Blood Falls (31 page)

Joe sighed. ‘If I’d known what I know now, I probably wouldn’t have agreed to it. But I didn’t know. Because neither of you told me.’

Diana carefully put her cup down. ‘I don’t want to discuss it. I can’t.’

‘What do you mean?’

She stood up, heralding a burst of anger unlike anything he’d witnessed from her.

‘I won’t be interrogated, Joe. This is my house. I gave you shelter, and I was glad to do it. But there are limits. I can’t deal with this … this
continual pressure
.’

She gave him a look of pure despair. He didn’t really understand what she meant, but saw that yet more questions would be counter-productive.

‘All right. I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.’

The toaster popped, an almost comical intrusion. Diana’s temper fizzled away as quickly as it had flared. But she remained standing, as if poised to flee.

‘I was hoping to borrow the car,’ Joe said, ‘but that seems like adding insult to injury.’

‘Take it. You’re welcome.’

‘Are you sure? You weren’t planning …?’

‘No. Take it.’ She walked over to the units and found the keys. Dropped them into his palm and gave him an awkward, conciliatory smile.

‘I think it would be better if you went soon. Perhaps another two or three days?’

He nodded. ‘Okay. Fine.’

Diana’s eyes were shining with tears. She held Joe’s gaze for a couple of seconds, then left the room without another word.

Fifty-Four

WHEN SHE HEARD
a tap on the back door, Diana assumed it must be Joe. Either he’d forgotten something, or he’d come back for another attempt at the conversation he was so desperate to have – and which she was so desperate to avoid.

To find that it wasn’t Joe, but Glenn, should have lifted her spirits. Except that he was part of the problem, too.

‘Hey, sweetheart.’ He stepped inside, kissed her on the mouth, holding his lips on hers for that extra half-second that always set the furnace burning within her.

She studied his face. ‘You look shattered. Tell me you’ve been to bed.’

‘Work kept me up.’ He kissed her again, hugging her tight. She wasn’t certain, but she thought he might have sniffed, tentatively. ‘Did you have a late night?’

‘Not especially,’ she said, puzzled and a little disturbed. ‘Just didn’t sleep well. I was up by half past five.’

‘Wish I’d known. I’d have come over and taken you back to bed.’

She had a light-bulb moment:
He was sniffing for aftershave. Joe’s aftershave
…

‘I doubt it, if you’d seen the state of me.’

‘You’re beautiful, Di. Anyway, with you it’s
inner
beauty.’ Flashing his eyes as he emphasised the word. He was being especially charming,
which usually meant he wanted something – or had bad news to deliver.

In this case, as it turned out, it was both.

Diana made a fresh pot of tea, although Glenn said it wasn’t necessary. She wished she could slip away, put on some lipstick and mascara, if nothing else.

He followed her to the counter, standing close behind her, his groin almost but not quite touching her bottom. He placed his hands on her shoulders, nuzzled the side of her neck, chuckling as he made her shiver.

‘Don’t.’

‘We could go back to bed now.’

She squirmed, wriggled him off. ‘Maybe later. Do you want toast?’

‘No. I want you.’ His voice changed as he spotted the plate with crumbs. ‘Is Joe up?’

‘He’s gone out. I lent him my car.’

‘I thought it must be in the garage. Where’s he off to, then?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, thinking:
Thank God I didn’t ask
.

‘You must do. You wouldn’t just let him take your car.’

‘Why not? I trust him.’

‘What if he doesn’t come back?’

She moved sideways, so she could turn and confront him. What she saw in his face made her take another step back.

‘Joe’s an old friend. He’s not going to steal my car, for goodness sake.’

‘Did he say how long he’d be?’

‘No. We’re not joined at the hip, Glenn.’

She knew it was a mistake as soon as she said it. Any reference to physical contact between them was bound to set his mind racing. He gave her a dubious glance and reached for his phone.

‘Gotta take this,’ he said.

She nodded, but she hadn’t heard it ring or vibrate.
He’s making a call
, she thought, and the implications filled her with dread.

He was back a couple of minutes later, finishing a cigarette and looking even more strained. Sitting at the table, he accepted his tea, then reached out and stroked her arm. Diana made to move away but his fingers curled around her wrist and held her tightly.

