Hanging Hill (25 page)

19

It was late and Millie wanted to stay with the Sweetmans, have a sleepover with Sophie. Apparently they were friends again. Sally wouldn’t have agreed after what had happened tonight, but maybe, she thought a little hopefully, Millie would spend time not just with Sophie but with Nial too. Get Peter Cyrus out of her head. And anyway, Steve insisted, Jake wasn’t a problem now: Sally could relax, she could come to his place and they could get drunk, celebrate the end of the whole bloody awful affair. Secretly she was glad. It gave her a chance to escape the silences that seemed to be building in the fields surrounding Peppercorn Cottage.

They stayed up late drinking a sweet dessert wine Steve had found for ten euros a bottle in a supermarket in Bergerac. They had sex twice – once on the kitchen counter with their clothes still on, and once much later in bed, under the covers, when they were very drunk and Sally couldn’t stop hiccuping or giggling. Things seemed almost normal on the surface. Even so, the last thing she did before she went to sleep was open the windows so the unfamiliar city noises would come into the room and get into her dreams – maybe stop Zoë, or David Goldrab sitting up in the field and grabbing her arm.

She woke late, her head thick and heavy, to a morning as hot as midsummer. She and Steve ate breakfast on the terrace. They drank cranberry juice and ate fresh raspberries. Today he was going to America and she had thought she was ready for that, but when, after breakfast, she came into the hallway to find him dressed in a suit, luggage on the floor next to him, she felt suddenly cold.

‘What if something happens? What if I get questioned again? I won’t know what to say.’

‘You won’t get questioned again. It won’t happen.’

‘What happens if someone traces that money you changed?’

‘The Krugerrands? They won’t. Trust me.’ He picked up his suitcase. ‘It’s going to be OK.’

Sally was subdued on the drive to the airport. The Audi would need to be repaired so they took her car, Steve driving, the window open, the radio on full blast, as if he didn’t have a worry in the world. She sat hunched on the passenger seat, her handbag clenched on her lap, staring out of the window at the Bristol suburbs, at the sunshine in sharp, blocky shapes on the dingy houses. She wondered whether Zoë sometimes came to Bristol. Of course she must – all the time. She’d been all around the world. Zoë’s face as she had stood at the table came back to Sally then, saying, ‘I apologize.’ She tried to imagine the image being taken away from her, pulled like a grey thread out of her head, out of the car window, whipped away by the slipstream, like a twisting ghost.

She and Steve didn’t speak much as they parked, made their way out of the sunshine into the terminal, through Check-in and up the escalator. They were already calling his flight, so he went straight to Security. It was after she’d kissed him goodbye and was walking away, her head down, that he stopped her.

‘Sally?’

She came to a halt, ten feet away, and turned. He was standing in the security line, facing her, the other passengers streaming past him. He wore an odd expression. He was rubbing his fingers together, studying them curiously. ‘What? What is it?’

He was frowning. He opened his hand to show her. ‘Lipstick?’

She walked back to him and together they looked at the lipstick on his fingers. A sort of orangey-red. ‘Where did that come from?’

‘I don’t know. Just from when I kissed you …’ He put his hand on her shoulder and rotated her away from him, looking at her back. ‘It’s on your dress. Look.’

Sally craned around, pulling the seat of the dress out to inspect. He was right – the back of her dress was covered with lipstick. A very distinct orange-red colour.

‘Did you brush up against something?’

‘I don’t think so.’ She strained to see it. ‘There’s lots of it.’

‘You have – you’ve leaned up against something. Here.’ Steve pulled out a folded handkerchief, made to rub at the cloth.

‘It’s OK. Don’t.’ She took it from him, let go of her dress and put the handkerchief back in his top pocket. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out. You’ll be late.’ She kissed his cheek and gave him a gentle push towards the security checkpoint. ‘Go on.’

He took one last look at her dress. ‘You sure?’

‘Of course. Safe journey. Call me when you get there.’

