Untouchable (28 page)

She leans over and takes my hand in hers. Gives it a squeeze. ‘Is there nothing I can do to fix this? Nothing else I can do to help?’

I shake my head again. ‘I wish you could. Honestly. But I’ve got to sort this on my own.’

Anna blinks. Downs the rest of her drink and gets to her feet, slinging her handbag over her shoulder. ‘I have to go. I’m due at the Carlton in a couple of hours.’

She leans over and kisses the top of my head. ‘Good luck.’ she says, straightening up and winding her scarf back around her neck.

It’s only then, as she turns towards the door, that I see she is crying.

42

Saturday, 11 April

Belbridge Road is a short walk through the backstreets from Islington tube. It’s not long before I’m standing in front of Number 17, ringing the bell for the middle flat.

No answer.

I ring again. Wait another minute. Oh God, please let her be in, I think as I glance up and down the empty street. Certain now that I don’t have much time.

‘Who is it?’ Janine’s voice on the intercom, sounding terse.

‘Stella.’

There’s a pause. I wonder if she’s going to leave me standing here on the doorstep.

I never much cared for Janine, being the kind of whore who views every client as fair game, a glut of resources waiting to be tapped. Rumour has it one guy was schmuck enough to buy her a sports car, though I can’t see any sign of it out here.

The buzzer sounds. I push on the front door and climb the stairs. Janine is hovering in the hallway of her flat, dressed in a white cotton dressing gown, her hair piled up in a towel. I’ve never seen her without make-up before. She seems smaller, more vulnerable and … well … duller. Where Elisa, bare-faced, was even prettier, Janine simply looks plain.

‘Why are you here?’ Her tone hardly welcoming, though she stands back to let me in. ‘I was in the shower.’

‘Sorry,’ I say insincerely. ‘I don’t mind waiting till you get changed.’

‘I had a visit from the police a few weeks ago,’ she says accusingly as she closes the door behind me. ‘They were asking all sorts. About the party, about Harry. I got the distinct impression you’d pointed them in my direction.’

‘What did you tell them?’

‘What’s to tell? It was only a little get-together. I don’t see what the fuck it’s got to do with Elisa getting herself knocked off in some hotel.’

I stare at her. She scowls back.

‘You don’t care, then,’ I ask. ‘What happened to Elisa?’

She snorts, but her eyes won’t meet mine. ‘Of course I fucking care, Stella. Everyone cares.’ She tightens the belt of her dressing gown around her waist. ‘It’s not nice knowing there’s some kind of nutter out there. You have to be careful. Elisa should have known that.’

‘You think it was her fault? That she was careless?’

She shrugs.

I gesture towards what I assume is the living room. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

Janine runs her tongue over her immaculatet veneers, then jerks her head inside. ‘Go on through.’

I walk into a room entirely furnished in cream. Cream carpet. Cream leather sofas. Cream display shelf and coffee table. Cream cushions and cream curtains. It looks like something from an early Bond film.

‘So why are you here?’ She drops into one of the sofas, pulling her dressing gown over her exposed knees. Christ, does she imagine I’ve come round to seduce her?

‘He wasn’t a nutter,’ I say, staying on my feet.

‘Who?’ Her look is sharp. I must remember not to underestimate Janine – she has the kind of feral intelligence of somebody entirely out for themselves.

‘The man who killed Elisa. It was a professional job.’

Janine stops scowling. Her mouth drops open. For once she has nothing to say.

I give her time for my revelation to sink in, but don’t let my gaze leave her face for even a second.

‘How can you possibly know that?’ she asks finally. Her tone accusatory, like maybe I’ve come here purely to wind her up.

‘I just do.’

I remain standing, looking down on her. I figure the only way forward with Janine is to frighten her into cooperating with me.

‘How?’ she asks.

I ignore the question. Let her stew for another minute. Play this steady, Grace, I tell myself. Don’t scare her off too soon.

‘I still don’t get it.’ She stares up at me. ‘Why you’re here. What’s any of this got to do with me?’

‘A lot,’ I say simply. ‘Quite likely, you’re next – or me. Probably both of us. And sooner rather than later.’

