Summer laughed a hollow laugh. ‘I’m pregnant to a man who doesn’t love me. You’re forty-three and alone, with a fucking reputation, when you could be married and happy and not sponging off rich men and spending your money on drugs and parties!’
Summer sat down on the edge of the sofa, too exhausted to continue. She thought back to the vicious spat she and Molly had had after the shoot in Norfolk and considered what good it had done. It certainly hadn’t changed Molly’s attitudes or behaviour – so what was the point of raking it all over?
Outside a blackbird was twittering. The sun had disappeared behind a cloud and, for a second, the air cooled. She looked at her mother, who had a small, pinched look on her face, her jaw tight, her eyes bitter and distant.
‘I don’t think we should talk about it any more,’ whispered Molly, lowering her head. At first there was a sniffle, which became louder and louder. When she looked up her eyes were rimmed with pink and her cheeks damp with tears. ‘I had you for love and look where it got me,’ she said, wiping her cheeks.
Summer didn’t know which surprised her more; the fact that Molly was crying – Molly
never
cried – or what her mother had just said. Summer knew the story of her father, Jeff Bryant. Molly had met him on the New York club circuit in the early 1980s before the shadow of Aids had stopped the rampant bed-hopping and life was just one long party between modelling assignments. Bryant was old New York money, dabbling in the flourishing world of advertising. When Molly had told him of her pregnancy, she’d been dropped like a hot potato, and he’d refused to see her or take her calls. Molly moved back to London and she had never heard from Jeff again. Summer had never for one moment thought that Molly cared so much about him.
‘You never said you loved Jeff,’ said Summer softly. ‘You
always told me that he was just a party boy you met on the circuit.’
Molly took a deep breath and looked up at Summer sadly. ‘Jeff Bryant wasn’t your father.’
‘What?’ Summer placed her glass of water on the coffee table, stunned.
It was several seconds before Molly spoke.
‘The summer before I met Jeff, I met an English artist called James Bailey at a gallery party. An
artist.
I was terribly impressed. Assumed he was a new Basquiat, a Keith Haring, one of those hot new names that were making waves on the New York society circuit at the time. He wasn’t.’ She laughed harshly.
‘Lived in a walk-up in Hell’s Kitchen, not backed by any hot dealer, just a struggling artist trying to make his way, doing what he loved best in a city that was the centre of art.’
‘He’s my father?’ Summer struggled to say the words.
‘He was so handsome,’ said Molly, smiling at the memory. ‘Women would turn and look at him on the street. And he was a good man too. A very good man.’
‘You loved him …?’
Molly gave the smallest of nods.
‘So you got pregnant, and you loved him. What the hell happened?’
‘We’d been dating maybe three months when I found out I was having you. I remember the night I went round to tell James. It was a baking hot New York night. There was no air-con in his tiny, dirty flat. I’d been on a job for
Mademoiselle
magazine that afternoon and the other model at the shoot showed me the engagement ring she’d just got from some Wall Street banker.’ Molly looked at her daughter and her eyes were sparkling. ‘Oh, it was beautiful, Summer. I can see it now. A diamond the size of a fingernail, glinting in the studio lights.’
Summer started shaking her head but Molly pushed on with her story. ‘I looked around his tiny apartment, littered with fucking paint and brushes, and just thought, what the hell am I doing? For about two minutes it had seemed so romantic. A long, hot summer dating this sweet, lovely artist but—’
‘But what?’ Summer said sourly.
‘But when you’re given this body. This face,’ she said, pointing to herself, ‘I knew I could get more for myself. I knew I could get more for
you
.’
‘So you ended it with James?’
Molly nodded, her face a mask of defiance. ‘I met Jeff Bryant the following week at The Limelight. He was rich, Summer, really rich. Father owned half of Boston. He was the rebel son but he was still the heir. I told him I was pregnant with his baby a few weeks later.’