20

Dominic Mooney’s
Who’s Who
entry hadn’t been updated since his return from Kosovo. It read:

Born: Hong Kong, 20 Sept. 1955; s of Paul and Jean Mooney; m 1990, Paulette Frampton; one s

Education: Kings, Canterbury; Edinburgh Univ, BA Hons; RMA Sandhurst

Career: Military service 1976–1988, UK, Belize and Northern Ireland (1979–80). Civil service 1986–present: 1986–99 Defence Procurement Agency; 1999–2001 Civil Secretariat, Kosovo; 2001–2004 TPIU Priština

Address: 3 Rightstock Gardens, Finchley, London N3

Zoë knew that on the first line ‘one s’ meant that Mooney had one son – who was probably a teenager and too old to go on holiday with his parents. It took her no time to find him online. She started after the morning meeting, searched Mooney/Kosovo and found him within ten minutes: Jason Mooney. He had posted just about his entire life story online, including the time his dad had spent in Kosovo. (No mention of the women and the aborted half-brothers and sisters.) He was a nice-looking boy, suntanned in the way happy students always seemed to be in their Facebook pictures. He liked swimming, and Punk, a club in Soho Street, and thought Pixie Lott was about the hottest woman on the planet. He had tattoos in Hindi on his left ankle, still wore a friendship bracelet his best mate had given him when he was twelve and was a fresher at City University, studying aeronautical engineering. His shoot-for-the-stars ambition was to work on a privately financed team sending a probe into outer space. But his number one love, his truly, truly highest devotion, the thing that would take his soul with it if he ever lost it, was his hog: a 71 FX Harley Super Glide. He was pictured with it, standing on a sunlit country lane, looking so happy his heart could burst. The photo had a soft focus to it, as if it was a picture of newly weds. The moment Zoë saw it a bright clean path opened up in front of her. So clear it almost seemed to have beacons at either side of it.

Watling had said there was no one in the wide world as cynical as she was. But she’d been wrong. Zoë beat the shit out of her for cynicism. She knew that the polite goodbye handshake of Watling and Zhang would be the last she’d ever hear from ‘the Feds’. There wasn’t going to be any bunting coming from the commanding officer’s desk on Salisbury Plain. She didn’t want to rattle the case for them, but she was still going to get what she needed from it.

Bring me the head of David Goldrab, she thought, snatching up her helmet, balaclava, credit cards and keys. She trotted down the stairs. No Zhang standing like a giant irritable spider in the car park today. She climbed on to the Shovelhead, opened up the choke and pressed the starter. She’d be in London by midday.

It was a sunny day – great riding weather. The M4 was clear, only one hold-up outside Swindon that she shimmied her way through. She got plenty of glances from men in their cars, the sun glinting off her Oakley dirt goggles like she was in some seventies road movie, the opening guitar riff from a Steppenwolf track looping through her head as she drove. The Mooneys lived in Finchley, north London, near the North Circular, where the packed terraces of the inner city began to give way to lawns and driveways and garages, lots of yew hedges and leylandii. She found the road easily – the sort of place you had to take only one step into to know you’d walked into Moneyville. High walls, electronic gates and security systems dozed in the sun. It wasn’t that far from Bishop’s Avenue, after all, where the zillionaires lived.

The numbers at this end were high, so the Mooneys’ would be at the other. She swung the Shovelhead into a U-turn and nosed it out of the street back on to the North Circular. Took a right then another right until she came to the other end of the street, found a place to pull over. She put down the kickstand, pulled out the key, and walked back a few yards, taking off her helmet. From the cover of a curved brick wall she could peer down the road to the houses. The Mooneys’ was the big fifties detached thing, with spike-topped walls and a brick driveway, the borders planted with kerria, its egg-yolk-yellow blossom balls motionless in the sun. No civil servant should live in a place like that – even the ones who made more than the Prime Minister.

She weighed up her options. There were no cars on the driveway, the doors were closed on the double garage and the gates were closed too. One of the windows on the first floor stood open. Just a crack. She inched forward a little, out of the din of the traffic on the main road, and concentrated on that open window. The Steppenwolf guitar was still grinding in her head, but there was something else. She was sure of it. Something frenetic pounding out of the house. A woman’s voice, rapping out South-London-gone-Hollywood R&B. The sort of thing those who really lived on those streets shrank from, and only rich suburban white kids thought was radical. Zoë gave the open window a small ironic smile. Jason. It had to be. Sometimes things were just too damned easy.