Her mouth falls open again. I watch her breathing turn shallow, the pupils of her pale brown eyes dilating as her heart rate begins to elevate.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t know that. Why would anyone want to hurt
me
?’

Despite the bravado, I can see in her eyes she’s genuinely afraid. This fuck-’em-and-eat-’em thing Janine’s got going is only skin deep; underneath, she’s as vulnerable as the rest of us.

‘Because, Janine, you were there. You were at the party too. We’re loose ends.’

She pulls her dressing gown tighter across her chest. A subconscious gesture of self-protection.

This might just work.

‘I don’t understand.’ Her voice smaller now, less arsy.

So I explain. Slowly and clearly, without embellishment.

She stares back at me, her expression a cross between fear and disbelief. ‘Let me get this right. You’re saying they had some sort of dodgy deal going and Elisa found out about it?’ She’s huddled on the sofa now, her knees drawn up tight to her chest.

‘No, Janine. I’m saying they had some sort of dodgy deal going and they
thought
Elisa had found out about it. That’s why we’re not safe either. We don’t have to actually threaten or blackmail them to present a risk – they only have to think we
might
.’

‘But they can’t just
kill
us. I mean, how?’

I shrug. ‘Anyhow. Simply make it look like an accident.’

She swallows. Swipes at the tip of her nose with the heel of her hand. ‘So what do you reckon we should do?’

Now it’s my turn to hesitate. This is the moment where I tell her what I’ve planned – and put my fate in her hands. If Janine bolts, goes to Harry, trades what I’ve got up my sleeve in return for her safety, I’m as good as dead.

I study her face. The defiant jut of her bottom lip. The sly expression that seems always to lurk at the edge of her eyes.

Is this really a gamble worth taking?

I take a deep breath and tell her my plan. And her part in it.

She glares back at me, horrified. ‘You must be fucking joking, Stella! Why would I go along with this? Harry’s a good client, a regular. I see him practically every week.’

I fix my eyes on hers. Force her to hold my gaze. ‘Have you seen him recently, Janine?’

No answer.

‘It’s been, what? Eight, nearly nine weeks since the party? Have you met up with him since?’

She thinks for a second or two. Slowly shakes her head.

I take a couple of steps towards her. Square my shoulders so I tower right over her, trying to make myself look as intimidating as possible.

‘He’s a lost cause, Janine. And he’s also the man who had Elisa murdered. For what she
knew
, Janine, for what she
heard
.’ I pause, to place greater emphasis on what I’m going to say to her next. ‘So what do you imagine will stop him doing the same to you?’

Janine goes pale. I can almost see her trembling. ‘He wouldn’t do that. Harry’s really into me.’

I snort. Make my voice sound a great deal tougher than I feel. ‘Wouldn’t he? How long till he … they … decide you’re a liability too, Janine?’

I watch her. I can tell she’s wavering.

‘Get real, Janine. You honestly believe you’re that special to him? That there aren’t dozens of girls who could give him what he wants? It’d take him, what, five minutes on the internet to come up with a replacement?’

Janine’s face slackens. She wipes her nose on the sleeve of her dressing gown, trying to stay composed.

‘Elisa’s dead, Janine.
Dead
. Don’t you get it? You’re batting way out of your league here.’

She swallows. Blinks twice, slowly. ‘I can’t, Stella. I just don’t think I can do it.’

‘You can have my fee too. Double your rates, Janine – that’s got to appeal.’

Her face brightens a little at the mention of money. ‘But like you said, Harry hasn’t been in touch since the party. How am I going to get him to agree to see me now? In the next few days?’

I smile down at her. Moisten my lips before I speak.

‘You’re an inventive girl, Janine. I’m sure you’ll think of something.’

43

Saturday, 11 April

He’s lying in bed in a private room, head and shoulders sunk into the pillows, looking smaller than I ever remember. His eyes are closed, his face turned away.

I walk in quietly, half hoping he’s asleep and I can come back later. But his head moves and his eyelids flicker open as I approach, as if he knew I was there all along.

‘Grace.’ His voice so quiet, uncertain, I can barely make out my name.

‘Dad.’

‘You came.’

I lower myself into the chair beside the bed. ‘So it would seem.’

He clears his throat. Speaks a little louder. ‘I didn’t think you would.’

