She found what she sought and pulled it clear of the case.
The photos came loose with it.
They fluttered into the air and then fell to the floor. Half a dozen of them.
Donna picked them up.
There was a publicity shot of Chris, unsmiling. His sinister face, he called it. She smiled thinly as she gathered the other photos, turning the next one over.
Chris again.
With other men.
She searched their faces but didn’t recognise any of them. They were sitting at a large table, two younger men, no older than Chris, then her husband, then an older man. Very much older. She squinted at the picture but could not make out his features. It was as if that particular part of the photo were blurred.
It was the same with the next man.
Very old again and, once more, the image was blurred.
Not so with the last of the group, a young man in his early thirties, handsome but with cruel eyes and short dark hair. She could feel those eyes boring into her as she studied the picture.
The next one was the same, except that Chris was in the centre this time.
And again she saw those two blurred images. As she looked from one to the other she realized that it was just the faces that were blurred; the rest of the image was as sharp as a knife.
No one in the photo was smiling. Chris and the other five looked impassively into the camera. She assumed that was what the two older men were doing, too, just looking at the camera. She knew they were old from the wrinkles on their hands; there were deep folds of skin around the knuckles and the base of the thumb. Their clothes looked old, too. Almost archaic, in fact.
What did stand out with sharp clarity was something on their hands.
Both the blurred figures wore rings on their left index fingers, large heavy gold signet rings.
She peered closer at them, aware that there was a symbol of some kind at their centre, but no matter how closely she looked she could not make it out.
Donna sat back on her haunches, breathing heavily.
Then she picked up his diary, flicking through it.
JANUARY 11th: Phone Martin.
JANUARY 15th: Confirm interview for next week.
JANUARY 17th: Shooting - 7.00-9.00.
The entries were mostly uninspiring, some scribbled in pencil, others in pen.
FEBRUARY 5th: Check train times. She read on.
FEBRUARY 9th: Ring S.
Donna gritted her teeth and flicked back and forth through the diary. There were numerous entries of a similar nature. Sometimes just the initial. Others just bore the initial D.
Well, it didn’t refer to Donna, that’s for sure.
Another mistress?
Donna flicked to the back of the diary, to the addresses, and ran her index finger down the list. Through the hotels and restaurants, the business addresses, the private addresses, the ...
SUZANNE REGAN.
Donna read the address, then reached for a pen and scribbled it down on a piece of paper.
SUZANNE REGAN,
23 LOCKWOOD DRIVE,
NOTTING HILL GATE,
LONDON W2 She got to her feet, the piece of paper gripped in her fist.
Sixteen
‘Where the hell are you going?’
Julie looked up in surprise as her sister entered the sitting-room, her long leather coat flying open as she headed across the room.
‘Out,’ snapped Donna, brandishing the piece of paper.
Julie got to her feet. She noticed that Donna had pulled on a pair of suede boots and tucked her jeans into the top of them.
‘You were tired; you were going to have a nap. Donna, tell me what’s happening.’ She could see the tearstains on the older woman’s face.
‘I know where she lives,’ Donna said angrily. ‘I found her address in his diary. I know where she lives.’
‘
Lived
,’ Julie reminded her. ‘And so what if you do?’
‘I want to see where she lived.’
‘Donna, this is crazy. She’s dead. It’s over.
She’s
dead. Chris is dead. That’s all there is to it. Stop this now, before it drives you mad. You’re becoming obsessive about it.’
‘And wouldn’t you?’ Donna rasped. ‘You lost
your
husband to the bottle, but it didn’t matter to you. I
care
.’
Julie took a step back, her face losing its colour.
‘I wish I could argue with you,’ she said resignedly. ‘Yes, I did lose my husband to the bottle, not another woman. But the difference between us is I didn’t blame myself for his drinking. It’s as if you’re blaming yourself for what Chris did before he was killed. It isn’t your fault, Donna.’
‘Then why did he need to have an affair?’ she rasped. ‘What the fuck was so special about this bloody Suzanne Regan? I want to know what she had that I don’t. I want to know what she wore, what she smelled like. I want to know what kind of music she listened to. I even want to know what she bloody well ate.’ There was a vehemence in Donna’s words Julie had never seen before, a hatred that burned as brightly as a beacon. It danced in her eyes like fire.
‘It’s becoming an obsession with you,’ Julie continued. ‘I’m beginning to wonder which has upset you the most, the fact that Chris is dead or that he was unfaithful.’
‘Well, perhaps even I don’t know any more,’ Donna told her. ‘He’s not here for me to ask, is he? I can’t find out from him why he wanted her. So I have to find out myself. It might just keep me sane.’
