The Hunter's Prayer (8 page)

‘You know him?’ She answered the question almost immediately in her own mind, remembering that Lucas had told her he didn’t know Simon.

‘God, no! Heard of him. Unsavory type—had a vicious reputation as an enforcer, and as a contract killer.’ An enforcer—she thought of that moment of rage with Chris, imagining it exploding into full-blown violence.

‘I heard him say he’d killed people. And he killed three people to keep me alive—that’s really all I need to know about him.’

‘Absolutely. I should contact him, make sure he’s been paid. Did he give you a contact number or an address?’ She shook her head, wanting to keep the number he’d written in the book to herself. ‘Oh well, I’m sure he’ll be in touch with us if he needs the money. Was it his idea that you make a will out there?’

He seemed suspicious, worried perhaps, about what influence the mysterious Lucas might have had on her. Before she could answer, the boys’ excited shouts burst out of the house and onto the lawn. Harry was carrying a tennis racket, George a ball.

They ran across to them, shouting, ‘Ella, come and play with us.’

Simon raised his eyebrows, making clear he wouldn’t offer an escape route.

‘Let me guess: French cricket?’ She was already standing but said to Simon, ‘No, that was my idea. I’ve left everything to you, then to the boys.’

He looked reassured. ‘Okay, let’s have no more talk of death. We’ll have enough of that in the next few weeks to last a lifetime.’ She smiled, amused by his unfortunate choice of words, then joined the boys.

It was a relief to play games for a while. She’d wanted to hear about the business, to know something of the truth, but she was already sick of the details, wanting simply to forget it all and leave it in Simon’s hands.

For half an hour or so, the only things that mattered were the minor disputes over whether George or Harry was out or not, each of them appealing to her like she was an omniscient umpire. Then Simon called her back to the house. As she approached, she could see two people behind him in the living room.

He sounded falsely cheerful. ‘Police are here to have a little chat with you.’

‘Okay.’ She followed him in.

‘This is my niece, Ella. This is—now let me get this right—Detective Inspector Graham Thorburn and Detective Sergeant Vicky Welsh.’

Thorburn was wearing a tie but no jacket, his hair slicked back in a high-maintenance style. He was probably about thirty, but Welsh looked not much older than Ella, her hair short, wearing a light skirt and a short loose blouse. She smiled at Ella even before they were introduced.

‘Please, call us Graham and Vicky.’ They shook hands.

‘Probably best to use the library,’ said Simon. ‘Oddly enough, it’s the only room the boys don’t use as a racetrack.’

As he led them through, Graham Thorburn said, ‘You don’t mind if we speak to Ella alone?’

Ella wondered if it was a challenge, an attempt to rattle him, but Simon was calm. ‘Not at all. Just give me a call if you need me for anything.’ He left and they sat down, Ella on one sofa, the other two on the one facing it across a coffee table laid out with dusted but untroubled art books.

Vicky Welsh looked around the room and said, ‘It’s a beautiful house your uncle has here.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is. Like an off-the-shelf Agatha Christie house.’

Her colleague laughed and, still smiling, said, ‘Okay, Ella, if you feel up to it we’d just like to ask a few questions. If they seem intrusive it’s only because we’re determined to explore every channel in finding the person or persons who murdered your family.’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. First and most obvious then, can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against your father or family or any reason why someone might have been moved to these actions?’ Ella noticed that Vicky Welsh had taken a notebook out and was poised to record her answers. ‘I want you even to recall if your father had any arguments in person or on the phone, if he ever seemed agitated in any way.’

‘No.’ She felt a little guilty offering such a short response to such a long question, but it was the truth. Still, she added, ‘I can’t remember the last time I saw him stressed about anything. It makes me wonder how well I really knew him.’

‘Why? What makes you say that?’ Clearly they were hoping she’d spill some of the truths she’d learned in the last day or two.

‘Well, he must have been stressed if he was so afraid of me being kidnapped. Okay, I’m sure all parents worry, but not enough to hire a bodyguard.’

‘Yes, I see. And you say this bodyguard never told you his name?’

‘That’s right. He told us we didn’t need to know it. After seeing what he did we weren’t in any mood to press him.’

‘And you stayed at his house but you don’t know where?’ He sounded mildly skeptical.

‘There was a small town nearby. I’d know the name if I saw it again—I just don’t remember it.’

