Untouchable (21 page)

The man shrugs on his jacket. Then walks back to the bedside table, picks up the tissue and drops it into his coat pocket, his mouth jerking briefly into a smile.

I pull on my dressing gown and follow him to the door, my hand twitching with the need to lock it fast and hard behind him. But as he opens it, he turns, and my heart rate goes wild again.

‘Oh yes, the second thing.’ His lips lift in a way that makes me shiver. ‘A message.’

He raises his hand and strokes my cheek. The blood drains from my face and my pulse starts to sing in my head, and I feel his breath on my skin as he leans in and whispers three words in my ear. Three words like punches, like a kick to the guts.

‘
Michael says hello
.’

31

Monday, 30 March, 6 p.m.

Tony examines me as I stand dripping on his porch. I forgot my umbrella and the five-minute walk from Clapham Common tube to his house in Navy Street has left me drenched.

‘OK, Stella, what’s up? Why didn’t you want to talk on the phone?’

I use my hand to wipe the rain from my face. ‘Are you going to let me in?’

Tony retreats a couple of steps and holds the door open. I go on through to the living room.

‘Any chance of a drink?’

He gauges me for a second or two. ‘The thing is, Stella, I’m rather seeing someone at the moment, so if you’re …’

‘Give me a break, Tony,’ I snap. ‘Do I look like I’m here to drum up business?’

He runs his eyes over my wet hair. ‘I’ve got to admit, you’re not looking your best. Unless you’ve really let your standards slip since I last saw you.’

I glance down at the jeans and old jumper I pulled on as I left the flat. Hardly what you’d call seductive. I haven’t checked in a mirror, but somehow I doubt my make-up is flawless.

‘Right, I’m out of wine.’ Tony nods towards the kitchen. ‘But I’ve a few bottles of beer in the fridge. Or there’s always gin and tonic.’

‘I’ll have a G&T. Thanks.’

I scan the living room while he pours the drinks. Piles of books and magazines still ranged along the walls. Clippings and torn-off pages of newspapers stacked in untidy bundles on the vast desk at the far end. Nothing seems to have changed since I was here last, though back then he’d have my clothes off by now, leaving me scant opportunity to inspect my surroundings.

I walk over to the large mantelpiece above the ancient gas fire, study Tony’s collection of Japanese netsuke. A coiled hissing snake. A bald man with a fat belly and a sneering expression. A heap of tortoises, crawling over one another. Several rats. Assorted demons. I pick up the nearest. A dragon or some other kind of monster emerging from a cracked egg, one malevolent eye peeking out from beneath a folded wing. The detail in the carving is astonishing, the ivory smooth and warm in my hand. I have to force myself to put it down.

Next to the netsuke is a little glass snow scene, the kind you saw a lot when I was a kid. I lift the dome and give it a good shake. A miniature blizzard swirls around the tiny house among the trees.

A lump forms in my throat. My eyes begin to sting. All at once I feel lost. Utterly, hopelessly, irretrievably lost.

‘There you go.’

I spin round to find Tony offering me a tumbler of clear liquid. He’s even added ice and a large slice of lemon.

‘Cheers.’ He clinks his glass against mine. ‘Good to see you again.’

Sinking on to the rather worn sofa, I stretch my legs out in front of me and try not to shiver. Tony sits in the armchair opposite, still watching me intently. He hasn’t changed much since we last met a year ago. Same mess of wavy brown hair, always a tad too long. Broad, pleasant face, well lived in.

‘So, what’s up, Stella? Are you in some kind of trouble?’

I take a sip of the gin. It burns down my throat, making me shudder. But seconds later I feel warmer, and somewhat calmer.

‘I suspect I am.’

‘Is it money? Because I’m sorry, but I haven’t got—’

‘No, it’s not money.’

‘What then?’

I gaze at him, wondering if my next words will save or damn me. Because the visit from that man an hour ago left me in no doubt that if I ever see him again, it will be the last time.

I swallow another mouthful of my drink. ‘I think there’s something going on, something big. And I think it’s to do with Elisa – Amanda Mansfield.’

Tony’s eyes narrow. ‘I saw it on the news. Fucking shame. She was a smashing girl.’

He looks genuinely upset. I wasn’t sure if he’d known her or not, though Tony’s one of those dedicated punters who’s worked his way through most of the women on the London scene. That said, I’d have thought Amanda was a bit outside his price range – her hourly rate was double mine.

