The Last Girl (43 page)

‘I understand that.’ Zoe looked down at Derwent, which was a long way given her height. ‘If you’re asking me if I think Savannah went to London and killed Vita and Laura, the answer is definitely no.’

‘I’m asking you where the car was.’

‘In the yard.’

‘You’re sure?

‘Yes.’

‘No doubt at all?’

‘None.’

‘Right. Just wanted to clear it up.’

‘I’m glad I was able to help.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Seen enough?’

‘You said there was another barn,’ I pointed out.

‘An old one behind the garage. We don’t use it for anything. The roof is falling in. Other than that, it’s just the house.’

The four of us turned to look at it, seeing a long, low building that was evidently older in some parts than others, though none of it was what you could call new. The bricks were hundreds of shades of red, the windows small and low, haphazard in their distribution. The side we were on was more sheltered than the yard and eight or nine small trees stood behind the house, unripe apples a sharper green among the leaves.

‘Lovely.’ I hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but Zoe smiled at me.

‘We think so.’

‘It doesn’t look like somewhere anyone rich would choose to live.’ Derwent was not sounding impressed.

‘That just shows your lack of imagination. It’s perfect for Sav. She spends all her time in cities or on planes. This is the complete opposite. No one to see what she’s wearing. None of the neighbours care that she’s famous. She can really relax.’

‘Good way of keeping her all to yourself, too, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t need to keep Savannah away from the rest of the world to know how she feels about me.’ Zoe spoke quietly, but with total conviction.

‘Can we go inside?’ Lydia asked.

‘Of course. I don’t know what we’re still doing out here. Come on.’ Zoe strode back down the path, her long legs scything through the grass. Lydia scampered after her like a Jack Russell, looking her age for once. I followed more slowly, aware of Derwent behind me swearing under his breath. It might have been the heat that was annoying him, or the uneven terrain, but I had a feeling it was Zoe herself.

A shriek of metal on metal made me look up to see one of the windows under the eaves swinging open. Savannah leaned out of it, waving. Her hair was all over the place and she was wearing a white vest without a bra. She was laughing, and she looked utterly ravishing. ‘Lydia! You’ve come! You’re here!’

‘Doesn’t miss much, does she?’

I looked round at Derwent. ‘Bitter?’

‘About what?’

‘Her lack of interest in men?’

‘Fuck that. I’m more bothered by the alibi that isn’t.’ He pointed in the general direction of the yard. ‘I’m going to look under that car when we’re leaving. I’ll bet you a lap dance there isn’t an oil stain under it, or anywhere else in the yard. That car’s never parked anywhere other than the garage, except today when they knew we were coming. All of that was just window dressing.’

‘I’m stuck on who’s supposed to be doing a lap dance for whom.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself, Kerrigan. If I’m right, you’re paying a professional to do one for me.’

‘And if you’re wrong?’

‘Then we both get the pleasure of sleeping easy, don’t we?’ He shook his head, his jaws working as he savaged a piece of gum. ‘I wish I knew what Philip Kennford isn’t telling us. I wish I could be sure leaving Lydia here was the right thing to do. Something about this bothers me a lot.’

The two in front of us had reached the house already and Lydia was standing just beside the back door while
Zoe
opened it. Her arms were wrapped around her tiny frame as if she was cold. The sun’s glare made it impossible to see anything inside when the door swung open. Zoe disappeared into the darkness without a glance in our direction, and after a second’s hesitation Lydia followed, dropping out of view as completely as if she had been swallowed up for ever. I wished it didn’t feel like an omen.

I hated it when Derwent was right.