Summer snorted. ‘You thought you could trap him but it backfired. He blew you out and you came back to London?’ said Summer, filling in the gaps. ‘And did you ever tell James about me?’
‘No,’ said Molly, ‘it was the only way, honey. James was decent. He would have wanted us to have stayed together and be a family. Well, I wasn’t going to hang around on the bloody breadline as a mother and artist’s muse.’
‘But you were making your own money!’ said Summer.
Molly laughed. ‘Not much. I was modelling just before the money exploded in the fashion industry; when Linda and Christie and Naomi came along you could stick another zero onto your rates. I was successful, sure, but the money wasn’t fantastic. Back then you needed a rich man, darling, to give you a life.’
‘And my father still doesn’t know about me?’ asked Summer.
‘No. It was for the best,’ said Molly, a note of pleading
in her voice. ‘I wanted a better life for you. If I’ve ever pushed you with Adam, it’s because you don’t want to end up like me.’
‘But James is my father. I have a right to meet him, to know him.’
‘It’s not possible. Not now.’
‘Why?’ snapped Summer.
‘Because it’s been too bloody long!’ shouted Molly.
‘Maybe for you, but not for me,’ said Summer. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Summer, please. Let it go.’
Summer looked at her mother, dishevelled in her casual clothes, her hair messy, with lines on her face and puffy eyes from crying. She looked more like a stranger than ever before.
‘Get out,’ said Summer.
‘Summer, please. We need to talk about Adam, about the baby.’
‘Please, Molly, just get out. I need to be on my own.’
And, as Molly shut the door quietly behind her, Summer sank to the floor and began to sob, wondering how everything could have unravelled in her life so quickly.
There were a few lights on in Karin’s house, glowing blush-pink behind the curtains as the dusk began to fall. For a few moments Erin sat outside in her car, the engine switched off, listening to the background noises: distant cars on a busier road, a breeze blowing leaves along the pavement. She didn’t get out of the car until she felt calm, knowing another scene with Karin would get her nowhere.
The house was grand, thought Erin as she walked up the steps, although too prim and pretty to be intimidating. Set a little back from the road, it was a tall, slim, white building with a shiny black door and Georgian windows with flower-filled window boxes. She rapped on the door with the big brass door knocker. Nothing. As much as she wanted to avoid Karin, the last thing she wanted was to let herself in with Adam’s keys. It seemed so intrusive and presumptuous. She could be doing anything in there –
with anyone
, she thought cynically. She walked round to the side of the house. A side window that looked onto the kitchen was slightly open. She peered through and called Karin’s name. The house remained silent.
After trying her mobile and land line one more time, Erin
resigned herself to letting herself in. The door creaked open. The only sound was the tapping of Erin’s heels on the wooden floorboards. In front of her was a wide staircase lined with thick cream carpet; to the left of the entrance was a formal lounge. It was completely quiet. No hum of a television or bubbling of a pan on the stove, just the quiet of an empty house. She walked through the kitchen, a stunning space with white lacquered units and granite work surfaces. It was a show kitchen, a kitchen to be looked at, not cooked in thought Erin. Erin walked around the central Island; a lone bottle of wine stood on the side.
‘Karin. Are you home?’
Feeling more confident she was alone, Erin walked though into a big open dining space that ran along the back of the house. Erin put her car keys on the glass table; the jangle as they hit the surface unnerved her. Yesterday’s newspaper was on the table, along with some Italian magazines and a packet of chewing gum. She could see that the dining area ran into the lounge. Walking towards it she felt a sudden sense of unease. And then she saw her. Erin held her mouth and felt bile come up her throat. Karin was lying on the floor, dark hair splayed out round her, rivulets of blood spreading from her head like Medusa’s snakes. Oh, the blood. There was so much blood.
She edged closer, forcing herself to look, to see if there was any sign of life. Erin retched again and her knees gave way. She scrabbled around on the floor, reaching for her mobile in her bag, her hands quivering as she tried to punch in Adam’s number.
