Cold Shoulder (42 page)

Lorraine headed up Beverly Glen. She passed Brad Thorburn’s home, parking the car a few houses up, half hidden from the road. She then walked back, wishing Rosie was with her. The house looked peacefully silent, the faint sound of a lawn mower buzzing from somewhere in the grounds, and she pressed the intercom at the side of the gates. She rang again as the dog appeared. He barked and then stood looking at her through the gates. Brad answered. ‘Who is it?’

‘Lorraine Page.’ She was fazed when he laughed. He didn’t say anything else but the gates clicked open. He stepped out onto the porch and leaned against the door frame, a glass of wine in his hand. He was smiling, watching her as she walked slowly towards him. She was so tall and the sun made her hair seem more white than blonde. She wore high-heeled slingback shoes, a straight skirt with a slit to one side, revealing a fraction of her thigh. The jacket was ill-fitting, a little too large, and she had a white shirt beneath, open at the neck. She wore no jewellery and it didn’t look as if she had on any make-up. She carried only a clutch purse, in her right hand. As she reached the first white stone step on the porch, she tilted her head; even from this distance, he could see the scar on her cheek.

‘I was just thinking about you,’ he said quietly. She wasn’t expecting him to be so gentle, just as she didn’t expect him to hold out his hand to her. It felt strong, gripping hers tightly. ‘Do you know the police are looking for you?’ he said, not taking his eyes from hers, trying to see what she wanted from him, but her fine hair hid her face.

‘Yes, but I have to talk to you.’

He guided her towards the hallway, his hand now at her elbow, with a firm but not threatening hold. They walked into the drawing room. He remained at the door, finishing his wine, watching her.

Is your brother home?’

‘No.’

‘Are there any servants here?’

‘Just the housekeeper, she’ll be leaving at four.’ He ran his hand over his neck to the back of his hairline. The T-shirt moved aside and she could see part of his shoulder.

She was silent. She stared hard at him and his eyes slid away, as if embarrassed by her clear, direct gaze. She opened her purse and took out her cigarettes, flicked open the packet and placed one between her lips. ‘Do you have a light?’

He came in and put down his empty glass. She thought he was going to pick up a table lighter but instead he came close, took the cigarette out of her mouth and tossed it aside. He then slipped his hand to the small of her back and pressed her to him. In her high heels she was almost as tall as he was. He kissed her and let his hand fall to her buttocks, pulling her even closer to him. He kissed her again and she responded, her tongue traced his mouth and she moved back just a fraction, taking his free hand to place on her heart. She was trembling. He scooped her up into his arms — she was so incredibly light — and carried her with ease out of the drawing room and up the stairs. One of her shoes fell off, then the other, as she rested against him. She was crying, her head buried in his shoulder. He had never known such sweetness, and by the time he laid her down on his bed, she was sobbing. He just held her, rocking her, soothing her, kissing her hair, kissing the tears that poured down her cheeks. He looked up and saw himself cradling her as if she was a child. He was scared of his own tenderness towards this woman, who both excited him sexually and aroused emotions he had not thought himself still capable of having. His arms tightened around her, until the weeping subsided and she lifted her lips to him. This time his kiss was not gentle but passionate, hard and crushing, and she responded.

Steven Janklow walked into the house. He looked into the spotless empty kitchen. The housekeeper had already left. He picked up his brother’s empty wine-glass, took it into the kitchen, and put it carefully in the dishwasher. He lifted the lids of two covered dishes left out for dinner. He was hungry but he didn’t know what he felt like eating; nothing tempted him.

He started up the stairs and stopped. He saw Lorraine’s shoes, first one then the other. He held them in disgust, cheap shoes, and carried them up the stairs, turning towards his brother’s quarters. He was just about to put them outside his door — he’d done it before, not just with shoes, but brassières, skirts and, more often than not, panties — when, as he drew closer, he could hear a high-pitched moan, like a mewing. It made him cringe. They all sounded alike, all his brother’s whores — even his wives. Janklow had intended simply to leave the shoes but the door was ajar. He put out his hand to close it, averting his eyes in case he got so much as a glimpse of their writhing naked bodies. The woman moaned again, and even though he didn’t want to look, he couldn’t help himself.

