Untouchable (13 page)

Her face relaxes into desolation. ‘I haven’t a clue, Grace. I go over it and over it, round and round. And her father keeps phoning and yelling at me because of course her family didn’t know anything. Nothing at all, not about me … or what she did.’

Secrets, I think, examining the bare wood floor. I wonder whether to bring up again what happened at the party. The texting, the so-called family crisis. But it feels too insubstantial now, too inconsequential against the weight of Kristen’s revelations.

When I look up again, she’s crying again, soundlessly, her hands squeezed between her knees. ‘I can’t sleep, Grace. I keep seeing her face, keep imagining what it must have been like for her …’

‘You mustn’t.’ I lean forward and touch her arm.

She lifts her eyes, rimmed red with grief. ‘Her parents are insisting on organizing the funeral. But the police won’t even say when they’re going to give her back …’ her voice cracks. ‘Her body, I mean.’

‘Jesus …’ I squeeze her arm. ‘What a fucking mess.’

She gazes into my face, as if searching for something she’s lost. ‘I loved her, Grace. Really loved her. I realize that Amanda isn’t … wasn’t perfect, that she probably did stuff I’m best off never knowing, but I trusted her.’

She blinks, twice, raising her eyes to the ceiling then dropping them back to me. ‘And I know she loved me, Grace. I
know
she wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.’

‘I believe you,’ I say. And I do.

19

Saturday, 7 March

‘You seem preoccupied.’

‘I do?’ I resurrect my smile and aim it squarely at Joe, a hefty middle-aged lawyer from Cincinnati with a rapidly receding hairline. ‘Sorry, I was wondering if I should change my mind. About dessert, I mean. I’m feeling rather stuffed.’

It’s a stupid fib and we both know it. Truth is I tuned out of Joe’s monologue on contract law a full half-hour ago. Was almost looking forward to the sex – inasmuch as I wouldn’t have to sit here any longer pretending I give a shit about his latest wrangle with Time-Warner.

Though, evidently, I haven’t been doing a very good job of it.

‘My fault.’ His smile is rueful. ‘Shouldn’t bring my work home with me.’

‘Amen to that.’ I pick up my glass and disguise my sarcasm with a toast. ‘Here’s to a healthy work-life balance.’

He smiles, taking a slug of premier cru and relaxing into his seat. ‘So, tell me what’s really on your mind.’

I ratch him up a notch in my estimation – not quite as self-absorbed as I assumed.

‘Do you see a lot of girls? Like me, I mean.’

He looks briefly taken aback. ‘A few. Only when I’m over here – I can’t risk it at home.’

I nod.

‘Why do you ask?’

Stop it, Grace.

‘Did you ever meet one called Elisa?’

He frowns. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

I lean back to allow the waiter to serve the desserts. ‘OK. I’m sure you’d remember if you had.’

Joe picks up a spoon and tucks into his chocolate and Grand Marnier mousse, garnished with a delicate little spiral of spun sugar. ‘This got anything to do with that girl they found in Bayswater?’

Too late to stop my look of surprise. ‘How do you know about that?’

‘It’s all over the net. I saw something on it when I was checking you out.’

He swallows another mouthful of mousse. Washes it down with more wine. ‘She a friend of yours?’

‘Not exactly. We worked together a few times.’

‘Hmmm …’ He chews on the sugar, his mouth revolving like a washing machine. ‘I imagine this must have you pretty freaked out?’

I shift my gaze to his. And realize he’s right.

‘Well, if it’s any consolation, it wasn’t me. I was in LA when it happened, and I can prove it.’

I attempt a laugh. ‘I wasn’t for a minute suggesting …’

‘I’m sure you weren’t. Just thought I’d put it on record.’

He finishes his dessert. Glances over at my peach and almond sorbet, slowly melting on to the immaculate white china.

‘You gonna eat that?’

I hand him my plate.

It doesn’t last long. We strip and he pulls me across his considerable girth. I bob up and down until he comes, a drawn out sibilant sound extending to a sigh. As it subsides, I realize I’ve forgotten to fake my own climax. I fake a smile instead as I dismount, making a discreet check of the time on his bedside clock.

An hour to go. Perhaps he’ll revive and take another run at it. Or maybe not. Which makes this, what, £800 quid for three minutes of pleasure?