‘Erin,’ said Adam, his voice sounding irritated. ‘I’m at dinner, can I call you or Karin in half an hour?’
‘Please come quickly,’ whispered Erin, barely able to say the words. ‘I’m at the house. Karin’s here. I think she’s dead.’
The police got there quicker than Adam. Before Erin had time to process what was happening, the house had been cordoned off, red and blue lights swirled on the street, while officers were milling around with notepads and radios, barking orders and being deliberately vague about what they were doing.
Detective Chief Inspector Michael Wright from Scotland Yard’s murder squad did not look as if he belonged in Karin Cavendish’s drawing room. In fact, he didn’t look as it he belonged in any drawing room. Michael Wright was a cop cliché, at home in the pub and the bookies, lived and breathed the job for twenty years which had cost him his marriage and his health. He smoked forty Lambert & Butler a day and his drinking problem had escalated after his wife Lynn had kicked him out of the house three years earlier.
Sitting in the exquisitely decorated room, staring absently at the Colefax & Fowler wallpaper, DCI Wright wondered how he had failed to raise himself to this level. What choices had he made. He glanced over at Adam Gold, mentally comparing their take-home pay, and suppressed a snort. He had failed in the rat race and he had also failed in his calling, he thought grimly, watching Karin’s body wheeled out of the house. He had failed to clean up the streets and keep this woman safe. But, by God, he would catch the culprit, he thought. The monster who took a life. He ran his hands through his hair and took stock of the scene. Some facts had already been established. The pathologist had estimated the time of death between 8 and 10 p.m. the previous evening. Cause of death was a severing of the carotid artery. She had been smashed over the head with a glass object that lay shattered on the carpet.
‘Can we go over what you know one more time, Mr Gold?’ said Detective Chief Inspector Michael Wright, looking at the smartly dressed man sitting opposite him.
Adam nodded, his head bowed. Michael didn’t like the CEO of the Midas Corporation; there was something dirty about him. Experience and police statistics also gave him more solid reasons to be suspicious of a victim’s partner; and nobody made as much money as Adam Gold without being a ruthless bastard. But he wasn’t about to mention that right now. Men like Gold were connected and could stir up a whole lot of trouble with his superiors if he put a foot wrong.
‘We’d just come back from our engagement party in Italy,’ said Adam flatly. His eyes looked blank. ‘I flew to Paris on business and came back on Monday evening when I went out with my vice president for dinner. Karin and I did not spend every evening together – we’re both extremely busy business people – although we do usually speak. When I hadn’t heard from her by this morning I was a little worried, so I sent my assistant round to her house. And she found her.’
On the face of it, it looked as if Adam’s young assistant had disturbed an intruder. Both the back and side kitchen windows were slightly ajar, although there was no sign of a struggle.
‘So, who were you with between eight and midnight yesterday evening, sir? I just have to establish who was where,’ said Chief Inspector Wright, pen poised over his notebook.
‘My colleague Marcus Blackwell. My assistant can give you his number to confirm it.’ Adam took a business card out of his pocket and gave it to Michael. ‘This is my private number. The number for Erin, my assistant, is on there too.’ He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands and exhaled.
‘I realize this is very difficult, Mr Gold,’ said Wright with practised sympathy. ‘If we can just establish a few more things about last night, I can leave you alone. I’m sure that’s what you want.’
‘Haven’t I given you enough yet?’ snapped Adam.
‘I’m afraid the investigation will be quite intrusive,’ continued Wright. ‘We need to build up as big a picture as we can about Karin’s life. Friends. Enemies. And are you sure Ms Cavendish had no enemies?’
‘Enemies, no,’ said Adam, shaking his head. ‘But I assume you will be checking out that wacko who was harassing her over the summer?’
Michael Wright looked up quickly. ‘A wacko? Who was this?’
