Untouchable (18 page)

‘Anyway,’ cuts in Tim, his voice a little too breezy, ‘I’ve got some news. I’ve been promoted. Regional manager.’

I swing round, avoiding Rachel’s eye, and give him a grateful smile.

‘Congratulations,’ I say, getting out of my seat and hugging him hard. ‘You should have said something earlier. I’d have bought champagne.’

26

Sunday, 22 March

We take the kids to Colsham Bay on Sunday. The rain has retreated for the first day of spring, bringing a throng of day-trippers to the little resort, crowding the pubs and cafés along the seafront. Theo insists on going to the amusement arcade over by the pier. We spend nearly ten quid on the penny falls, emerging with a motley collection of plastic key rings and a hideous miniature plaster cast of a kitten.

Tim queues for fish and chips and we eat them sitting on the low wall between the beach and the harbour, ignoring the loitering gangs of seagulls. I nibble my food, savouring the pungent flavour of vinegar and salt. Why do chips always taste so much better by the sea?

Three bow-legged Jack Russells approach, towing an older woman bundled in a huge brown coat. Seconds later they spot a nearby spaniel and launch into such a volley of barking that Therese bursts into tears in her buggy.

‘Bad dogs!’ she screams, as Rachel tries to comfort her.

Tim grabs the plaster kitten out of his pocket and dangles it in front of her face. Therese snatches it from his hand, her sobs drying up instantly.

‘If only everything were so easily sorted,’ Rachel sighs as she gazes at her daughter.

I smile as I watch an older couple admiring the dinghies and fishing boats moored in the harbour. Beyond them, families huddle in the shelter of the breakwaters, kids charging around on the sand. I pick at my fish with the wooden fork, trying to quash a rising sense of discomfort. It’s all so innocent. So bloody picture-perfect. I feel suddenly twitchy and restless.

Only twenty-four hours out of London and I’m almost longing for its roughness and anonymity, the grunginess of life lived amongst so many.

An image of Kristen looms in my mind, standing in the wreckage of her life, her dead lover’s face gazing up at her from the photographs scattered across the floor. Is she at the flat now, I wonder. Picking up the pieces? I feel a swell of guilt – I should have offered to go back, to help clean the place up.

Then I remember her sister. And Anna’s warning.
Don’t get involved.

‘So,’ says Rachel, as Tim takes the kids off to the little carousel by the pier. ‘Why are you here?’

I crunch a piece of batter. ‘That doesn’t sound very welcoming.’

Rachel turns to look at me. ‘You know what I mean. What’s up?’

For a moment I’m tempted to tell her. About Amanda. About the police station. About the party and seeing Hardy on TV. About the nagging sense that there’s something I’m missing.

But how can I? Rachel doesn’t know anything about the parties and I have no intention of filling her in. Escorting is one thing; full-on orgies would be a step too far for a woman who’s been happily partnered up since university. As for Amanda’s death, I might as well inform my friend that I’m expecting to be murdered any day now; she worries too much as it is.

‘OK, I get it.’ Rachel balls her chip wrapper and tosses it neatly into a nearby bin. ‘You don’t want to tell me – or can’t. And you’re right, I’m probably better off not knowing.’

‘It’s not …’ I begin, but can’t see any way through the maze. ‘It’s complicated.’

‘Not a bloke then? You’ve not met someone?’

I shake my head.

Rachel sighs. Nudges at a pile of sand with the toe of her boot. ‘I don’t like how things have become between us. You cagey, me disapproving. It’s as if we got stuck somewhere along the way.’

‘It’s a difficult situation. I understand that – and your point of view.’

She squints at me. ‘Do you, Grace? I sometimes wonder if you feel we’ve all abandoned you somehow.’

‘Why would I think that?’

Rachel shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I just get the sense you don’t realize how much people still care about you. Despite …’ She stops. Leans forward, both hands in her coat pockets. ‘It’s as if … well, maybe it’s more like you’ve abandoned yourself in some way.’

I don’t say anything. A gust of wind blows sand in my eye. It stings but I don’t want to wipe it away because I know Rachel will think I’m upset.

She turns to me. ‘I understand what you’ve been doing, and why you’ve been doing it, better than you give me credit for. I’m no psychologist, granted. I don’t have your insight into things, but I can see why you felt the need to get away and bury yourself in all that. But I think it’s time, Grace, time to put it all behind you.
Everything
, I mean – not simply your work.’