Her face was tilted towards him, eyes closed, mouth half open. She was astride his brother, her body like a young boy’s rather than a woman’s — that, perhaps, was what had made him stare. As she moved, thrusting forwards, Janklow gasped, quickly covering his mouth with his hand. He didn’t shut the door; he didn’t dare make a sound as he backed away silently. Not until he was safely along the corridor did he turn and run. He clung to the toilet rim as he vomited, retching with terror, his whole body breaking out in an icy sweat. He couldn’t be mistaken, it wasn’t possible. There couldn’t be two women with that face, that scar. It was
her —
the woman he had picked up, the woman who had bitten his neck until he bled like a pig.

He ran cold water over his face to try to calm himself, but his hands trembled violently. His mind screamed out questions. Why was she here? How could she have got to him here, traced him here? He tried to control his breathing, stop himself panting. Brad often dragged back whores and cheap bitches but he’d never have believed he would have sunk this low, not with
that
woman — she was disgusting. He flopped on his bed, saying to himself it was just a coincidence, it was that and nothing more, just a terrible coincidence. He rolled over, clenching his fists, trying not to break down and weep with fear. It was then that he saw his briefcase, knew at a glance that it had been moved, and worse, that it had been opened.

A thought struck him. He got up and went to his mother’s room where he checked her jewellery drawer. He knew that the boxes had been taken out — they were all in the wrong order. Someone had been in here and into his own room, checking him out. Was it Brad? Or was it that woman? He returned to his bedroom and bolted the door. He had to get rid of her. If she was a call-girl, if Brad had done his usual, brought her back to the house, he would just have to wait. They never stayed all night. When he saw her leave, he would follow. It was simple. He would kill her as he had almost done before, only this time he would make sure. He looked at his bedside clock, it was almost five. If she was like the others, she would probably be leaving after an hour or so to start work at night. Walking the streets as she had been doing when she had picked him up. He remembered how she had rested her hand on the car door, asked if he needed her help. There hadn’t been a car in the drive, had she come by taxi? Or parked out in the street?

Janklow crept around the house. He found Lorraine’s purse, opened it and searched through. She had little money, no cards or check books. All she had in her purse was a packet of cigarettes, a used lipstick, a comb, and, he smiled to himself, car keys.

He left the house and went down the driveway. He saw Bruno look up and wag his tail, and hoped he wouldn’t start barking. He stood, frozen to the spot, until the dog lowered his head. The gardener was on the other side of the tennis courts, using some kind of spray, intent on his work. Janklow opened the gates and walked along the road, sure that no one had seen him. There was no one on the road and not even a ear passed him.

He found Lorraine’s car and checked the keys against the registration number. He was feeling better now, more in control, already working out in his mind how he would kill her, because she was going to die.

Rooney rang Andrew Fellows’s doorbell, keeping his finger on the button. Fellows opened up and sighed when he saw who it was. ‘I said everything on the phone to Lieutenant Bean. I didn’t think it was necessary for anyone to come out, especially not now. She was here before lunch.’

Rooney smiled. ‘Sorry about this. I just wanted to go over a few things, and I’d like to speak to Mrs Fellows.’

They went into the kitchen where Dilly was sitting. She looked upset, tear-stained. She repeated everything to Rooney, again without any mention of her disclosure to Lorraine about Brad Thorburn.

‘Can I speak to you alone, Professor?’ Rooney asked.

‘Of course. Dilly, this won’t take long.’

Fellows took Rooney into his den. He looked a little sheepish.

‘You know the Thorburns?’

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t mention it this morning.’

‘No one asked me if I did or didn’t know them.’

‘When you left the station, did you come straight back home?’

Fellows flushed a deep red. ‘No, I did not. I — I went to the Thorburn house.’

Rooney stared hard, in disbelief as Fellows told him what he had said to Brad. He was obviously ashamed and knew he had behaved unethically. Rooney asked for Thorburn’s address and phone number. He left shortly after, not reprimanding Fellows, not saying much at all.

