Shopping done, she checks her phone. Nothing more from Martin. He must still be with the police. She texts through a burst of question marks, then hails a cab, deciding to head back to his apartment. But at the last moment, she has a better idea. He’s always going on about Aldo’s, how much better the coffee is than anything in Port Silver, or anywhere else. She asks the driver if he knows it. He doesn’t, but his GPS does. It’s not far from the apartment, smaller than she’s imagined, less impressive, but the moment she enters she feels its warmth, its welcome. She can see why it has survived when others haven’t. The wooden tables and benches have the patina of long use, polished by years of customers. On the wall are faded travel posters from a time when ocean liners were still glamorous and aeroplanes were the preserve of the wealthy. Even before tasting its brew, she understands why Martin likes the place.
She orders a skinny latte from a cocksure young barista, his flirtatious banter a welcome distraction, then takes a seat at a table in the corner. She has only just sat down when a woman slides onto the chair opposite her. Zelda Forshaw, wearing wraparound sunglasses.
‘You?’ Mandy can’t believe the woman’s gall. She looks around, but there is no man in a ski mask, no flunky. ‘What do you want?’
‘To talk. That’s all.’
‘You’re joking. After what you did to me?’
‘It was a mistake. We need to move on.’
‘Move on? The police are searching for you.’
‘So we need to talk before they catch me.’ Zelda removes her shades, and Mandy sees the accumulated evidence of the intervening years. Zelda was always pretty, there was never any doubt about that. She still is, but she’s aged. Mandy had thought her more or less the same age as herself, with her powdered face, large mascara-lined eyes and schoolgirl titter. Now the voice is half an octave lower, and husky with it: more Lauren Bacall than Marilyn Monroe. She looks closer to forty than thirty. Her hair is an unconvincing mix of brunette and something redder, her eyebrows over-plucked. A vein is pulsing between her left eyebrow and her temple. Prison cannot have been kind to her and, by the looks, neither has liberty.
‘You want to talk,’ says Mandy. ‘Why didn’t you try that at Port Silver, instead of drugging and abducting me?’
Zelda shrugs. ‘That’s what I intended, I swear. But that man was there. He warned us off.’
‘He’s a cop.’
‘Another one? He didn’t tell us that.’
‘What happened?’
‘He told us to fuck off. When he turned his back on us, Derek clobbered him. You don’t remember?’
‘No. Thanks to you drugging me. If you were only coming to Port Silver to talk to me, how come you had chloroform or whatever it was that knocked me out?’
‘Not chloroform. Some shit Derek brought along; something he cooked up using an internet recipe. He figured if you didn’t want to talk, it could help persuade you. Like a home-brewed truth serum.’
‘Derek sounds like a real charmer. Where did you find him?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ There is something defensive in her voice, something protective.
‘Where is he now?’
‘Getting his teeth fixed. Those goons pistol-whipped him.’
‘Good for them.’
Zelda stares at her and Mandy can see anger in her expression. ‘Do you know who they were? What they were doing there?’
Mandy leans forward for effect. ‘Killers, Zelda. Killers. That’s what the police said. Henry Livingstone and Joshua Spitt. I don’t know how they found us or why, but that’s not my problem. They were looking for you, not me. So now you have the police after you, plus a pair of violent criminals. Congratulations. Well done.’ She can’t help it; she enjoys the consternation on her old rival’s face. Nevertheless, her tone is more conciliatory as she continues. ‘All I know is people like you and me should not be getting involved with people like them.’
The waitress arrives, delivering Mandy her coffee. ‘Anything for you, love?’ she asks Zelda.
Zelda looks to Mandy, eyebrows raised.
‘Sure,’ says Mandy. ‘Whatever you like.’ Does she not even have the price of a cup of coffee?
‘Iced mocha, please,’ Zelda tells the waitress. ‘With whipped cream.’ Then she turns back to Mandy. ‘You never liked me, did you?’ ‘You drugged me and abducted me, then left me for dead when those goons came along. What do you think?’
‘Not now. Back then.’
‘No. I didn’t like you then either. You were shagging my fiancé.’
Zelda grins. ‘Yes. There was that.’
Mandy feels her irritation rising. For someone asking for help, Zelda Forshaw is no Dale Carnegie. ‘Listen, Zelda. I don’t have to sit here. I don’t have to speak with you.’
The woman extends her hand and closes it around Mandy’s wrist, causing her to recoil, taken aback by the attempt at intimacy. Zelda doesn’t seem to notice; instead she persists, gripping hard as Mandy tries to pull away. ‘Please. I need your help.’ Her voice sounds sincere. ‘I believe what you told me, that you don’t know about the money. I checked you out.’
‘So what are you doing here?’
‘Look.’ Zelda fossicks in her shoulder bag a moment, withdraws her phone, a dated model with a cracked screen, opens a message. She holds it out for Mandy to read. Sorry. Delayed. See you tomorrow. Love you xxx.
Mandy looks at the date