What we found inside the farmhouse was a strangely appealing mixture of vintage shabby chic and out-and-out junk, faded chintz and vases full of wild flowers. The floors throughout were wooden, the walls oak-panelled or cream-painted, and where the ceilings weren’t strung with low, dark beams they had the cottage-cheese lumpiness of properly old plaster. Antique linen and lace hung at the windows – old sheets and tablecloths remade into curtains – and the rugs on the floors were handmade, doubtless expensively. The kitchen was the heart of the house, a big room with a huge scrubbed table at its centre and an extraordinary range of copper pots nailed onto the walls. It had cost a fortune, I thought, looking at the fine carpentry that was pretending to be old shelves and cupboards, and the double-width Belfast sink. Predictably, there was an Aga, red and showroom-glossy. One wall was taken up with an inglenook fireplace, a wooden-framed sofa on either side of it, and that was where Zoe indicated we should sit. She headed to a scullery off the kitchen where a vast American fridge hummed.

‘Home-made lemonade?’

‘That sounds good,’ I said, ignoring a glower from Derwent.

‘Coming up.’

The fridge clanked as ice cascaded into a jug; living in the country in bucolic bliss was obviously fine as far as it
went
but there was no reason to forgo the little luxuries of modern convenience. It occurred to me to check my phone and I wasn’t surprised to find I had full signal and instant Wi-Fi. We weren’t as far from civilisation as all that.

‘Did you do all this yourselves?’ I asked when Zoe came back with a tray.

‘No. The previous owner did it.’ She looked around. ‘I wouldn’t have the patience to haunt antique shops and auctions for all of this copper tat, but she loved it. She was doing an interior design course and this was her show house.’

‘And Savannah bought the lot.’

‘She liked it. She wouldn’t have had time to put it together herself either, but it appealed to her.’ Zoe grinned. ‘It’s very different from her other homes.’

‘Where else does she live?’

‘New York and Paris. There’s a villa in St Lucia. She used to have a house in Chelsea but she sold it when we found this place.’

‘Every little luxury money can buy.’ Derwent sounded bitter.

‘She invests in high-end property. This is the only place she bought because she fell in love with it.’

‘I thought it was because she fell for you and you needed your privacy so no one else would find out.’

The colour washed into Zoe’s cheeks. ‘I suppose that’s true. In a way.’

‘Does it ever bother you that she wants to pretend you don’t exist?’

‘It’s part of the deal.’ She occupied herself with pouring cloudy lemonade into tall glasses, concentrating on what she was doing with perhaps more care than was strictly necessary.

‘Bit different from your house, isn’t it, Lydia?’ Derwent said.

The girl nodded, taking it all in through owl-like eyes
that
widened still further at the patter of bare feet on a creaky wooden staircase. The door swung open and Savannah breezed into the room, now dressed in a cotton flowered dress but still with unbrushed hair.

‘I’m so sorry I was still in bed. I told Zoe to wake me when you got here.’ She put her arms around her half-sister and gave her a quick hug. ‘So glad you came, darling. We’ll try to make it nice for you.’

‘I don’t need anything.’ There was a note of something approaching panic in Lydia’s voice. She had turned her face away, but I could tell that she was blushing. I recalled the pile of magazines in her room and wondered if she had collected them because they featured Savannah. It couldn’t be easy to meet your hero, even if she was related to you.

‘Well, we’ll try to make sure you have somewhere nice to stay. Have you seen your room yet?’

Zoe answered. ‘We’ve only just come inside. I was waiting to take Lydia upstairs.’

‘Waiting for what?’ Savannah’s eyes fell on me and Derwent. ‘Oh. You’re still here.’

‘Don’t mind me.’ Derwent looked more or less as if he had taken root in his corner. He knocked back his drink and gave an appreciative burp that instantly tainted the air around him with acrid lemon. ‘Refreshing.’

‘I’m glad you liked it.’ Zoe set her glass back down on the tray as if she couldn’t face sipping it after Derwent’s performance. ‘Sav, you could show Lydia her room now, I suppose.’

The model clapped her hands. ‘Yay! Come with me.’