I make myself return her gaze. I see a few strands of grey, standing up from the bulk of her brown hair.

‘You can’t keep running from the past,’ she says, with such gentleness I have to swallow. ‘You can’t allow what he did to ruin the rest of your life.’

She doesn’t say his name. Thank God.

‘Listen to me,’ Rachel leans in, her tone fiercer. ‘What happened,
happened
, Grace. You
have
to let it go.’ She grabs my hand. ‘Most of all, my love, you’ve got to stop punishing yourself.’

She’s squeezing my fingers urgently, punctuating the flow of her words. ‘I don’t doubt for a minute that you’re great at what you do now. I can even accept that you might enjoy it. But I think you need to find something more positive to do with your life. You were good at your job before, despite what happened – you know you were.’

I shake my head again, turning my head so she can’t see my eyes gleaming.

‘I meant what I said,’ Rachel continues. ‘About setting up together. You don’t have to leave London, your flat. I could get offices somewhere like Brighton and you could commute. You could even do a lot of work from home.’

I clear my throat. ‘You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?’

She nods. ‘I honestly believe it could work, Grace.’ She squeezes my hand even harder. ‘Please say you’ll consider it. Properly, I mean.’

I think about it. And Alex’s offer. Two different escape routes. Two very different outcomes.

‘I already have,’ I sigh, pulling my hand away. ‘And the answer is no.’ To both, I decide, right at that moment.

Rachel’s expression is first shocked, then offended.

‘Why?’

I grit my teeth and fight to keep the exasperation from my voice. ‘Think about it, Rachel, think hard. It’s out there. People know what happened. They know what I did. You reckon that sort of thing doesn’t stick?’

‘Grace, listen, you made one mistake. All right, it was a big mistake, but that doesn’t define your whole—’

‘It wasn’t one mistake, though, was it? It was a whole catalogue of mistakes. Somebody
died
, Rachel. You can’t just walk away from something like that. You live with it. Every fucking day of your life, you live with it.’

I’m almost shouting now. A couple over by the breakwater turn and stare.

‘But it wasn’t your fault, Grace. Whatever you believe.’

I lose the battle. Tears well and threaten to tip down my face. ‘Fuck off, Rachel. You’ve no idea what’s going on in my life, and your interfering is just making it worse.’

My best friend looks shaken. Slapped. Her voice trembles as she gets to her feet.

‘No, Grace, I’m not the one who’s making it worse. And I can’t stand it any more. I can’t sit by and watch you destroy yourself any longer.’ She glares at me. ‘You imagine I can’t see the state you’re in? And no, I don’t want to know what kind of crap you’ve got yourself mixed up in this time. But I’m trying to throw you a lifeline, and it kills me that you fling it right back in my face.’

She frowns and looks away. When she turns back I read what’s coming before the words even leave her mouth.

‘I’ve had it, Grace. Finito. If you want to wallow in shit for the rest of your life, I no longer want any part of it.’

Rachel gets up, pulls her coat around her. She gives me a lingering look, her lips trembling with emotion, then turns and walks away, fast, her hair blowing out behind her as she heads towards the pier.

I stare after her, paralysed by a rush of panic. Should I catch her up? Apologize? Tell her she’s right and I’ll give the job idea some genuine thought?

But I just sit there. Shivering. Weighed down by something I can’t name.

Moments later Rachel disappears behind the bandstand.

I let her go.

27

Wednesday, 25 March

He picks me up near Waterloo bridge, in a government-issue black saloon. I climb in the back behind the driver and we pull off into the traffic, heading past the mainline train station and out towards Newington.

It was surprisingly easy to get hold of Edward Hardy. A few seconds on Google furnished me with his website, an email address, a phone number for his office. A quick call to leave a message with his secretary.

‘Just says it’s Stella,’ I tell her, when she asks for my name.

He sits here now beside me in raincoat and formal suit, clearly come straight from the Commons. For a moment or two neither of us speak, just stare at the back of his driver’s head. I feel inhibited by his presence. Wonder if Hardy does too.

‘So,’ he says, finally breaking the silence. ‘How can I help you today?’ His eyes flick briefly to mine. I want to face him, but it’s awkward in a car. I’m conscious of the driver’s gaze reflecting back at me in the rear-view mirror.