I glance at the paraphernalia around his bedside. He’s hooked up to a drip, the tube running across to the hand resting on the sheet, gnarled and scrawny, mottled by age spots. Behind the bed, a heart monitor bleeps softly to itself, the screen a muddle of green lines and figures.

‘How are you doing?’ I force my gaze back to my father’s face.

It twists into a scornful expression. ‘Do you really need to ask?’

Still enough strength to be snide, I note, then feel bad. In his place, I doubt I’d be very cheerful either.

Beyond the room, in another ward, comes a screech. A female voice shouting words I can’t quite make out. My father groans. ‘That bloody woman. All day. Never stops.’ He tries to heave himself up into a sitting position. Slumps back down. I get up to help, but he waves me away.

I’ve already seen the doctor. A nice Indian guy, younger than me, with that precise way of speaking that comes with a second language. He told me my father was dying of congestive heart failure. That he could have a heart attack at any moment, and that the next one would almost certainly be fatal. Or his heart might simply lapse into arrhythmia.

Either way, he hasn’t much time left. Days, probably. Maybe hours.

I study him now. His skin is pale and sallow, and the bulk he’s carried all his life seems to be falling away. His flesh, what I can see of it, appears slack and untethered. His grey hair has thinned, and the rheumy sheen in his eyes makes him look tearful.

His face, however, still retains the expression of concentrated displeasure it’s always worn.

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ I ask, in the absence of any effort at conversation on his part.

‘Bit late for that.’ I catch him watching me to see the effect of his words. Still measuring the extent of his power over me.

My dad’s eternal MO, I think, suppressing a sigh. Every interaction not so much a chance to relate to those around him as an opportunity to score a few points.

No wonder his heart is giving up on him.

‘Have you spoken to Julia?’ he asks eventually.

I shake my head.

‘I’ve told her I want to go home, that I’ll never get well in this place. But she keeps saying she can’t cope.’ He turns his head towards the window. ‘Stupid bitch.’

‘What did you say?’

I stare at him, wondering if I actually heard him right. I’m not sure my father has ever sworn in front of me before, though God knows you could tell he was often tempted.

But I’m more shocked by the venom in his tone. The contempt.

He looks at me with the same disdain I imagine he directs at Julia when she’s here. I can’t blame her for not wanting him home.

‘You always were a disappointment,’ he says, apropos of nothing, a trace of spittle oozing from the corner of his mouth.

I lock my eyes on his, leaving a pause before I speak. ‘You know, that’s the funny thing, Dad. I’ve always thought much the same about you.’

‘What do you mean?’ His cheeks flush. The bleep of the monitor picks up speed.

‘You’ve got through two wives and one daughter, and none of us lived up to your expectations. But do you ever wonder how well you’ve lived up to ours?’

He scowls. Looks away. ‘I’ve taken care of all of you. You never went without a thing when you were a girl – or your mother, before she died. You had a good childhood. I can’t recall a single thing to explain why you—’

‘Explain what, Dad? Why I turned out the way I did? Is that what you mean?’

I wait for him to deny it. Though I know he won’t.

He turns his head back to me. ‘I loved you, Grace. I’ve always loved you.’

I hold his gaze, but his words leave me untouched.

I love you.
I picture Michael, waiting outside that first parole hearing. Whispering into my ear when he was sure no one was looking.

But I know now what I didn’t even suspect back then. There was nothing in his eyes. He was simply saying what he imagined I wanted to hear.

‘I did my best for you, Grace, whatever you might think.’ My father’s voice pulls me back to his bedside. ‘But you couldn’t expect me to stand by you after what happened. You disgraced yourself, all of us. I was ashamed.’

I let his words drop through me like pebbles thrown into a lake. Wait for the ripples of emotion to disperse.

‘I made a mistake, Dad. A big mistake, sure, but still a mistake.’ I keep my voice steady. ‘Everyone screws up, you know – even you. What counts is having the courage to admit it.’

His eyes rest on mine for perhaps a second, then slide away. ‘I’m tired now.’

I get to my feet, noticing the background odour of the disinfectant. And the metal hospital bed, so similar to the ones they use in the prison.

Solitary confinement, I think, observing the uncertain rise and fall of my father’s chest. A life sentence that’s fast coming to an end.