‘Some kid named Evan Harris. Parents live in a house that overlooks the back of Karin’s. He was caught peeping and following her over the summer. We got out a harassment order eventually.’
‘And has he given her any trouble since?’
Adam shrugged. ‘No, but he’s a little weirdo. If you don’t investigate him thoroughly then I will arrange for some other people to do so.’
Wright closed his notebook. ‘Don’t throw your money around, Mr Gold. I can assure you we’ll do our job properly.’
He glanced in the hallway. He could see the girl Erin Devereux, who had found the body, still waiting. As he was looking, his sergeant Jim Beswick pushed past her, clearly in a hurry.
‘Anything, Beswick?’ asked Wright.
‘Evan Harris, sir. Some kid that lives close by.’
Adam and Wright flashed a look at each other.
‘He harassed Miss Cavendish over the summer,’ continued Beswick in a lower voice, wary of being overheard by suspects.
‘His fingerprints are already on file and they match prints on the window ledge by the kitchen window.’
‘What are you waiting for?’ growled Michael Wright. ‘Let’s bring him in.’
Erin arrived home just as it was getting dark, never more thankful to see her apartment. She had been questioned by the gruff Chief Inspector for forty minutes and had felt guilty for every one of them. She was sure she must have looked it, too.
Just as she was putting her key in the lock, she heard the noise of a door opening. She turned round.
‘Hey Erin,’ said Chris with a look of concern.
‘Hi,’ she said quietly, silently willing him to be nice. The thing she needed right now was a friend, not a reminder of how things had soured between them.
‘I was about to come and see if you’re okay. I heard about Karin from the newsroom at work.’
She nodded, feeling a tear slide down her cheek, the events of the past month suddenly becoming too much to bear.
He moved towards her and folded his arms around her. She stayed very still, inhaling the smell of the jumper, feeling momentarily protected.
‘Let’s go inside,’ he said, pushing her front door open and leading her to the sofa.
Erin curled up on the sofa, hugging herself, while Chris went straight over to the kettle.
‘Did you know I found her?’ said Erin quietly after Chris had returned and sat down opposite her.
Chris shook his head and handed her a cup of coffee. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
She wanted to trust Chris.
Had
to trust him. She was too scared, lonely and anxious to carry the burden alone. Chris moved across to the sofa and she swung her legs around, tucking her feet under him.
‘I’m scared the police are going to think I did it,’ she whispered.
‘Don’t be daft. Just because you found the body, it doesn’t
mean the police will be suspicious,’ he said, his voice upbeat and reassuring.
Erin looked at him, hesitating. ‘If I tell you something, do you promise you’re not going to think I killed her?’
‘Of course not,’ he said evenly, his curiosity prickling.
‘I had a fight with Karin in Como,’ she said, and began to tell Chris the story Jilly had told her days earlier and Karin’s response when she had confronted her. As she did so, she began to see just how bad, just how guilty she looked, and she became scared.
‘Chris, if the police find out about our families, I’m screwed, aren’t I?’ she said, a feeling of dread growing in her stomach. ‘If they find out that my dad committed suicide because Karin’s father ruined his business – well, it doesn’t look good does it? It could look like a motive for murder, look as if I want revenge.’
Chris remained silent and Erin felt a chill. ‘I didn’t do it,’ she whispered.
‘I know that,’ said Chris, moving closer and stroking her hair. He looked awkward and then stopped. She surprised herself by wishing he would do it again.
‘But you’re right, it doesn’t look good. If you’re interviewed again you should tell the police what you’ve just told me. Better you tell them than they find out on their own.’
‘Well, let’s hope they find who did it quickly. Do you have any friends at the newspaper who might know if they have any suspects?’
‘I could give my mate Mark on the crime desk a ring. He’s bound to be involved in the story.’
Erin felt a glimmer of hope. ‘Oh can you do it? Please?’
Chris nodded and reached for the phone.