But that would be missing the point. The Michelin-starred restaurant is the point. The wine, the food, the studied elegance of the dining room is the point. And the chance to bore the pants off someone who otherwise wouldn’t look at you twice.

Joe drapes an arm over me, heavy as ballast. I let my head sink into the feather pillow. Close my eyes for a moment and conjure up an image of Alex, trying to revive my appetite for seconds. But this particular stimulus to desire feels too worn now, and my mind drifts home to my flat. A bath. The book on my bedside table.

I open my eyes. And almost groan. I’ve fallen asleep.

Fuck.

I roll towards the shadowy bulk of my client, praying nothing gave me away.

‘I should sue you,’ he says. The room lights are dimmed and I can’t make out if he’s serious.

‘I’m so sorry.’ I consider making some excuse, but realize it’s pointless.

‘Breach of contract,’ he laughs. ‘I don’t remember anything about downtime in your terms and conditions.’

I lean across and kiss him. ‘I’ll stay a bit longer if you like.’

‘Go home,’ he says, looking at me. ‘Get to bed.’

My smile is genuinely contrite. ‘Sorry, really. It’s inexcusable.’

He gets up. Hands me the money. I stuff it into my handbag and pull on my clothes, pausing by the door. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening.’

‘Likewise,’ says Joe. ‘But seriously, Stella, get some more sleep.’

I’m wide awake by the time I arrive home, my mind too restless for reading. I check my emails. Nothing much. A couple from clients, another from a web designer touting for business.

And one from Kristen, about the funeral, her mobile number tagged to the end. It’s in four days’ time.

I make a note in my diary and turn on the TV. Flick to the news, hoping for an update on Amanda. Several channels picked up the story in the days following her death, but I haven’t seen much since – either there’s nothing new to say or the press has simply lost interest.

I sit through the usual economic doom and gloom. The endless conflict in the Middle East. More instances of tax evasion by major corporations. The perpetual sense that everything’s going to hell.
The shadow let loose in the world.

Where did I hear that? My brain worries at it for a minute or two. My therapist, I suddenly remember, the one who supervised my training: a committed Jungian with a penchant for rummaging about in other people’s unconscious. ‘None of us escapes our shadow,’ she’d say. ‘Just take a look around you.’

She was right. And I should have looked harder.

I’m about to hit the off switch when I see a face I recognize. Not Amanda’s. That man. James. The nervous guy from the party, the one who left early.

He’s hurrying away from a building, flanked by several men in dark suits. The House of Commons, I realize, the distinctive gothic architecture looming into view. The camera trails him to a waiting car, then cuts to a nearby reporter clutching an umbrella and a microphone.

‘Edward Hardy, parliamentary under-secretary of state for defence equipment and support, appeared yesterday before the parliamentary select committee on government arms procurement—’

Edward Hardy.

‘—where he defended his department from accusations of corruption …’

The picture zooms in on Hardy as he ducks into a black limousine, then switches to the news studio and the face of a woman in her fifties. ‘Shadow defence minister Jane Goodall’, the caption reads at the bottom.

‘Hardy insists his department followed all the guidelines, but there are still a lot of unanswered questions that need to be addressed,’ she says with calculated indignation. ‘He’s simply echoing the assurances offered by the defence secretary in the Commons last week when asked about the leaked information on the Abstar contract …’

The scene changes again. A cartoon this time. South Park. Kenny holding a firecracker which explodes, blowing him to pieces.
Shit.
I’ve been gripping the remote so tight I must have hit the channel button. I try to flick back, but when I find the right programme the news has moved on to a feature on NHS redundancies.

‘
Fuck
.’

I grab my laptop. Type in Hardy’s name and ‘arms inquiry’ into the search engine. It rewards me with dozens of hits. I click on the first. It doesn’t take long to get the gist. Leaked emails suggested that senior politicians have received kickbacks from several large international defence firms in return for favourable treatment in the tendering process.

I think back to that night at the party. Rack my brain for details. But all I can remember is Harry’s boast.

We’re golden, darling, we can’t lose. We’re fucking untouchable.