‘Are you saying you know something about her death?’ Tony takes a large swig of his gin.

‘I’m not sure. Maybe. I don’t know what I know, if that makes any sense.’ I clench my jaw. I’m trembling, I realize, my teeth chattering. ‘But it seems I know enough to have hit a few nerves.’

He leans forward. ‘You look terrible, Stella. What happened?’

I cough to clear my throat. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any cigarettes?’

Tony frowns. ‘I don’t smoke. I didn’t think you did either.’

I nod. Take a deep breath and exhale slowly. And tell him. More or less from the beginning. The party. The men. The deal on the TV. Tony’s eyes widen at the mention of Edward Hardy. I don’t need to explain who he is.

I relate everything I know about Amanda’s death. The man at the funeral. The visit to the police station.

And the one that man just paid me.

Tony listens carefully, only interrupting to ask the odd question. When I finish he whistles, leans back in his armchair. Stares up at the ceiling, sucking his teeth.

‘Jesus, Stella. This sounds like some major shit.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, grateful that he even believes me.

He drops his gaze to my face. ‘This man – the one who just came round – did he actually hurt you? You seem pretty shaken up.’

‘Not really. Just tried to freak me out.’

‘It appears he succeeded.’

I don’t reply, but it’s true.
Michael says hello.
All the way over here I’ve been thinking what that means. Could he be some friend of Michael’s? Has he got another con to track me down, rough me up a bit?

Or maybe he was nothing to do with Michael. But somebody who knew that even the mention of his name would be enough to intimidate me?

‘So you want me to, what … look into this for you?’ asks Tony, finishing his drink.

‘I was hoping you could dig something up. You being a journalist.’

‘An ex-journalist. I got kicked off the paper, remember?’

I do remember, though he never explained why. Something to do with that whole phone-hacking scandal, I heard.

‘Yes, but you must still have contacts – know people you can ask. I just want to find out who he is, this man who came to see me. And the others, at the party.’

‘Are you sure?’ he says. ‘Sounds to me, whoever he was, that man was warning you off.’

I swallow. Take another sip of my gin. ‘Wouldn’t you?’ I ask. ‘I mean, if it were you. Could you drop it? Walk away?’

He shakes his head and laughs. ‘Maybe not. But then I always was a stupid bastard who never knew what was good for me.’

I let that rest as my answer.

He wrinkles his nose, thinking. ‘Why not go back to the police?’

I hesitate before I reply. ‘Because I’m not convinced that will get me anywhere except deeper into the shit.’ I focus on the timing of Alex’s request to meet me at Westfield – only a few days after I spoke to DI Shaw. Was that what prompted his proposal?

I want you out of London.

Though I’m fairly sure that offer has now well and truly expired.

I drain the rest of my drink. Study the bottom of the glass, the half-melted ice cubes and the rather clumsy chunk of lemon. ‘Besides, what new evidence have I got for the police? I’m not exactly what you’d call a credible witness.’

Tony doesn’t respond, but I can see he takes my point.

We sit there in silence for a minute or so. I hear a key in the front door. Two voices and footsteps on the stairs.

I glance up at Tony.

‘Lodgers,’ he says. ‘Students. Got to pay the bills somehow.’ He thinks for a while. Gets to his feet. ‘All right. I’ll make some calls.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, as Tony accompanies me to the door. His expression is kinder than when I arrived, edged now with concern. ‘Listen, Stella, I’ve no idea what’s going on or even if you’re simply paranoid …’

I stiffen at his words. He raises a hand.

‘Hear me out. I’m suggesting you get out of town for a while. I’ll be as discreet as possible, but I can’t guarantee that my asking questions won’t cause a few ripples. You need to understand that.’

I nod.

‘So perhaps it would be wise to make yourself scarce. Until we’ve got a better idea what we’re dealing with.’

‘OK.’

He puts a hand on my shoulder, then pulls me into a hug. ‘Take good care of yourself, all right? I’ll get back to you as quickly as I can.’

I tighten my coat around me. Glance towards the road, the rain illuminated by the street light.

‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘and good for you.’

‘What for?’

‘Finding someone you’re serious about. I must admit I had you down as a serial polygamist.’

‘You mean one of those sad bastards on PunterWeb who screws all the girls and gets reductions for good reviews.’

