Lorraine, still wearing nothing but her bikini bottoms and gold ankle chain, sat on a bar stool in her kitchen, watching the small television mounted above the work surface, waiting for the kettle to boil. The butts from half a dozen cigarettes lay in the ashtray in front of her. She had just lit another and was inhaling deeply as she held the phone to her ear, talking to Sue Klinger, her best friend.
Sue and her husband, Stephen, lived in a house that Lorraine had always coveted, a stunning detached mansion in Tongdean Avenue – considered by many people to be one of the finest residences in Brighton and Hove – with views across the whole city, down to the sea. The Klingers also owned a villa in Portugal. They had four gorgeous children, and, unlike Ronnie, Stephen had the Midas touch. Ronnie had promised Lorraine that if Sue and Stephen ever sold the house, he would find a way to come up with the money to buy it. Yep, sure. In your dreams, my love.
They were replaying the images of the two planes striking the towers again, and then again, over and over. It was as if whoever was producing or directing this programme couldn’t believe it either, and had to keep replaying them to be sure it was real. Or perhaps someone in shock thought that if they repeated these images enough times, eventually the planes would miss the towers and fly past safely, and it would be just a normal Tuesday morning in Manhattan, business as usual. She watched the sudden orange fireball, the dense black clouds, feeling sicker and sicker.
Now they were showing the towers coming down again. First the South, then the North.
The kettle came to the boil but she didn’t move, not wanting to take her eyes off the screen in case she missed Ronnie. Alfie rubbed against her leg, but she ignored him. Sue was saying something to her, but Lorraine didn’t hear because she was peering at the screen intently, scanning every face.
‘Lorraine? Hello? You still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ronnie’s a survivor. He’ll be OK.’
The kettle switched itself off with a click.
Survivor.
Shit, Ronnie, you’d better be.
A beeping sound told her there was a call waiting. Barely able to contain herself she shouted excitedly, ‘Sue, that might be him! Call you straight back!’
Oh, God, Ronnie, please be on the phone. Please. Please let this be you!
But it was her sister. ‘Lori, I just heard that all flights in the US have been grounded.’ Mo worked as a stewardess for British Airways long-haul.
‘What – what does that mean?’
‘They’re not letting any planes in or out. I was meant to be flying to Washington tomorrow. Everything’s grounded.’
Lorraine felt a new wave of panic. ‘Until when?’
‘I don’t know – until further notice.’
‘Does that mean Ronnie might not get back tomorrow?’
‘I’m afraid so. I’ll find out more later in the day, but they’re making all planes that are heading to the States turn back. Which means the planes will be in the wrong places. It’s going to be chaos.’
‘Great,’ Lorraine said glumly. ‘That’s just bloody great. When do you think he might get back?’
‘I don’t know – I’ll get an update as soon as I can.’
Lorraine heard a child calling, and Mo saying, ‘One minute, darling. Mummy’s on the phone.’
Lorraine crushed out her cigarette. Then she jumped down from the stool, still watching the television screen, pulled out a tea bag and a mug, and poured in the water. Still without taking her eyes from the screen, she stepped back and bumped her hip, painfully, into the corner of the kitchen table.
‘Shit! Fuck!’
She looked down for a moment. Saw the fresh red mark among the uneven line of bruises, some black and fresh, some yellow and almost gone. Ronnie was clever, he always hit her in the body, never her face. Always made bruises she could easily hide.
Always cried and begged forgiveness after one of his – increasingly frequent – drunken rages.
And she always forgave him.
Forgave him because of the deep inadequacy she felt. She knew how badly he wanted the one thing she had not been able, so far, to give him. The child he so desperately wanted.
And because she was terrified of losing him.
And because she loved him.
33
It hadn’t been the best weekend of his life, Roy Grace thought to himself at 8 o’clock on Monday morning, as he sat in the tiny, cramped dentist’s waiting room, flicking through the pages of
Dr Frazer Theobald’s post-mortem had gone on interminably, finally finishing around 9 p.m. on Saturday. And Cleo, who had been fine during the post-mortem, had been uncharacteristically ratty with him yesterday.
Both of them knew it was no one’s fault that their weekend plans had been ruined, yet somehow he felt she was blaming him, just the way Sandy used to blame him when he’d arrive home hours late, or have to cancel some long-term plan at the last minute because an emergency had come up. As if it was
Cleo knew the score. She knew the world of the police and their erratic hours better than most – her own weren’t much different. She could be called out at any time of the day or night, and frequently was. So what was eating her?
