‘Only what he told me.’
Donna shook her head gently.
‘You were his agent, Martin, and you’re trying to tell me you never knew what he was writing about, what research he did? Nothing?’ She looked at him challengingly.
‘Only what he
told
me,’ Connelly insisted. ‘It seems we’ve had this conversation before, Donna. I can’t tell you anything different.’
The starters arrived. Donna prodded her avocado with the fork.
‘What did he tell you about this new book?’ she wanted to know.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Connelly said irritably, ‘he didn’t tell me anything. How many more times?’
‘You arranged some of the interviews he did, didn’t you? Or can’t you remember that either, Martin?’ she said cryptically.
‘What is your problem, Donna?’ he hissed, keeping his voice under control but not his anger. ‘What do you want me to tell you?’
‘The truth.’
‘I don’t know the truth. You asked me what Chris was working on. I don’t know, but that’s not good enough for you. Why did you mention his interviews?’ he asked.
Donna reached down beside her and fumbled in her handbag. She produced Ward’s diary and flicked it open, turning it around on the table so that Connelly could see it.
‘October 25th,’ she read aloud. ‘Interview in Oxford.’ She turned a few more pages. ‘November 16th. Interview in Edinburgh.’ She looked at Connelly. ‘He was gone three days that time. And here, London, December 2nd. He was gone two days then.’ She turned more pages. ‘January 6th. Dublin.’
Connelly shook his head.
‘Did you arrange those interviews, Martin?’ she wanted to know. ‘Or weren’t they interviews? Was he with
her
, then? Did you know about it? Who usually went with him on promotional trips? Someone from the publishers, wasn’t it? Someone from the publicity department? Or was it
her
?’
‘Donna, I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Connelly said wearily. ‘
What
you’re talking about or
who
you’re talking about.’
‘I’m talking about Suzanne Regan. My husband’s mistress. Did she go with him on any of these trips?’
‘I don’t know. Really. Trust me.’
‘What about these?’ she said, pointing at other entries in the diary. Beside every single interview in London, Oxford, Dublin or Edinburgh was the initial D.
‘Who was “D”?’ she asked. ‘Was that his pet name for her?’
Connelly could only shake his head.
‘I really don’t know what any of it means,’ he said. ‘I didn’t arrange those interviews, if that’s what they were.’
‘Did you know he was going to be in those places?’ she persisted. ‘I thought you and Chris usually let each other know if you were going away, in case one had to contact the other urgently.’
‘Donna, I wish I could help you. I can’t remember if Chris mentioned those trips or not.’
Donna reached into her handbag again, this time pulling out the photos she’d found of Ward and the five other men.
‘Who are they, Martin?’ she asked.
Connelly didn’t speak.
‘Recognise any of them?’ she persisted.
He ran his eyes over the pictures.
‘Where did you get them?’ he asked finally.
‘I found them in Chris’s office,’ she said, realizing it prudent not to mention she’d found identical ones in Suzanne Regan’s flat. ‘I want to know who they are and I’m going to find out.’
‘How?’ he enquired.
She flipped through the diary to another entry.
DUBLIN NATIONAL GALLERY
and beneath that
JAMES WORSDALE
The date was about a week later.
‘I’m going to Dublin,’ she announced defiantly.
‘What the hell for?’
‘To find out exactly what Chris was working on. To find out who these men were.’ She tapped the photo. ‘I think they’re linked in some way. And I think they’re linked to his death. I want to know how and I’m going to find out, no matter what I have to do.’
The rest of the meal was eaten in virtual silence and Donna finally left without having a coffee, having carefully gathered up the photos and the diary. She said goodbye to the agent and hurried out, flagging down a cab that was dropping off nearby.
Connelly paid the bill quickly and ran out after her, calling to her across the street.
Donna hesitated as he approached.
‘When are you leaving for Dublin?’ he asked.
‘In five days,’ she told him. ‘Why?’
Connelly shrugged and smiled awkwardly.
‘I thought you might like some company,’ he said. ‘I’ve been there a few times. Perhaps I could help you.’
Donna eyed him with something close to contempt.
‘I’ll manage,’ she said and climbed into the cab. Connelly watched as it pulled away.
Twenty-Four
Julie Craig received the news of Donna’s intended trip to Dublin with not so much surprise as weary resignation.
The two women were lying in bed, with only the ticking of the bedside clock an accompaniment to their subdued conversation. Julie lay on her back gazing up at the ceiling, listening to Donna recount her meeting with Connelly that afternoon. It was all she could do to stop herself telling Donna she was sick of hearing about the whole subject. Still she seemed obsessed with Suzanne Regan.
‘Do you think it’s a good idea you going so soon after the funeral?’ she asked.
‘The quicker I get this business sorted out the better,’ Donna told her.