‘You deserved the discount.’ I manage a grin. ‘You always had a way with words.’

32

Tuesday, 31 March

‘Grace!’

I spot Kristen standing in front of the huge cross-section of an ancient sequoia at the top of the stairs. It towers behind her, like a giant wooden sun, as she scans the gallery below.

Her smile is fleeting as I climb to meet her. ‘How are you?’ I ask, though one glance tells me that’s a stupid question.

‘Thanks for coming at such short notice.’

Kristen’s text, sent late last night, was brief and urgent. The kind you can’t ignore. ‘Is there somewhere quieter we can go?’ she asks, glancing around.

I think quickly. ‘There’s a café round the back of the stairs. I saw the signs as I came in.’

We descend towards the huge diplodocus skeleton dominating the ground floor of the Natural History Museum. I’d forgotten how beautiful this place is, inside and out. Maybe one day I’ll come back.

‘I wanted to see it one last time,’ says Kristen, as if reading my mind.

‘One last time?’

She looks directly at me. ‘I’m moving back to Scotland.’

So this is why she wanted to meet. I refrain from asking more until we’re seated in the café, with hot drinks and a slab of fruitcake. The museum has only been open half an hour and the place is nearly deserted; only a couple of women at the far end, deep in conversation.

Kristen cradles her mug of tea in her hands, looking tired and fragile. She’s removed her coat but is still wearing her thick scarf, despite the heat indoors.

‘So why are you leaving?’

Kristen’s gaze again slides away from mine. I’m beginning to wonder whether I’ve done something to upset her. ‘I can’t meet the mortgage payments on my own. And Amanda’s family want her half of the equity.’

‘Jesus. Can they do that?’

‘She didn’t make a will. We’re not married. They’re her next of kin.’

I flash back to the funeral, to the tall blonde woman who so resembled Amanda. The man with the manicured beard. Wonder if they have any idea how much pain they’re causing the person their daughter loved. Grief makes you selfish, I muse, studying the hollows beneath Kristen’s eyes. Blinds you to other people’s suffering.

Her expression is so wretched I lean forward and pat her hand. ‘Come on, Kristen, you can fight that. You have rights. It’s the last thing Amanda would have wanted.’

She presses her lips together. Blinks a few times then looks away again. I sense there’s something she’s holding back.

‘Have the police come up with anything yet?’ I ask.

Her gaze swings back to meet mine. ‘I’ve no idea. They don’t tell me a thing.’ She clears her throat. ‘I take it you didn’t get anywhere either.’

I stare at her, surprised. How does she know about my interview? Would they have told her?

I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry. I should have said something to you.’

‘Why did you go to them?’ Her tone is taut, panicked.

I shrug. ‘I don’t know. I thought maybe I could help. All that stuff that doesn’t add up over Amanda’s death. I wanted them to take it seriously.’

Kristen stares at me. Sizing me up. ‘I think you should drop it, Grace. The whole thing. Forget about Amanda, about what happened, all of it.’

I frown. ‘Why? Don’t you want to know?’

She looks down at the table. ‘You’re making everything worse. I know you don’t mean to, but …’

‘How do you mean,
worse
?’

She swallows. Her eyes dart around the café then come back to rest on mine.

‘I had a visit.’

‘A visit? Who from?’

‘This … this man.’ She takes a deep breath.

Everything around me seems to recede. The building, the noise, the people – all suddenly nothing more than a distant background.

‘What man, Kristen?’

‘I don’t know who he was,’ she says in a near whisper. ‘He didn’t give a name.’ She looks up into my eyes, her face pale. ‘But he was scary, Grace. Really fucking scary.’

My throat feels too dry to swallow.

‘What did he look like?’

She shrugs. ‘Medium height. Dark hair. A funny indent on his cheek. Like a pockmark, only bigger.’

Him. Who else?

‘What did he say?’

She sighs. Rubs her left eye. I notice her hands are trembling. ‘Nothing specific. It was all sort of suggested. But the gist seemed to be that stirring things up wouldn’t be in anyone’s interests. That it was best just to let Amanda go.’

‘Stirring things up?’

Her eyes fix on mine. She clears her throat. ‘He said he knew you’d been to see them – the police, I mean – and that it really wasn’t a good idea. He said he—’ She stops. Bites her lip.