‘That’s okay.’ Thorburn looked like he’d given up on the subject of Lucas, something in his manner suggesting he didn’t believe a word of what she was saying about him. ‘Your parents, were they happy? I mean, their marriage . . .’

‘Yes, very.’

He smiled and said, ‘What about your dad and your uncle—how was their relationship?’

‘Good.’

‘You never heard them argue about the business?’ He was talking like Simon was a suspect and she wanted to ask if that was the case, holding off only because it seemed like the kind of clichéd question people always asked in TV crime dramas.

‘I never heard them argue at all. And they never discussed business.’

‘So you don’t think your uncle was unhappy playing second fiddle to your dad?’

‘Simon idolized my father.’ She wanted to say more, to make clear how inappropriate she thought his line of questioning was, and how unfounded, but the shock of the implication had robbed her of eloquence. Perhaps he picked up on her indignation anyway, because he paused, they both looked a little embarrassed, and then the inspector subtly shifted gears.

‘Our investigation’s centered at the moment on your father’s relatively complex business affairs. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that we’ll stand a much higher chance of finding the murderers if we have complete access . . .’

Ella cut him off, saying, ‘You need to speak to my uncle about that.’ It was her way of saying that she trusted Simon completely, more than she trusted them.

‘But you’ll give us your permission?’ He was being vaguely confrontational and it irritated her. She didn’t care about the business, but they seemed to care about it more than they did the murders.

‘No, I’m sorry. That’s up to Simon too.’

‘But you
do
want us to find the people who killed your parents and brother.’

‘Nice try.’ She smiled, as if to make clear that she wouldn’t be a pushover. That’s clearly what they’d hoped, that they could use her innocence and her desperation. ‘And while we’re at it, I didn’t much appreciate seeing newspaper headlines describing them as gangland executions. My father wasn’t a gangster.’

Thorburn looked slightly hostile, his civility deserting him as he said, ‘I can assure you, we’ve said nothing about that to the press.’

‘Not directly, perhaps.’

‘Not at all.’ He stared at her, apparently mulling over whether or not it was worth asking any more questions. ‘Well, I think that’ll do for now. Thanks for your time.’ The hostility was still there, perhaps disappointment too, and Ella felt like they were already repositioning her in their scheme of things. Then, on what sounded like a point of principle, he said, ‘Even if your father had been a gangster, and I repeat that we have never implied that, we’d still be just as determined to find his killers.’

‘Not as determined as I am.’

He nodded, not in agreement but by way of acknowledging that they were done, and said, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ He stood up. ‘Your uncle has my number. If you think of anything, call me.’

Ella remained on the sofa after they’d gone, trying to take in what had happened. At some point in the last few days, between escorting her home and that interview, the police had shifted subtly along the axis from allies to adversaries. And as she defended her family’s reputation, she felt more like a criminal herself, looking upon the authorities with an inbuilt mistrust.

There was a knock on the door and Vicky Welsh came back in, smiling.

‘Hi. Look, sorry about Graham. The truth is, somebody in the police probably did drop a hint to the press. It’s a way of telling the public not to worry, but it isn’t fair on you.’ She handed her a piece of paper and said, ‘That’s my direct line and my mobile. If you need to talk to me or find out how things are going, just give me a call.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t mention it. Keep hanging in there.’ She walked away but stopped again and turned before reaching the door. ‘Ella . . .’ She hesitated, as if unsure how to put her thoughts into words, then said simply, ‘Just be careful.’

‘I will.’

The police clearly had nothing to go on. They were thrashing around, looking at Simon as a suspect, getting hung up on the business side of things. Within a few weeks they’d probably think she’d been behind it herself.

Perhaps it was too early to dismiss their efforts, but she couldn’t bear the possibility of no one being caught. Someone out there right now had gone to their home and killed her family, and men had come for her in Italy, and someone out there had ordered those deaths, had paid the gunmen.

It filled her with poison to think that the people who’d done this were walking free, getting on with their lives. Within days she’d have to attend the funeral for the world she’d known, and in the back of her mind, beyond all the confused layers of grief, she’d be thinking of those persons unknown, laughing, eating, drinking.

Her dad hadn’t been a gangster, but right now she’d have forgiven him even that, because her own heart was full of more violence than his could have mustered. And that scared her, because if the police failed to bring anyone to justice she could see no outlet for that violence, and no one who could exorcise it from her.

