saw him looking at it. ‘The man who serviced the boiler forgot it. I thought you were him
 
…’ Her face clouded.
‘If he hadn’t rung, to say he was coming back for it, I’d have already gone home. There would have been no one here.’

‘I would have called again.’
Would you?

Ignoring the prickle at the nape of his neck, Devlin wandered over to the refrigerator. Amongst the saver coupons and postcards there were children’s drawings, attached with magnets. Devlin examined them, something to occupy his attention while Suzanne completed the performance of tea
-
making. Not exactly the million dollar art occupying the main room. Except
 
… Devlin’s spine stiffened in surprise. The pictures bearing the legends Mummy, Daddy and Gran were recognisably people, not the usual scrawling matchstick figures with green hair. ‘Hey, these are good.’ He indicated the drawings.

‘Aren’t they?’ Suzanne turned towards him, a flash of animation in her face. ‘Quite remarkable for her age. Oliver was so excited
 
–’ The animation faded. ‘All that’s gone, too. Her father – they were supposed to be going to Florida, to Disneyworld
 
…’ Suzanne pulled the teapot towards her.

Devlin looked back, away from her swimming eyes. He could see it now. There was a tiny J in the corner of each picture. Jamie.
His
girl had painted these. His throat tightened.
Maybe it
was
a mistake to come here? What can you really tell them?

He could still feel it, raw in his throat. He’d scrambled down that damn slope, but when he got there
 
… This child, with so much promise, had blinked up at him, and tried to smile. That smile – the relief in it had damn near hauled his scabby heart straight out of his chest. She’d trusted him to rescue her. Trusted him to make everything right. He’d known in an instant that there was nothing he could do, except be there for her, put his arm around her. Let her
feel
that she wasn’t alone. The next second she’d coughed up a little blood – and died. The look of surprise on her face would be with him forever. These drawings were hers.

Devlin swallowed hard. ‘Look – this is disturbing for you, my being here. I don’t have that much to tell you
 
… It was very quick
 
…’

‘No!’ Suzanne put out her hand to cut him off. She was shaking her head, emphatically. ‘We’ll wait for Kaz – I think she has the right to be the first to hear how her daughter died.’

She finished loading the tray. Devlin took it from her and carried it back into the other room. They both turned at the sound of a key in the lock.

‘Mum? Are you still here? Don’t tell me he didn’t turn up!’

Suzanne closed her eyes, opened them. ‘In here, darling.’

Devlin found he was bracing himself. He didn’t know what for. Yet.

She was as striking as her mother, but with a wilder edge. The dark curls were barely kept in check by a flamingo pink scarf. Flawless skin. Wide, dark eyes. Wide, full mouth. There were smudges under those eyes, and tension in the set of her head that shouldn’t be there. Even so, it was a face to make a man acutely aware of his loins.

For Christ’s sake, you’re here to give her your sympathy, not to come on to her!

Devlin dropped his eyes before they could betray him, and found that she was wearing – a dark brown boiler suit. His heart all but stopped when he realised that she’d halted in the doorway to stare at him, with it half-unbuttoned. The T-shirt beneath clung to the kind of figure that turned heads. Or made a man’s mouth go dry. Devlin swallowed. The shirt gave him a clue.
Gardeners do it in the bushes
. Katarina Elmore was a gardener? Why hadn’t he known that?
Because you didn’t want to get in that deep, did you?

Kaz stepped into the living room. There was a man in the house. And definitely not from the gas company. Not unless they were kitting them out in expensive Italian tailoring these days. Blinking, she took in the tea things on the table. Her mother was entertaining? Suzanne was fluttering – there was no other word for it – around a complete stranger. Kaz’s bewilderment escalated. Suzanne didn’t
do
fluttering. Mind, he was
some
stranger. The sharp lines of the expensive suit gave one message, the hint of five o’clock shadow another. There was a lot of him, six foot two at least, with the shoulders to match. And muscle in all the right places. Too rugged to be handsome, a touch of Steve McQueen about the eyes. Fabulous mouth. A face for dreams. Or maybe nightmares.