She sauntered back to the bike, pulling on her helmet, bounced it off its kickstand and pulled the Leatherman knife she carried everywhere out of her jacket pocket. She bent over, reached into the space above the cylinder head and gave one of the ceramic spark-plug insulators a sharp tap. It cracked instantly. She got back on the Shovelhead, started the engine and headed into the avenue, the bike’s full-throated roar bouncing off the houses beyond their big front gardens. About fifty yards up, the roar became a cough, then a stuttering choke. It died to nothing and the bike freewheeled to a stop about ten yards past the Mooneys’ driveway. She climbed off it, removed her helmet, shook out her hair, opened the saddlebag and began pulling out tools. A set of pipe grips – completely the wrong thing for the job. She got down on the pavement, lay on her side and began struggling to get the grips around the insulator.

She didn’t hear Jason approaching. The first she knew of it was when his feet appeared about a yard away: tanned, in a pair of battered Ripcurl sandals, their braiding bleached to shreds by sun and sand. She looked at them for a few seconds. Then she pushed herself away from the bike and rolled herself up to a sitting position, her feet in the gutter.

‘I’m sorry. Hope I’m not inconveniencing anyone. I should be out of your way in less than ten.’

‘It’s misfiring. I can tell just by the sound.’ Jason looked thinner than he did on his Facebook pictures. And the photos he’d chosen had made his lower jaw look squarer than it was in real life. But his face was open, his eyes wide-spaced and pale blue. No trace of malice or slyness in them. He was wearing a T-shirt with the logo ‘Oh Christ. You’re going to try and cheer me up. Aren’t you?’ ‘I heard you coming down the street. I closed my eyes and I thought, It’s an FXE Superglide Shovelhead, isn’t it? An ’80. I was wrong about the year, but I got the make and model.’ Jason shook his head. He looked awestruck. ‘And of all the houses you could have broken down in front of – I mean, I’m a
total
hog
insect
. You couldn’t have planned it any better. Have you looked at the plugs?’

‘It’s what I’m doing now. I could have had it sorted in a couple of seconds if I had a plug socket. Have to make do with these.’ She held up the grips.

‘Jesus. You’ve got to see my workshop. It’s got everything. Come on, come on.’

She hesitated. Looked around the avenue. ‘You sure?’

‘Of course. Come on. I swear this is pure karma at work.’

Together, they wheeled the Shovelhead into the driveway, the cast-iron gates sliding closed behind them. There was the sound of a water feature coming from somewhere at the side of the house. ‘Great place,’ Zoë said, as Jason opened the garage door. ‘Someone’s doing very nicely.’

‘My parents. They’re away. It’s just me and the tortoises. Have you ever tried to have a conversation with a tortoise? Trust me, they don’t know their hogs.’

‘I don’t know many people who know their hogs. Not the way you do.’

That pleased him. He gave a broad smile and held out his hand. ‘I’m Jason.’

‘Evie.’ She shook it. ‘It’s nice to meet another hog freak. You total nerd.’

He grinned and pointed a finger at himself. ‘Remember this face. Technical genius. One day I’m going to land a probe on Mars. You see if I don’t.’

Inside the garage there was a red four-by-four and the Harley. He spent some time showing it to her, letting her run her fingers over a welding job he’d done himself to see just how ‘awesomely smooth’ it was. Then he went to his workbench at the back of the garage and scanned the tools mounted on the wall, murmuring under his breath until he came to the item he wanted. ‘A magnetic one for this, I think,’ he said, selecting a plug socket. He knelt down on the cool garage floor next to the bike. While he tinkered Zoë unzipped her jacket and made a show of wandering along the workbench, pretending to study the labels and the mountings. With her back turned to him she slipped the pipe grips from out of her T-shirt, crouched and left them on the floor. She might need to come back. Then she leaned against the bench, arms folded, head tilted back. From here she could see through the door that led into the house. It was slightly ajar. Beyond it there were glimpses of Dominic Mooney’s life – a pale-blue carpet, a polished mahogany hall table, artificial arum lilies in a vase. Jason must have turned the hip-hop off, because the place was quiet, just the sound of a grandfather clock ticking somewhere.

‘It won’t take long. The insulation’s cracked.’