‘I wanted to ask you something.’

Hardy’s eyebrows contract into a frown. He waits for me to go on.

‘About Amanda Mansfield.’

‘Amanda Mansfield?’ His tone tries to suggest he doesn’t know who I mean, but the contraction in his jaw tells me otherwise.

‘Elisa,’ I say simply. ‘The girl from the party.’

‘Ah.’ He inhales, then leans forward in his seat. ‘Drop us on the corner, Jake. By the postbox.’

The car pulls over at the junction. I climb out after Hardy, who walks round to the driver’s window and says something I don’t pick up. The car slides back into the road and turns right.

‘Let’s walk,’ says Hardy. ‘I could do with some fresh air.’

I follow him down a side street into an ordinary residential area, flanked by nondescript blocks of redbrick flats. We keep going until we come to a rather pretty garden, a few scraps of lawn, a pond in the centre, surrounded by emerging foliage. A series of rural-style cottages in the background. I pause to read the sign on the cast-iron gate: Red Cross Garden, Southwark.

‘Can we sit?’ I nod at a nearby bench, hoping the recent shower hasn’t left it too wet.

Hardy strides over, checks the surface of the wood and lowers himself on to it. I settle on his near side, my back turned towards the entrance. For a second the clouds part and I feel the warmth of the sun on my face.

‘So what do you want to know?’ he asks. ‘About Amanda Mansfield?’

‘You mean, apart from the fact that she’s dead? Or to be more precise, murdered.’ I say the word slowly and see Hardy flush.

‘Yes, I’m aware of that. I was very sorry to hear it.’

Didn’t Alex say much the same? The party line, I think, examining Hardy’s face. His eyes avoid mine, flicking around the gardens. There’s no one here, apart from an old man over in the far corner, bending and poking at something with a walking stick.

‘A nasty business,’ Hardy adds suddenly. ‘But I’m sure the police are on top of it. I don’t see any need for you to worry.’

‘I’m not worried. Not exactly. It’s more that I’m confused.’ I give him a tentative little smile.

‘Confused?’

‘Well, it’s just that nothing about her death makes sense,’ I say.

‘How so?’

I run through the reasons I gave DI Green. Hardy remains silent while I explain about the hotel, the condoms, the lapse in Amanda’s usual procedure.

‘It does sound odd,’ he concedes when I’ve finished. ‘But this is clearly something for the police.’

‘I’ve already spoken to them. And her girlfriend has told them all this too.’

I watch his reaction as I mention Kristen, but his face shows no hint of surprise – despite the fact that none of the papers mentioned that Amanda was a lesbian.

‘The thing is, I’m not sure they
are
taking it seriously,’ I say. ‘They seem convinced Amanda’s killer was a client. So I was wondering if you … I don’t know, whether you could make some inquiries? Pull a few strings?’

Hardy shifts on his seat and regards me for a long moment without speaking. ‘Frankly, I have nothing to do with the police. It’s way outside my remit.’

‘But you could find out who to speak to, couldn’t you?’

Hardy sighs. ‘Stella …’

‘You knew her,’ I add. ‘You met her … don’t you think it’s the least you can do? She’s dead. And Kristen is beside herself. She could lose the flat, everything.’

I fix him with an earnest expression.

‘Is that all?’ He glances at his watch.

I nod.

‘I’ll look into it,’ he says, his voice terse. ‘But I have to go. I’ve got a departmental meeting in half an hour.’

I reach over and grasp his hand in mine. He gazes at it in surprise before withdrawing it. ‘Thanks,’ I say, making myself appear suitably grateful. ‘I really appreciate it.’

He stands, straightens his coat. Looks down at me.

‘I’ll stay on here for a bit,’ I add. ‘You go ahead.’

Hardy gives me the briefest of smiles and walks away. I see him pull out his phone as he heads back up the street, presumably calling his driver. I glance over at the old man. He’s shuffling along towards the cottages, with a lopsided gait that suggests a recent stroke.

I’ve done it, I think, with a sense of finality. I’ve stepped over the brink. Now it’s simply a matter of waiting for whatever will happen next.

Either way, I figure Alex has his answer.

28

Friday, 27 March

I rarely do overnights. It’s not the dearth of sleep that bothers me. Or even the endless sex.