Zoe. Don’t.
The computer beeped to let her know an email had arrived. She opened her eyes, blinked at the screen. It was from a DS in the targeting team. There was a paperclip next to the subject line. She rolled down her sleeve and clicked on the attachment. It was a PDF file with three main spreads: on Marc Rainer, Richard Rose and David Goldrab.
She clicked on Marc Rainer first. He was pictured leaving a cafe on a nondescript street with two black guys who wore tight trousers and Afro hair, as if they wanted to be in a blaxploitation movie. Rainer was thick-set and wearing a mustard turtle-neck under a brown leather jacket. He wasn’t London Tarn. The second was a custody photograph. Richard Rose. An English name, but his heritage was from somewhere in the Levant: Turkey maybe, or Cyprus. She clicked on the third. And sat, hardly breathing, looking into his eyes.
London Tarn. Unmistakably, London Tarn. Years and years had passed but she’d have known him anywhere.
His name was David Goldrab.
5
‘Have you ever heard of David Goldrab?’ The uniformed inspector looked up from the overtime sheets he was signing off. Zoe stood in the doorway, her arms folded. ‘David Goldrab. Apparently he’s got connections on our patch.’
The inspector put down his pen and looked at her levelly. ‘Ye-es,’ he said cautiously. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, nothing. Just his name came up. I’m having a little look at him.’ She broke off. The inspector’s face was twisting unhappily. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What’ve I said?’
‘Nothing. It’s just that…’ He glanced at the telephone. ‘David Goldrab?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘I put down the phone to his brother about an hour ago. Nice piece of work – calling from London. Called me a “fucking woolly” and a few other things. Made a few allegations about my feelings towards sheep.’
‘His brother?’
‘Yup. Goldrab’s not been heard from for nearly four days. He lives up near Hanging Hill, and usually he speaks to his mother in London every day, morning and night. But he hasn’t answered his calls and now she’s having epis right, left and centre, the brother’s going ballistic and apparently we’re supposed to get every officer in Avon and Somerset Constabulary out hunting for this jerk. So he’s got form, has he? I didn’t know.’
‘He hasn’t,’ Zoe said distantly. She was thinking about Hanging Hill. North of the city. It faced north, looking out towards the Caterpillar. It was a weird place, damp and a little lonely. There was a bus stop there, on the same route that took in Beckford’s Tower – where Ralph claimed to have met Lorne on the night of her death – and continued to the bus stop at the canal. ‘Or, rather, he should have form but he flew under the radar. Clever man. Have you actioned anything yet?’
‘Someone in Intelligence is going to look at his phone later, and his bank account – but he’s not exactly vulnerable. One of the cars’ll swing by and do a welfare check.’
‘Have they left?’
He stood up and craned his neck to look out of the window at the car park. ‘Nope. They’re taking the GP car. It’s still there.’
‘OK. Call down. Tell them not to bother. I’ve got to drive through Hanging Hill in about twenty minutes. I’ll save them the hassle.’
‘You’re not getting all helpful on us, are you?’
‘Helpful? Christ, no.’ She patted her pockets, looking for her keys. ‘Like I said, I just happen to be going that way.’
6
The West Country got the first of the weather from the Atlantic. It got the first of the winds and the first of the Gulf Stream. Its job was to tame the systems for the rest of the country, to filter them out before they passed over to the powerful cities in the east. But the west had got used to waiting until last for the sun. Dawn took its time over Russia, over the Continent, creeping across France and over the ferries and small boats of the Channel, moving inland over London with its glass towers and steel buildings grazing the underside of the sky. By the time daylight found Bath it was weary of the land and anxious for the blue of the Atlantic. Evenings in Peppercorn Cottage were like fiestas, flame-coloured and long, but mornings seemed tired, half-hearted and flat, as if the light was only there because it had nowhere better to be.
That Monday morning it was misty. Millie had gone to school and Sally and Steve had breakfast at the kitchen table, beside the window. Afterwards they sat there, not talking, just staring out at the garden and fields. On the table between them was an empty cafetiere and an untouched plate of croissants. Neither of them had much appetite – since Thursday they’d both felt tired, constantly tired. Sally had taken Friday off work and Steve had postponed his trip to Seattle. It seemed neither of them had the energy for anything.
A deer appeared outside, nosing the hedge at the bottom of the garden, its outline faint and blurred in the morning mist. Neither Sally nor Steve moved, but maybe it sensed them there – or maybe it could smell the traces of David Goldrab, reduced to ten knotted, bulging carrier bags – because, without warning, it startled, turned to look directly at the window, then bounded away.
Sally got to her feet and went to the Welsh dresser. She took a small key from her pocket, unlocked a drawer and took out a tin, which she opened and carried to the table. It contained an assortment of objects: some photos; David Goldrab’s signet ring with the four diamonds and the emerald – one diamond for every million he’d made in profit, the emerald for when he’d hit five million; the keys to his house, bristling with electronic fobs, two solid gold dice hanging from the ring; and five teeth. Steve had chosen the ones that were the most distinctive and had been the most visible in the photos: two incisors, which were filled with white composite, and another three, all molars, with gold fillings across the crowns. Their fine sharp roots were dull and brown with blood. ‘I can’t keep these things here any longer. You never know, with Millie in the house.’
‘I’ll find somewhere to hide them. Somewhere safe.’
‘Are we… going ahead? You know, with-’ She bit her tongue. She’d nearly said Mooney. ‘With the people in London.’
‘I’m seeing them tomorrow. Then it will all be sorted.’ He looked at the date on his watch. ‘I was supposed to be coming home from America today.’
‘I know.’
‘I’m still going to have to make that trip. And soon. I’ve postponed it once, but I can’t again. I’ve got to keep going on with my life. We both do. We have to behave as if it never happened.’
‘Yes.’ Sally nodded. ‘I know that too. It’s OK.’ She pushed her chair back, got to her feet and began pulling on the HomeMaids tabard. When David had hired her, he’d asked the agency to adjust the days she and the Polish girls went in. Today was the day the management had chosen. There had been nothing in the news about David Goldrab, so she knew she had to go along to Lightpil House as if nothing had happened. If she cancelled, or did anything out of the ordinary, the police would be bound to turn their attention to her. The slight bruise on her cheek left from David pushing her into the boot lid had already disappeared. Really, there was no excuse now. ‘You go to America. I’ll be OK.’
‘Sally?’
She looked up. ‘What?’
‘You know it’s all going to work itself out?’ In the morning light Steve’s face was older. His beard coming through made him look as if he’d lived a hard life for many years. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Is it?’
‘You made the best of a bad situation. And there isn’t going to be some sort of divine retribution for it. You
