Untouchable (22 page)

‘Tell me.’

‘He said he’d hate there to be any more casualties.’

I feel the colour bleach from my face. I clench my hand, trying to breathe evenly.

‘And he asked me to give you a message.’

‘What?’

She keeps her gaze fixed on mine as she pulls the scarf away from her neck. I see a line of deep purple bruises circling her throat. Some small and round, like fingertips.

I gasp. ‘Jesus … oh fuck, Kristen …’

Kristen adjusts her scarf back up over the bruises.

‘When?’ I stammer.

‘Yesterday.’

Fuck. He must have gone from her to me. Or vice versa. ‘We should go back to the police,’ I say. ‘Now. Both of us.’

She shakes her head.

‘Yes!’ I hiss. ‘Listen to me, Kristen. We must show them. They can’t ignore this.’

‘The burglary,’ she says almost inaudibly. ‘I’m not sure it was druggies.’

‘Who told you that? The detective?’

‘I’m not stupid, Grace. I can work things out for myself. I reckon they were looking for something.’

‘But you said they stole money. Amanda’s jewellery.’

Kristen shrugs. ‘I reckon that was just to make it look like a burglary.’

A hitch in my throat as I swallow. ‘So what do you think they were after?’

She peers right into my eyes. Hesitating. Affirming something in me.

‘Kristen, listen, you don’t have to tell me. Not if you don’t want to.’

She runs her tongue over her lips, then appears to come to a decision. Pulls her purse out of her bag. At first I assume she’s going to offer me money for the tea. Instead she reaches inside and removes something I can’t quite see.

‘Hold out your hand.’

I look at her, perplexed, but do as she says. She places it into my palm. I stare at the small rectangle of black plastic. ‘What is it?’

‘An SD card. The kind you use in cameras and computers.’

I lift my eyes to hers. ‘This was Amanda’s?’

She nods.

‘Where did you find it?’

‘Between one of the bed slats and the bedframe. It fell out when I was taking the thing apart yesterday.’

I inhale slowly. Feel a buzz of curiosity. Underneath, deeper, an insistent hum of dread.

‘What’s on it? Have you looked?’

‘It’s a list,’ she says, pausing to gulp down the rest of her tea. ‘Of all the clients Elisa ever saw – or at least, a lot of them.’ Her eyes lift to survey the café, but it’s empty now, the two women gone. ‘And details about them, things they told her, other things she must have found out. And …’

She falters. I glance at the little piece of plastic, lift my eyes back up to her face.

‘Pictures.’ She says the word quietly, holding my gaze. Again, that sense she’s gauging my reaction.

‘Photos?’

‘Taken with her phone, I’m guessing.’

‘Showing what?’

She ignores my question while continuing to study my expression. ‘You mean you don’t know?’

‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Kristen, honestly, I’ve
no
idea what you’re talking about.’

A few more seconds of silence. Then her lips twitch in anticipation of her next words. ‘Not only pictures, Grace. Videos too.’

She shifts in her seat, eyes suddenly unable to meet mine. ‘Of Amanda doing stuff with these men.’

‘Stuff … you mean sex?’

She nods, clearly embarrassed. ‘But not just Amanda …’ Her cheeks flush. She looks away.

I stare at her. Then finally I get it. ‘You mean
me
?’ My mouth drops open. ‘You’re saying I’m on this too?’

‘You. And Janine. At that last party you did together.’

‘Shit.’

An image of Amanda holding her phone when I was with Harry and Rob. Not texting, I realize, with a drop in my stomach like vertigo. Not fucking texting at all.

That crap about a family crisis. I feel a stab of anger, of betrayal.

Then fear.
Amanda, Jesus. Why?

‘That’s one reason I’m giving it to you.’ Kristen’s voice slices through my thoughts. ‘It’s not the sort of thing you’d want getting into anybody else’s hands. Especially not the police.’

I take a deep breath. Try to focus on what she’s saying.

She closes her eyes briefly. Presses the tips of her fingers into her forehead. ‘She was blackmailing them, Grace. And not just for a few quid.’

My jaw drops, my gazed fixed on her face. I can’t speak for ages. Maybe a minute.

‘Jesus … are you sure?’ For a moment I wonder if the stress of Amanda’s death, the burglary, her encounter with that man, has somehow sent Kristen over the edge.