Fellows found his wife in the bedroom. She was crying again. He stared at her for a moment and then walked out. In a fit of rage he dragged Brad’s portrait off the wall, smashed it against the open fireplace until the canvas ripped apart and the frame snapped. He stamped on it, then lit the log fire and watched it blaze. He had never felt so angry in his life — angry and bitter, but above all foolish. He hated that most of all. He had just jeopardized his work with the police and doubted if he would ever be called upon again.

As the flames slowly destroyed the painting, his anger subsided. Now he felt nothing but humiliation. Brad Thorburn’s nakedness had dominated his home and he had allowed it, joked about it, encouraged Brad to visit Dilly. What made it worse was that Brad had known of her instability, which made his affair with her even more of a betrayal. Fellows vowed never to speak to or see him again. He couldn’t even stay in this room, even though the painting was no longer hanging on the wall. The vast space where the life-size portrait had hung added insult to injury. He picked up a cup of cold coffee and headed into the den. As he shut the door, he could hear his wife still crying but he had no intention of discussing Brad with her again. Fellows didn’t care if he had screwed her once or twice, it was immaterial. The fact that he had fucked her at all was what mattered.

Fellows found little solace in his den. There were photographs of him and Brad together all over the walls, the two of them fishing, playing baseball, water-skiing in Miami, at squash tournaments, on tennis courts. Brad Thorburn and Andrew Fellows had known each other for many years, had always been competitive with each other as sportsmen. In the women stakes, Fellows had never moved in Brad’s social sphere, had never wanted to, could never have been any competition there. No man could, not with Brad’s looks and wealth.

Fellows sat at his desk. He drew the file on the murder investigation closer and began to go over every detail once again. He had been so sure that Brad Thorburn could have no connection with the killings but what if he had been wrong? What if he had missed something? If he had, he was determined to find it. It made him feel better. He wanted to hurt Brad Thorburn — better still, destroy him.

Rooney reached his car and picked up the radio to tell Bean he was now on his way to the Thorburns’.

‘You going to interview Janklow?’ Bean asked.

‘Nope, I think Lorraine Page is trying to though so get a squad car out there. It’s Beverly Glen, you got the address? Okay, I’ll see you.’

T
HEY LAY naked side by side, the sheet loosely covering their bodies. She was face downwards, her eyes closed. Brad drew the sheet back and brushed his hand gently over her body. ‘How did you get these marks?’ He leaned up on his elbow, to trace the scar on her face. ‘And this?’

She pulled away from him, and suddenly swished the entire sheet from the bed and wrapped it around herself. ‘I’d better get dressed.’

He remained lying naked on the bed as she crossed the room. Trailing the sheet, she started to pick up her clothes. Skirt in one hand, she looked around. ‘Where are my shoes?’

Brad got up and opened a wardrobe. He took out a white kaftan and dragged it on over his head. ‘They must be downstairs. I’ll get them.’ He stood behind her and wrapped his arms round her, kissing the nape of her neck. Then he frowned and brushed the short hair at the nape of her neck upwards. ‘Jesus Christ, how did you get this one?’

The scar, still pink and raised, zig-zagged across her hair line. She tried to move away but he gripped her tightly. ‘Why don’t you answer me? Who did this to you?’

She tried to release herself but he held her tighter. ‘I need to get dressed.’

He let go of her shoulders. ‘I’ll be downstairs.’

‘Don’t go, not yet, we have to talk, the reason I came here.’

Brad sighed. ‘You want to talk but if I ask you a question you refuse to answer. So you go ahead, you talk.’ His face was tight with anger because he had thought she had come to see him, be with him. She continued to gather her clothes as he sat waiting.

‘Look, if it makes it any easier I know you’re a whore, you told me that yourself. Is it money you want?’

She moved so fast and it was so unexpected that he did nothing to defend himself. The slap was hard and it hurt. He rubbed his cheek and laughed.

‘I didn’t come here for what we just did.’ She stepped back and her fists were clenched. He reached out his hand to her but she wouldn’t take it. She began to pace up and down, the sheet trailing on the floor. She looked astonishingly beautiful. There was a mannish quality to her as she tightened the sheet round her body. ‘The scars I got from times when I was on the streets. I used to get drunk, I don’t know what I did, who I went with. I’m not proud of the hideous things or the cigarette burns, but I never felt them. I didn’t care enough about myself to care.’