Warhol's Prophecy

‘I hope the rest of your day goes well,’ he said. ‘Take care.’

Such a nice thought.

She put down the receiver.

One o’clock tomorrow.

Hailey folded the piece of paper and slid it into her purse.

35

THE AFTERNOON HAD dragged interminably, thought Rob. It seemed as if each minute had become stretched and elongated – to ensure that time moved excruciatingly slowly.

He had glanced at his watch and up at his wall clock more times than he could ever remember doing before.

He’d walked back to work after Burnside had left him in the pub, ostensibly to clear his head, but also to avoid reaching the office too quickly.

When he entered, Burnside had glanced at him from behind his desk but merely shook his head before turning back to his work.

For the rest of the afternoon the two men hadn’t spoken.

Rob looked at his watch yet again, and saw that it was almost five o’clock. He was going to leave early: get out of this place, get home.

He’d seen Sandy only twice that day. When she first came in, and when he left for lunch with Burnside.

Both times she’d smiled at him.

There had been something behind that smile that he hadn’t liked: a kind of smugness that irritated him. He had tried not to look at her too closely.

Why not? Like what you see a little too much?

Once or twice he’d heard her voice outside his office, but otherwise, he’d managed to avoid her.

This couldn’t go on, he tried to persuade himself more forcefully.

What couldn’t go on? These feelings you have for her?

And yet he had managed to convince himself he had no feelings for the woman. Never had. Never would.

His musings were interrupted by a knock on his office door.

Sandy Bennett walked in before he had time to call out.

‘This fax just came through,’ she told him. ‘I thought you might like to see it.’

‘Show it to Frank, I’m getting ready to go home,’ he told her.

She was wearing a dark brown jacket and trousers, and Rob couldn’t help but notice how tightly the trousers clung to her legs and buttocks.

Sandy laid the fax on his desk.

‘It’s about those vans you were going to buy,’ she continued. ‘They’ve agreed to meet your price.’

‘I can read it myself,’ he muttered.

‘What’s wrong, Rob? Are you in that much of a hurry to get home? Worried that Hailey might check up on you?’

He didn’t like the disdain in her voice.

‘Leave the fax,’ he said flatly.

‘Do you want me to send a reply?’ she asked.

‘No. I want you to get out of my fucking office.’

‘Charming. You didn’t throw me out of your hotel room so quickly, did you?’

‘Get out,’ he snapped, reaching for his jacket.

‘You were pleased to see me – don’t deny it. Don’t tell me you didn’t have a good time. I know I did.’

‘Is that why you sneaked out in the morning before I woke up?’

‘Perhaps you should be grateful I did.’

‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’

‘Well, if I’d still been there the next morning, you might never have got out of the room at all.’ She smiled. ‘We’d probably still be there now.’

‘I doubt it.’

He pulled on his jacket and pushed past her to the door.

‘See you tomorrow, Rob.’ She smiled. ‘Is there anything in particular you’d like me to wear? I know you like that skirt with the split.’

He took a step towards her, his face dark.

‘Don’t push it, Sandy,’ he rasped angrily.

He turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him. Leaving her inside.

‘See you tomorrow,’ she murmured, her smile narrow.

36

SO MANY BOOKS. So many titles. So many authors.

But not the one he sought.

Adam Walker wandered slowly up and down the racks of shelves in the library, eyes flicking over each of the titles.

He had already looked for an alphabetical listing, but found nothing.

He had the right name: Caroline Hacket. But there was no sign of anything written under that name.

Perhaps she’d used a pseudonym, he wondered.

No, surely Hailey would have mentioned that.

Besides, why would Caroline Hacket want to hide her identity behind a fake name? Why would anyone seek anonymity when they could have notoriety instead?

Hailey had mentioned that neither of Caroline’s books had been big sellers, Walker remembered. That probably explained why he’d been unable to find either in any of the city’s bookshops.

Hence this trip to the library.

He continued to walk slowly between the high shelves, occasionally passing other borrowers as he moved.

The library was fairly deserted, apart from two pensioners sitting reading newspapers, and a woman returning books at the counter.

Walker tried the Thriller section. Nothing.

He looked under True Crime. Nothing.

It made no sense. Her books should be here.

He glanced again at titles in the True Crime section.

Beyond Belief

The Shrine of Jeffrey Dahmer

10 Rillington Place

Helter Skelter

He pulled the last volume down and flipped it open.

Photos of Charles Manson.

Of Sharon Tate.

One famous for being an actress, the other famous for ordering her death.

Perhaps more famous, for that reason.

He looked at another of the books.

At the photos of Myra Hindley and Ian Brady.

Famous.

More people knew their names than knew the names of their young victims.

The book itself smelled old, as did the next one he took down and flipped through.