I took the invitation that hadn’t quite been extended to me and followed them out of the room, gambling that Savannah was too nice to tell me I wasn’t wanted. She led us up the narrow, creaking stairs to a long landing that ran the length of the house, with windows overlooking the little orchard on one side and bedrooms on the other. The window where I had seen her was still open, the curtains
quivering
in a breath of wind that wasn’t strong enough to cool the air. It was close to being unbearably stuffy up there, the pitched ceiling giving a clue that we were right in the roof space.

‘Sorry it’s so hot. No air con, but you can leave your window open all night.’

‘I don’t mind hot weather.’ Lydia’s voice was a whisper.

‘That explains how you can stand to wear black. Long sleeves too. You really mean it, don’t you?’ Lydia hung her head miserably. The older girl dropped an arm around her sister’s shoulders and squeezed. ‘If you feel like getting out of the whole Goth look, just let me know. I’ve got plenty of stuff if you want to borrow anything. It’ll be long on you, but we can make it work.’

‘I’m okay.’

I thought Savannah was going to pursue it but she gave her a slightly dubious look and then carried on. ‘You’re in the end room because it’s the nicest. Wait until you see the view.’

She carried on down the corridor, pointing out her bedroom on the way past. The door hung open, showing off a huge four-poster bed, which was unmade. There were clothes piled high on a chair in the window and a rickety table was covered in cosmetics of various kinds. ‘Zoe thinks I’m awful because I never pick up after myself.’

‘Does she do it for you?’ I asked.

‘She’s my girlfriend, not my slave.’ Again there was that flick of scorn in her voice that reminded me of her father.

‘I thought she was your assistant.’

‘She does the admin.’ Savannah shrugged. ‘It just makes sense for tax purposes if I employ her and pay her a wage. It doesn’t mean I take advantage of her.’

‘But she runs the house here.’

‘I suppose so.’ She opened the door at the end of the corridor and stood back. ‘Have a look, Lydia.’

I let the two of them go in first, Lydia walking slowly. A wide bed piled high with pillows and cushions took up a lot of the space. It faced the window, which was large and framed a stunning view across the fields to some low wooded hills in the distance. To make the most of it, there was a roll-top bath in front of it, and I would have loved to lie in it gazing out at the sunset, preferably while sipping a cold glass of wine.

Savannah was watching to see Lydia’s reaction. ‘There’s a bathroom too. Loo and shower in here.’ She opened a door in the corner and flicked on the light. ‘You don’t have to use the bath if you don’t like it.’

‘It’s fine.’ Lydia’s voice was low, but I thought she was pleased. She cleared her throat. ‘Laura would have loved it. She always wanted a bath like that.’

‘Me too. It’s what made me want the house.’

‘Why don’t you use this as your room, then?’ I asked, genuinely curious.

‘Because the other one has a walk-in wardrobe and a huge bathroom on the other side, and I’m too spoilt to settle for a teensy chest of drawers if I don’t have to.’ She shrugged. ‘What can I say? I live down to the stereotype now and then.’

‘I’m going to go and get my stuff.’ Lydia was halfway out the door already. ‘I want to get everything moved in.’

‘There’s no hurry.’ Savannah sat on the edge of the bed. ‘But if it makes you happy.’

‘I’d prefer it.’

I thought Lydia was like a newly rehomed animal, desperate for reassurance that she was really staying, wanting to show how grateful she was but unable to say it. I listened to her move away down the corridor, a soft hiss the sound of her hand running along the wall as she went. When I heard her reach the bottom of the stairs, I walked around to face Savannah.

‘How much do you know about Lydia’s … problems?’

‘What do you mean? The murders?’

‘No. Although that won’t be helping.’ Briefly, I explained about the eating disorder and the self-harm, one ear open all the time for the sounds of Lydia coming back.

Savannah’s eyes filled as she listened. ‘The poor little duck. It makes even less sense that Dad left her with Renee.’

‘Your father isn’t very sympathetic. He feels she’s brought her troubles on herself.’

‘Typical.’

‘Lydia needs a lot of support and she hasn’t really had it up to this point.’

‘That much is obvious.’ Savannah looked away from me towards the view, looking lovely but remote.