‘Take a look.’ She nods at the card. ‘You’ll see.’

I close my fingers around it. Find myself scanning the empty café. Checking.

‘Fuck, Kristen,’ I breathe. Realize my hand is trembling.

‘There were bank details on it too. Not the account she used normally. I managed to work out her password, checked it out online.’

‘How much?’ My mouth can barely form the words.

‘Half a million. Slightly more.’

‘Fuck.’ Surprise stiffens my features. If anyone were watching, the shock on my face would be easy to read.

‘She’s been stashing money away for years, making deposits nearly every month. Usually a good few thousand pounds or more.’

Her eyes glistening with tears. And something else. Shame? Anger?

‘I mean … hell … how else could Amanda get that kind of money?’ She balls her fists and presses them against the table. ‘She always said she was going to get out soon, but that she wanted to earn enough for us to be secure. I never imagined she meant like this.’

I look at her. ‘Are you going to keep it? The money, that is.’

Kristen glares at me. ‘I don’t want it,’ she says indignantly. ‘I don’t want a fucking thing to do with it.’

‘So what are you going to do with it?’

She sighs. ‘I considered handing it over to the police. I did. I know I should, but I can’t bear the idea of anybody …’ She stops. Presses her fist to her mouth. ‘I don’t want anyone knowing that about Amanda. Or seeing those … those things.’

Her voice trails off. Her eyes fill with tears again. She lowers her clenched hands, her knuckles white.

My mind flashes back to the party. What Kristen must have seen in those pictures. I can hardly meet her gaze when she raises her head.

‘So, no police, OK? I know it’s wrong, but it’s what I want.’

I open my hand. Pass the SD-card back to her.

‘No.’ She waves it away. ‘You have it. I never want to set eyes on it again.’

‘But the bank details …’

‘I’ve deleted them.’

‘So why give this to me?’

She swallows, her lips beginning to tremble. ‘God, I miss her so much, Grace, and at the same time I’m so, so angry with her for leaving me in this mess. These last few days I’ve been thinking that, if she were still here, I’d probably kill her myself.’

I look at her, surprised by the vehemence in her voice.

‘I can’t stop going through it all. Who he was, the man that murdered her. Why she met up with him. The ridiculous risk she was taking.’

A tear rolls over her left cheek, pursued by another. She wipes them away with the tips of her fingers. I try to imagine what Kristen was like before all this. How happiness or contentment would have lifted her features. I’ve only known her unhappy, I think; only seen this broken side of her.

And all I’ve done is make her impossible situation worse.

‘Grace …’ Her voice so quiet I can hardly hear what she’s saying. ‘Do you reckon this is what got Amanda killed?’

I gaze at the black rectangle in my hand. Amanda must have gone after someone. Only this time she picked the wrong man.

Or men.

You should learn from her mistakes.

I take her hand. ‘Kristen, I’m sure she was careful. You know she—’ I stop dead. The expression on her face tells me to go no further. Fierce and furious. Desperate.

‘I don’t know,’ I continue. ‘Maybe,’ I say more honestly.

I clutch the chip in my fingers. Consider what it cost Kristen to bring it to me – she had no idea, after all, if I was in on the blackmail. And the risk she’s running today, simply by being here.

The risk both of us are running.

I glance around again, but we’re still alone. ‘I don’t understand though why you’re giving it to me. Why not just throw it away?’

‘I was going to destroy it,’ she says. ‘Pretend it never existed, because I’m fairly sure he … that man isn’t aware of it. If he were, I’m certain you wouldn’t have it now.’

I meet her eyes. I suspect she’s right.

‘So I figured you might need it. That maybe you could use it in some way to make them leave you alone.’

I blink. ‘And you, Kristen? What about you?’

‘I’m taking his advice.’ She puts her purse back into her bag. ‘I’m getting as far away from here, and all this, as possible.’

‘When are you going?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Where …’ I pause. Hold up my hand. On second thoughts, perhaps it’s better not to know.

She leans over and writes a number on the napkin. ‘I’ve got a new mobile phone, a pay-as-you-go. Untraceable.’ She laughs. ‘At least Amanda taught me that much.’ She pushes it over to me. ‘In case you ever need to get in touch.’