She had even got annoyed with him when he’d gone back to his own house for a couple of hours to mow the badly overgrown lawn.
‘You wouldn’t have been able to mow it if we’d been up in London,’ she’d said. ‘So why now?’
It was his house that was the real problem, he knew. His house – his and Sandy’s house – still seemed a red rag to a bull with Cleo. Although he had recently removed a lot of Sandy’s possessions, Cleo still very rarely came round and always seemed uncomfortable when she did. They’d only made love there once, and it hadn’t been a good experience for either of them.
Since then they always slept at Cleo’s house. The nights they spent together were becoming increasingly frequent, and he now kept a set of shaving kit and washing stuff there, as well as a dark suit, fresh white shirt, plain tie and a pair of black shoes – his weekday work uniform.
It had been a good question and he didn’t tell her the truth, because that would have made things worse. The truth was that the skeleton had shaken him. He wanted to be on his own for a few hours, to reflect.
To think about how he would feel if it was Sandy.
His relationship with Cleo had gone way, way further than any other he had had since Sandy, but he was conscious that, despite all his efforts to move forward, Sandy remained a constant wedge between them. A few weeks ago at dinner, when they’d both had too much to drink, Cleo had let slip her concern about her biological clock ticking away. He knew she was starting to want commitment – and sensed she felt that, with Sandy in the way, she was never going to get it from him.
That wasn’t true. Roy adored her. Loved her. And had begun seriously to contemplate a life together with her.
Which was why he had been terribly hurt early yesterday evening when, having gone back to her house clutching a couple of bottles of their current favourite red Rioja wine, he had opened her front door with his key to be greeted by a tiny black puppy which sprinted towards him, put its paws around his leg and peed on his trainers.
‘Humphrey, meet Roy!’ she said. ‘Roy, meet Humphrey!’
‘Who – whose is this?’ he asked, bewildered.
‘Mine. I got him this afternoon. He’s a five-month-old rescue puppy – a Lab and Border Collie cross.’
Roy’s right foot felt uncomfortably warm as the urine seeped in. And a strange hot flush of confusion swirled through him as he knelt and felt the dog’s sandpapery tongue lick his hand. He was totally astonished.
‘You – you never told me you were getting a puppy!’
‘Yep, well, there’s lots you don’t tell me either, Roy,’ she said breezily.
An elderly woman came into the waiting room, gave him a suspicious look, as if to say,
Roy had a packed schedule. At 9 a.m. he was going to see Alison Vosper and have it out with her about Cassian Pewe. At 9.45, later than normal, he was holding the first briefing meeting of Operation Dingo – the random name thrown up by the Sussex House computer for the investigation into the death of the Unknown Female, as the skeleton in the storm drain was currently called. Then at 10.30 he was due at
At midday he was scheduled to hold a press conference on the finding of the skeleton. Not a huge amount to tell at this point, but hopefully by revealing the age of the dead woman, the physical characteristics and the approximate period when she died, it might jog someone’s memory about a mis-per from around that time. Supposing, of course, that it was not Sandy.
‘Roy! Good to see you!’
Steve Cowling stood in the doorway in his white gown, beaming with his perfect white teeth. A tall man in his mid-fifties, with a ramrod-straight military bearing, immaculate hair becoming increasingly grey every time Roy saw him, he exuded charm and confidence in equal measure, combined always with a certain boyish enthusiasm, as if teeth really were the most exciting thing in the world.
‘Come in, old chap!’
Grace gave an apologetic nod to the elderly lady, who looked distinctly miffed, and followed the dentist in to his bright, airy torture chamber.
While, like himself, Steve Cowling grew a little older with each visit, the dentist had an endless succession of assistants who grew younger and more attractive. The latest, a leggy brunette in her early twenties, holding a buff envelope, smiled at him, then removed a clutch of negatives and handed them to Cowling with a flirty glance.
He picked up the alginate cast Roy had given him twenty minutes earlier. ‘Right, Roy. This is really quite interesting. The first thing I have to say is that it is definitely not Sandy.’
‘It’s not?’ he echoed, a little flatly.
‘Absolutely not.’ Cowling pointed at the negatives. ‘Those are Sandy’s – there’s no comparison at all. But the cast provides quite a lot of information that may be helpful.’ He gave Grace a bright