Chapter Eight

S
he kept a book by her side, ready to fool anyone who came in, knowing how they’d react if they thought she was just sitting there, looking out at the rain. She wasn’t sure what she was meant to be doing instead, but there seemed a general consensus that it wasn’t good for her to dwell on things. Her family was in the ground now and it was time for her to move on, to put all this unpleasantness aside. That’s how easy it was meant to be.

And yet if anything, she felt worse than she had around the time of the funeral; at least then there had been arrangements and decisions to make, things to take her mind off the blank horror of what had happened. Now she didn’t even have the distraction of the boys, who’d been spirited off to Lucy’s parents for a week.

So she sat in silence, looking out at the rain that had been falling for the best part of two days. In her better moments she thought of the drive with Lucas, through similar weather to the sanctuary of his house. Most of the time, though, her mind was lost in the featureless wastes, latching on wherever it could—a burst of self-pity, a nostalgic recollection and, increasingly, a gnawing desire to destroy the people responsible, a desire that was hollow, eating away at her insides because she didn’t even know who those people were.

She was beginning to hate the police for failing to make any progress. Eventually, she’d undoubtedly begin to hate herself too, because she was still alive, still capable of seeing justice done and yet she was doing nothing; her inertia felt like a betrayal.

She heard a door close downstairs and then low voices. She couldn’t hear who it was, but guessed they were discussing her. They often seemed to talk about her in quiet, concerned voices like that, like she was ill or on suicide watch.

The voices stopped, and for a while she strained to hear more noise. There was nothing and then a knock at her door that startled her. She picked her book up quickly and called out nonchalantly for them to come in. She kept her eyes on the book as the door opened, but glanced at the reflection in the rain-darkened window to see who it was.

The figure she saw there startled her again and she jumped up, her feelings scattering in confusion. She felt like an amnesiac, believing this was the man she loved but not quite sure where she’d hidden the memory of that love inside herself.

Chris almost ran to her, put his arms around her and held her tight. She dropped the book and held him back, a reflexive response to the warmth and touch of his body. He whispered in her ear, about missing her, apologizing for not having come sooner, the reasons he hadn’t been at the funeral.

She stroked his hair. ‘It’s okay, I understand.’ She broke away long enough to kiss him and said then, ‘Shall we sit down?’

He looked troubled, as if she’d said something strange or as if he mistrusted something about her appearance, but he smiled and said, ‘Of course.’

They talked for a while like people from another age, making polite inquiries. She could tell he was finding it hard work, but she could see no way through to the relaxed conversation she knew they should be having.

Finally, as if hitting upon an escape, Chris said, ‘I was talking to your uncle and one of the policemen about the possibility of us going away for a few days.’ She wasn’t conscious of reacting but he appeared to pick up on something and added, ‘I don’t mean right now. Later in the summer. We could just go somewhere quiet, relax.’

‘Somewhere like Montecatini?’

‘That’s why we should go somewhere, to get rid of that association.’

She glanced out at the rain. If the police found the killers, she could imagine going somewhere with Chris, but they wouldn’t find them. She wouldn’t be safe and she wouldn’t be at peace, no matter where they went.

‘The police don’t know what they’re doing.’ He looked confused, so she smiled a little and said, ‘If the police find them, then I’ll go. I just don’t like the idea of . . .’

‘I know. But if the police find them, you’ll consider it?’

She nodded and he kissed her and held her again, whispering once more how he’d missed her but with a different meaning this time, his hand spelling it out, marking its territory across her body, finally securing itself to her left breast, kneading the flesh.

He’d never known how to handle her breasts. A couple of times she’d tried to offer some gentle guidance but had given up, accepting the lack of pleasure and occasional discomfort, telling herself he made up for it in other ways.

He released her suddenly, backing away as he said, ‘What’s up?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean you seem uncomfortable, rigid.’

‘Sorry.’

‘I don’t want an apology. I just wanna know what’s up. You’re not upset with me?’ She looked him in the eye, trying to remind herself who this was. She still loved him, but it was as if he were visiting her in a maximum-security prison, a layer of impenetrable glass between them, with no way to convey to him how it felt to be on her side.