‘Is it? Good job you were here, eh?’ She nodded into the house. ‘I don’t suppose I could … uh?’ She held out her hands to show how grimy they were. ‘I’ve been in the saddle all day and I’d love to just wash my hands.’

‘First on the left.’ He didn’t look up. ‘Use the towel on the metal ring and not the folded ones, the ones with the lace and shit. Those are for guests. Mum’ll castrate me if they get used.’

Zoë sauntered into the house, the zips on her jacket jingling. She went into the cloakroom and splashed her face. There were nice toiletries – good stuff, like Champney’s handwash and an Italian moisturizer in a stone bottle with gold script on it. She took the towel off the ring and wandered into the hallway, drying her hands. The noises of Jason tinkering came from the garage. He was totally absorbed, so she quickly put her head round all of the doors leading from the hall. The living room was huge, carpeted with something patterned and furnished like a hotel, with ornately upholstered sofas. The fitted mahogany shelves were crammed with books and photo albums. French windows led on to a large, walled garden, filled with sunshine. Leaning against the windows was a tennis racket and a tube of balls. Funny, she thought, eyeing them. She’d never really given much thought to how many people had tennis balls knocking around their house.

She went to the kitchen doorway and gave that a quick scan: country-style with wooden units, dried hops draped across the pelmets, utensils in a rustic terracotta jug. A gingham tea-towel. It didn’t seem like the house of a person who’d kill someone or pay someone else to do it. Even so, there was something, just something, about this place that said Mooney could easily be responsible for David Goldrab’s microwave dinner going hard back in Bath.

In the garage the engine came to life. Jason gave a little yelp of victory. Zoë came back into the doorway, still drying her hands. He was standing next to the bike, grinning all over his face, turning the throttle, making the engine roar. ‘Told you, didn’t I?’ he shouted, over the noise. ‘Remember this face. Remember me!’

She put the towel down on the workbench and came over to the bike, shaking her head admiringly. ‘Great,’ she yelled. ‘Do I owe you anything?’

‘A ride? That is—’ Remembering his manners, he stopped revving and let his face go sober. ‘A ride? If you don’t mind.’

‘You want to drive my Shovelhead?’

‘No – I mean, not if it’s a problem. Really. Forget I asked.’

‘No, no – I mean, it’s …’ She nibbled her lip. Pretended to be struggling with this. Then, at length she said, ‘It’s fine. Are you insured?’

‘I’ll only take it up the road and back. I won’t take it out of the street.’

‘OK. I s’pose it’s the least I can do. But take care of her, eh?’

‘I will.’

Jason ran inside and came hurrying back out with a black Shoei open-face helmet. He kicked off his sandals and zipped boots on to his bare feet. He looked faintly insane in his T-shirt and the beetle headgear as he clambered on to the bike. He wobbled a bit coming out of the gates, then got into his stride. He turned out on to the street in second and was gone. She could hear the blast of the engine coming over the hedges and gardens as he sped up the road. She turned and went quickly back into the house.

The bookshelves in the living room didn’t contain anything special. A few photos of the family, the Mooneys on their wedding day, Jason as a baby, a tall thin girl in a bridesmaid’s dress. The books were mostly non-fiction, on domestic policy and languages – Spanish, Russian, Arabic. Nothing that looked like business files. She went into the hallway and opened all the other doors. A utility room, a studio with half-finished pottery dotted around, a dining room with the curtains closed to stop the sun fading the furniture. And a room that was locked.

She rattled the door. She ran her fingers over the frame, feeling for a key. Checked in the bowl on the hallstand, picking up car keys on a springy spiral rubber ring, a gas-meter key, some petrol receipts. No key.

She went back through the garage, across the driveway and through the wooden side gate. Here, the houses stood quite close to each other, and the side access was in shadow. On this wall there were only two windows in the Mooneys’ house, one frosted, with the overflow from the toilet below it, the second the window into the locked room. She put her hand against it and peered inside. She could make out a big mahogany leather-topped desk with a green banker’s lamp on it, a leather armchair and a footstool. On the shelves beyond the desk she could plainly see the box files lined up. ‘Kosovo’, one said, ‘Priština’ another. Maybe some record of whom he’d paid. And how. She drummed her fingers on the glass. She could smash the window now, be in and out in no time.