I pick up the napkin and stuff it in my pocket. We both stand. Kristen pulls on her coat with such a dazed expression that I can hardly bear it. I step forward and wrap my arms around her, suddenly reluctant to let her go.

‘You don’t think this kind of thing could be real, do you?’ she says when I release her. ‘Part of me can’t believe it’s actually happening, that I must be imagining it.’

She adjusts the scarf around her neck. Looks me right in the eyes. ‘But the rest of me has never been so scared in my entire life.’

33

Tuesday, 31 March

I go straight back to my flat. Double-lock the door behind me and cancel my afternoon appointment, pleading a cold. The client sounds disgruntled, like not getting his rocks off is a major inconvenience.

Tough.

I boot up my laptop, hardly able to bear the minute or so it takes for all the icons to settle on the screen. Consider running back out and buying that pack of cigarettes.

‘Focus, Grace,’ I mutter to myself as the egg timer over my cursor finally disappears. I insert the SD-card into the little slot below the mouse pad. ‘Import pictures and documents?’ my computer asks. I click ‘No’, then bring up the file directory and open the Removable Disc icon.

About thirty files fill the screen, each headed with initials. I click on the first – ‘DRH’. It reveals a Word document and half a dozen photographs. I glance through them. They’re slightly blurred and obviously taken in a hurry, but you can plainly see a man in various poses, all of them nude. All of them incriminating.

The last few images have a movie icon next to them. I hover over the first and press play. A man lies on the bed looking straight at me.

‘What the hell are you doing, Elisa?’ His tone commanding. A little plummy.

A woman answers in the background. ‘Hang on a sec. Just switching it off.’

Seconds later Amanda comes into view. She’s wearing her hair piled loosely on top of her head, a style that makes her look particularly glamorous. She climbs astride the man and slowly lowers herself on to him.

‘Richard,’ she says teasingly. ‘You really have missed me, haven’t you?’

The man laughs. ‘You know damn well I’d see you every day if I could afford it.’

The angle of the film is slightly skewed, their heads bobbing in and out of shot. I’m guessing Amanda propped the phone up somewhere inconspicuous. On a chair, maybe, piled with clothes, or on the desk.

I imagine her routine. Photos would be simple enough. Pretend you’ve got a text come in or you’ve forgotten to turn off your mobile. Take a sneaky snap or two while fiddling with your phone, or set the delay to get a shot of the action. Videos would be even easier – simply press record and prop the phone somewhere with a view of the bed.

Amanda’s voice pulls my attention back to the video. I can’t quite hear what she’s saying, but I can tell it’s dirty. Nothing much from him. Murmuring. The odd incoherent grunt. The clip goes on for nearly five minutes, then abruptly ends. Maybe the phone ran out of battery, or perhaps she put it on a timer. After all, how much do you need to blackmail somebody?

Not much.

Amanda, I think as I click open the word file accompanying the pictures, definitely not just a beautiful face.

The document is only one page long. ‘Richard David Harris,’ it says at the top. Below, a list of details:

Chairman of the Harris Clothing Group.

Age 57.

Married to Louisa.

Two kids – John and Geoffrey.

The Beeches, Guildford Road, Godalming, Surrey.

Below that another column of figures:

15/4/13 – £1,500

13/7/13 – £1,000

1/3/14 – £1,000

Right at the end is a mobile number, along with an email address. An anonymous Gmail account – presumably the one she used to contact him.

I click back to the first picture. Check the Properties tab to see when it was taken. Ice in my stomach as I read the date.

Three weeks before the initial payment.

The next file has only two photos. A man in his forties, lean and muscular. And another video. This one more distinct, though less dialogue. Amanda getting fucked from behind, his body obscuring hers so I can’t tell exactly what he’s doing, but I guess for Amanda’s purposes it hardly mattered.

The Word document tells me this is John Leesham, manager of a well-known football team. He has a wife named Audrey, one daughter and a house in Cheltenham with what I suspect is a good address.

He paid her over five thousand – one lump sum in April last year.

I work my way through the rest of the files, which appear to be in date order. The line-up includes a TV presenter, the editor of a tabloid newspaper, and the head of a large private school, as well as a motley collection of MDs and CEOs – at least half in banking. And four men in government – two Conservative MPs, a top-ranking civil servant, and a Labour backbencher.