‘I can’t think straight. It’s like you’re touching me and I can’t feel anything, nothing, just . . . I just need more time.’

He looked hesitant, careful. ‘Your aunt said you were on medication. You think maybe you should get them to up the dose?’ She looked at him in disbelief.

‘You want me loved up so we can fuck?’

‘That isn’t what I meant.’

‘Chris, I’m flushing the pills.’

It was his turn to look shocked.

‘I thought the doctor said you were depressed.’

‘Of course I’m depressed. Someone killed my family. I’m depressed and I’m angry and I’m full of hate—that’s how I should feel.’

‘Why? What are you gonna gain from bringing yourself down?’

She saw no point in explaining. Everyone wanted her to be happy; that was the lie of their age, that being happy was the goal. Take the pills, be happy, forget that the sky had been torn from the world this summer. But she was a country at war, its territory invaded, citizens slaughtered, fighting for its survival. How could she explain that to Chris?

Finally she put her hand on his and said, ‘I just need you to wait for me. A few more weeks, that’s all.’

He shook his head.

‘No.’ Her confusion obviously showed because he said, ‘You need me right now, whether you know it or not, and if you can’t accept that on trust, I can’t see what difference a few weeks will make.’

She knew what he wanted: to have her back the way she’d been. He wanted her to take the pills and get better, to wind the clock back to that moment in Montecatini before Lucas had crossed the street and killed two men for her. And like a dull distant bell sounding, she sensed what she’d feared from the beginning: that it was over between them.

She desperately wanted Chris to accept her for who she was now but she feared he’d always be waiting on her recovery. And he’d never understand that she wasn’t damaged but in fact more complete, possessed of the truth of how the world really was.

‘If the police find someone . . .’

‘What if they don’t?’

‘I don’t know.’ He stood up. He was leaving already and a part of her was relieved, but even so, she couldn’t believe that he was giving up so quickly. ‘Why did you come here?’

It was the wrong question and not what she’d meant to say, but he said, ‘Because I missed you, and because I thought you might need me.’ She felt bad and was willing herself to stand up, to hold him, but he looked hurt, rejected.

‘I’ll start taking the pills.’ She didn’t mean it, but she wanted to offer him something. ‘And we’ll go somewhere like you said, in September.’

‘Do you want me to stay now?’ It wasn’t an offer, more a demand for clarification, her hesitation all the response he needed. ‘I’ll be at home all summer.’ He left.

She was exhausted. She didn’t know how to speak to anyone anymore. Maybe she’d write to him and when they got back to college things would be different.

She heard voices below, doors, the faint sound of a car starting and pulling away from the front of the house. Equally distant in her own head, a voice registered the effort he’d gone to, driving all the way over here to see her, intent on staying perhaps, helping her through this, an effort she’d repaid with rejection.

There was another gentle knock at the door. She didn’t need to look at the reflection to know it was Simon. He walked over and put his hand on her shoulder.

She lifted her own hand, clasping it around his fingers as she said, ‘Sorry.’

‘No, I am. I thought it might cheer you up.’ He paused before saying, ‘They wouldn’t have wanted you to be like this.’ The phrase rang false somehow, like something he’d heard in a schmaltzy TV movie and felt uncomfortable repeating.

‘Wouldn’t they? How do you know?’ She turned to look at him. He looked embarrassed, even afraid. ‘When I die I hope I leave at least one person as heartbroken as I am now. I want people to be sad. I want my life to have meant something.’

He smiled a little. ‘We agreed there’d be no more talk of death.’

‘Just give me this summer. One summer to grieve for a lost family—it’s not too much to ask, is it?’

He shook his head. ‘Of course not. But think about going away with Chris in September. Aim for it. It’ll do you good.’ She nodded and he smiled again and closed the door softly behind him. She felt like screaming, like she was the only person who could see what had happened.

She looked at the telephone and suddenly thought of Lucas. It was absurd that his was the only phone number she possessed that still meant anything, that was still connected to the world she inhabited. And yet what would she say to him if she called? He’d care nothing that she was at a low point. Even the fact that she was still alive would probably be of only marginal interest to him.

For all that, though, the reason she didn’t pick up the phone was more practical. Lucas was her fallback position, her last resort, and as bad as things seemed, she wanted to keep him in reserve for the day they got worse. Lucas didn’t know it, but she was counting on him more than anybody.