‘Why do you have to know?’ Julie asked imploringly. ‘Why do you have to torture yourself?’
‘I told you, I need to know whether she was better than me.’ There were tears forming in Donna’s eyes now. ‘I lost my husband, Julie, that’s the worse thing I could ever have imagined. I don’t want to lose my self-respect, too.’
For long seconds the two women stood staring at each other, neither speaking. Then Julie took a step forward.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked quietly.
‘Go to her house.’
‘And do what?’
‘Look around, see what I can find.’
‘You’re just going to break in? As easy as that?’
‘I don’t know what I’m going to do. All I know is, I have to see where she lived.’ She handed the piece of paper with the address on to Julie. ‘You’re my sister and I love you. If you love me, then help me.’
‘Help you do what? Go crazy? Because that’s what you’re doing. Please think about this, Donna. Think about what you’re doing to yourself. Isn’t Chris’s death enough to cope with?’
Donna’s stare was unflinching.
‘Are you going to help me?’ she asked, holding out her hand for the piece of paper.
Julie exhaled deeply and wearily.
‘Yes, I’ll help you,’ she said finally.
‘I want to go there now.’
Julie knew that it was futile to argue. She nodded.
‘Let me get my coat,’ she said. ‘I’ll drive.’
Seventeen
Number Twenty-Three Lockwood Drive was a converted house off Moscow Road, part of the maze of Notting Hill.
It was white, or had been at one time. Now the painted brickwork was grey with the accumulated grime of the years. Even the flowers in the window box on the ground floor looked as though they’d been sprayed with dust. It was difficult to tell which were alive and which weren’t. A row of iron railings, rusted in places, protected the front of the house and a gate with one hinge missing guarded the short path to the front door. The neighbouring houses were in a similar state; many had FOR SALE signs displayed.
Lights burned in windows and shadowy figures could be seen moving behind curtains. There were few people on the streets and those that were hardly glanced at the two women sitting in the Fiesta parked opposite Number Twenty-Three.
Donna Ward gazed at the house, studying every aspect of it: the colour of the front door, the curtains that hung at the windows. She saw a dark stain at the meeting of the roof and front wall and realized that water had obviously been dripping from a hole in the guttering. Somewhere close by she heard a dog bark.
Street lamps burned with a dull yellow light, casting deep shadows. Inside the car it was silent.
The drive into the heart of London had taken less than an hour. Traffic had been unexpectedly light and Julie had guided them skilfully to their destination. Now she sat in the driver’s seat, one hand pressed to her forehead, her impatience growing.
‘How long are we going to sit here?’ she wanted to know.
Donna ignored the question, her eyes still fixed on the dirty white house across the road.
‘It’s expensive around here,’ she said. ‘A bit grand for a secretary’s wages. Perhaps he was paying her rent, too.’
‘Let’s go. You’ve seen the place, that’s what you wanted.’
Donna reached for the door-handle and pushed it open.
‘What are you doing?’ Julie asked, bewildered.
‘Wait for me,’ Donna instructed her, swinging herself out of the car. She walked briskly across the street and headed for the house, lifting the gate on its hinge as she made her way up the short path and four steps.
Julie, watching from the car, shook her head.
Donna studied the panel beside the front door and saw a number of names attached to the intercom buttons. She ran her index finger down the list:
Weston.
Lawrence.
Regan.
She gritted her teeth when she saw the name, then pressed the main door buzzer and waited.
She heard movement behind the door. A moment later, it was opened and she found herself looking into the face of a man in his sixties, short, balding and with tufts of white hair sprouting from each nostril. It looked as if two snow-white caterpillars were trying to escape from his nose. He was wearing impeccably-pressed trousers, a blue shirt that looked freshly ironed and a spotted bow-tie. On his feet he wore scuffed carpet slippers.
He smiled warmly when he saw Donna.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
‘It’s about my sister,’ she lied, her tone sombre. ‘Suzanne Regan.’
The old man nodded, his smile fading.
‘I was very sorry to hear what happened. She was a lovely girl,’ he offered. ‘There’s a family resemblance.’
Donna controlled herself with difficulty.
‘My brother said he was going to call round for some of her things,’ she said, sounding remarkably convincing. ‘But I thought I’d better check whether he had or not.’
‘No one’s been round, Miss Regan,’ he said, glancing down at her left hand, catching sight of the wedding ring. ‘Or is it
Mrs
?’ He smiled again.
She shook her head.
‘My name is
(
careful now
)
Blake. Catherine Blake.’
‘Mercuriadis,’ he announced, holding out a hand. She shook it lightly; his hand felt soft and warm. ‘I know it’s a bit of a mouthful. Would you like to come in?’
Bingo.