‘And what if you don’t get it sorted out? What if you don’t find the answers you want?’
Donna had no answer.
‘Are you going to let it haunt you for the rest of your life? Are you going to think about it for the rest of your life?’
‘It’s easy for you to dismiss it, Julie,’ Donna said, irritably.
‘I’m not dismissing it,’ the younger woman said. ‘But this has become an obsession with you.’
‘Maybe it has. I’ll just have to learn to live with it. The same way I’ve got to learn to live without Chris.’ She wiped a tear from her eye. ‘I have to do things my way, Julie. It’s my way of coming to terms with it.’
They lay there in silence for what seemed like an eternity, then Julie broke the stillness.
‘If you need me to help you, to come with you to Ireland, or anywhere else, you know I will,’ she said softly.
Donna nodded in the darkness.
The light filtering through the window illuminated her face and Julie could see the tears glistening in the dull light. She reached across and wiped them from her sister’s cheek, stroking her face.
Donna held her hand and kissed it.
Julie began stroking her sister’s hair, smoothing the soft blonde tresses back.
‘Everything’s arranged for tomorrow,’ she said quietly. ‘The cars, the flowers, everything.’ She continued stroking. ‘The caterers will be here before we leave; they’ll have the food ready when the service is over. I told them nothing too elaborate.’
‘Sausages on sticks?’ Donna murmured, managing a thin smile.
Julie smiled too, her initial annoyance giving way to a feeling of helplessness. She could see the suffering in her sister’s eyes, feel it in her words, but knew she could do nothing to ease it. All she could do was stand by helplessly and watch. She carried on stroking, seeing Donna’s eyes closing.
‘Go to sleep,’ she whispered. ‘You need to rest.’
‘Remember when you used to do this when we were kids?’ Donna murmured, her voice low, her words delivered slowly. ‘It always used to make me drop off then.’
‘I remember,’ Julie told her. ‘You did it for me, too.’
‘Little sister looking after big sister,’ Donna said, her eyes closed.
She said one more thing before sleep finally overcame her, words spoken so softly Julie barely heard them.
‘I miss him, Julie,’ she said.
Then all she heard was her sister’s low breathing.
She slept.
Julie stopped stroking her hair and rolled over onto her back again, glancing across at the photo on the bedside table of Chris and Donna, peering at it through the gloom.
It was a long time before she fell asleep.
Twenty-Five
Martin Connelly took the suit from the wardrobe and hung it on one of the handles.
He brushed fluff from a sleeve and inspected the garment carefully. He hadn’t worn it for over two years, not since the last funeral. The agent noticed a couple of creases in one arm of the jacket and wished now that he’d left it out for his housekeeper to press. He shook his head. The creases would drop out once he had it on. What the hell. He selected a white shirt and then rummaged through his wardrobe for his black tie, hanging it neatly over the shoulder of the jacket. Satisfied that everything was ready for the following day, he wandered back into the sitting-room of the flat and poured himself a drink.
He sat down in front of the television and reached for the remote control, flicking through channels, unable to find anything suitable. He wondered about watching a video but decided against it.
There were cassette cases underneath the television, both tapes leant to him by Christopher Ward. He made a note to return them. It would give him an excuse to return to the house.
He wouldn’t phone first, he’d just turn up, surprise Donna one day. He doubted whether she’d be too happy to see him after their lunch that day. He regretted his suggestion to travel with her to Dublin.
You should have waited.
And yet what better time to speak to her than now? She was emotionally vulnerable, looking for kindness, wanting to be needed. As time went on and her emotional strength returned, his task would be more difficult.
Connelly finished his drink and poured himself another, rolling the glass between his palms.
It was one of a set Kathy had bought.
The thought of her brought the memories flooding back into his mind.
They had lived together for ten months and, whilst it had scarcely been idyllic, both had been happy. She was beginning to make a go of her career in modelling; she’d been signed up by an agency and the work had begun to flood in. At first he’d been overjoyed, proud of her and more than a little smug to think that his girlfriend was a fashion model.
When the nude work started to take over he began to change his mind. Kathy had never been ashamed of her body and when she was approached by a top men’s magazine to do a spread she jumped at the chance. The pay was good and it opened up even more opportunities. Modelling assignments took her abroad. It got to the stage where they hardly saw each other and, all the time, Connelly was plagued by doubts. By thoughts of his girlfriend and a photographer he’d never met cavorting about on some sun-kissed beach in the Caribbean. He’d challenged her several times about it. Had she ever slept with a photographer while she was away? The usual thing. Blind to the fact that the only thing that interested her was furthering her career, Connelly had finally made life unbearable for both of them with his jealousy. As she reminded him, during rows over her assignments, he was always having lunch or dinner with female clients, editors or journalists. Connelly insisted it was different. Besides, the women
he
dealt with didn’t sit in restaurants naked.