20

Wednesday, 11 March

Despite the delays on the Northern Line, I arrive half an hour early. Even so, as I walk up the long drive to the crematorium, I can see people already clustering outside. Tight little groups, some standing in silence, wearing their funeral faces. Others conversing as if this were any ordinary social event, a chance to catch up with family and friends.

I glance around. There’s no one I recognize, so I hover in the garden to the side of the main entrance.

Several black limousines pull up in front of the building. A man with a tight-clipped grey beard climbs out of the first, turning to extend his hand to the woman emerging behind him.

My heart almost stops. Pale blonde hair. That tall, balletic frame. I walk back towards the entrance to get a closer look.

Amanda’s mother. It has to be.

She looks over, catches me staring. Offers a tight-lipped smile as she turns away and I wonder again if I should have come. Is it too obvious how I know … knew her daughter? I’ve dressed down, of course. Dispensed with all but the lightest make-up. But I still feel exposed somehow, as if something indefinable gives me away.

‘Grace?’

I turn to see Kristen, bundled up in a black trench coat with dark trousers underneath. She looks smaller than I remember, more fragile. Beside her stands a slightly older woman holding an umbrella over both their heads, even though the rain stopped a good ten minutes ago.

‘This is my sister, Ruth,’ says Kristen, putting an arm on her shoulder. ‘Ruth, this is Grace. Remember I told you about her?’

I feel myself flush, but Ruth’s smile is warm as she extends her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

I squeeze hers firmly, grateful for the gesture. ‘How are you?’ I ask Kristen.

‘I’m OK,’ she nods, but I see tears looming as she looks away.

‘She wanted a proper funeral.’ Ruth leans in, lowering her voice. ‘But the coroner won’t release the body. It being evidence, you know … the inquiry.’

‘Is there any news? On the case?’

Ruth shakes her head. ‘But then again, no one tells us anything.’

She turns and puts her arm around her sister, nodding towards the line of people shuffling into the building. ‘I think we should go in.’

I follow them through the foyer into the main chapel. It’s exactly like the one I remember from my mother’s funeral. High white walls, long blue curtains blocking all natural light. Bland, inclusive, anonymous – the kind of place that almost makes you wish you were dead yourself.

At the front, up where the coffin should be, several wreaths are propped upright; between them, on what looks like an easel, is a large photo of Amanda. Not taken recently – some time in her late teens, probably, her cheeks fuller and her hair shorter, less styled. She’s wearing a white summer dress, smiling shyly at the camera. Surrounded by those circles of flowers, with their white lilies and pale yellow daffodils, Amanda’s face looks fresh, lovely. Impossibly innocent.

Which is entirely the point, I realize. This whole thing is going to be a whitewash.

Kristen and Ruth take seats towards the back, away from the main throng of mourners. Well away from Amanda’s family too, I note with a swell of sympathy.

I sit behind them and slightly to the left, in the furthest corner of the chapel – a good vantage point to survey the other funeral-goers. There must be upwards of eighty or so, more drifting in as the recorded organ music drones on. Many are older, clearly friends of the family, a number going up to greet Amanda’s parents before taking a seat. Here and there, several groups about Amanda’s age, huddled together, talking quickly. People from her school, perhaps, or university.

Near the back I spot a couple of lone males. One stares intently at the order of service, doing his best to look inconspicuous. The other keeps his gaze fixed forward, ignoring everyone around him.

Former clients, I’m guessing.

The one closest to me, with his salt-and pepper hair and handsome features, seems faintly familiar. Finally I place him – the host of that TV show, the one that does a weekly review of social media. He glances towards me, sensing my scrutiny. I avert my eyes. Study the back of Kristen’s head, hatless now, bent over, her gaze firmly fixed on the floor.

At that moment the vicar appears in full regalia – dog collar, white robe, purple sash. I cringe. Granted, I didn’t know Amanda that well, but I’m fairly sure she hadn’t a religious bone in her body.

The music ends abruptly, and the vicar clears his throat, opening a leather folder and balancing it in his right hand.

‘We’re gathered here today to commemorate the passing of Amanda Sonya Mansfield, beloved daughter of Janet and Tom Mansfield.’ He glances at his notes, his hands twitching. He looks apprehensive, almost nervous.

He knows, I think. About who … what she was. After all the news reports, how could he not?