‘Sit down. Let’s talk about this.’

‘What?’

‘Joe. How much do you really know about him? You say he used to work with Roy, but then he left the force. Well, is there any proof of that?’

‘I don’t understand what you mean. Or why you need to know, for that matter.’

‘You understand,’ he said, his voice so quiet that she might have imagined the note of menace. ‘It’s not just me, is it?’

‘Leon, then. Why does Leon need to know?’

Glenn shook his head, as if thoroughly disgusted. ‘Use your brain, Di. Imagine the shit I’ll be in if it turns out he’s still a cop?’

She gaped at him, aware that she had to get a grip on her panic. ‘If Leon had any worries on that score, why on earth did he offer him work?’

‘Christ knows. But if it goes wrong it won’t have been Leon’s idea, will it?’

‘Frankly, Glenn, I wish neither of you worked for him. Maybe it’s time to get the construction business up and running again …’

Glenn’s withering look told her what he thought of that. He drank his tea, slurping greedily. The noises Roy had made when he ate and drank had always irritated Diana beyond reason, whereas with Glenn it only seemed to emphasise his masculinity: such a big strong man ought to devour his food like a wild beast.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes heavy-lidded as he studied her. ‘So what did you two get up to last night?’

‘We didn’t do anything. I stayed in, and Joe went out.’ She wouldn’t have said that much, except that a glimmer of light had appeared: a way to divert Glenn’s interest away from Joe’s identity, his history. ‘He had dinner with someone.’

‘What? You mean he’s getting his leg over?’

‘I’m hardly going to ask him that, am I?’ Too late to backtrack. This was going to make things worse even as it made other things better. But it was a question of priorities …

‘Who is it?’

‘You should be pleased. This proves you’ve been worrying for no good reason.’

‘So tell me who it is.’

‘Ellie.’

‘
My
Ellie?’

If the phrase had been deliberately intended to wound, Diana would have taken a lot more offence. As it was, Glenn seemed to recognise his clumsiness.

‘You know what I mean. Is that where he’s gone today?’

So tempting … but she couldn’t risk an outright lie. ‘It might be. I didn’t ask, and he didn’t say.’

‘I don’t bloody believe it.’ Glenn exhaled loudly. Diana had the impression he was both infuriated and simultaneously very relieved. She chose to share the latter emotion.

Then the doorbell rang, and that relief evaporated like mist over a summer meadow.

Fifty-Five

POUNDBURY WAS A
brand new community on the western fringes of the ancient market town of Dorchester. Built on land owned by the Duchy of Cornwall, it had been designed according to the classical architectural principles espoused by Prince Charles. Joe recalled various points of controversy over the years: fears that the alleys and walkways would encourage crime; architects who insisted that design had to look forwards, not backwards. Joe decided he had sympathy with both sides.

It was strikingly different, and the period architecture was grandly impressive, but the pristine stone and brick, together with the absence of modern street signs or road markings, lent it an oddly artificial air. As he got out of his car, Joe felt he’d strayed onto a movie set, or perhaps an elaborate folly. It reminded him of Portmeirion, the Italianate village on the Welsh coast which had provided the location for the 1960s TV series
The Prisoner
.

And whilst he admired the ideas which underpinned the development, he was reminded of his conversation with Ellie in the Shell Cavern. No matter how honourable the intentions, perfect communities weren’t something you could create on a drawing board. Or impose by force.

Poundbury remained a work in progress, with a large sector to the south excavated for the next wave of construction. Even in the completed
areas, the streets were unnaturally quiet. Many had no separate pavements, and the road surface was covered with a layer of pea gravel, adding to the ‘costume drama’ feel of the place.

The address he had for Pearse was a three-storey Georgian-style town house. Joe knocked on the front door, which was opened swiftly by a tall, elegant woman in her early thirties. Mrs Pearse, he presumed.

She had long, straight blonde hair, brilliant blue eyes and just enough of an elitist sneer to be sexy rather than obnoxious. She was immaculately turned out in close-fitting slacks and a pale blue cashmere sweater. Subtle make-up accentuated a face that looked fresh and untroubled, despite the clamour of what sounded like several young children somewhere in the depths of the house.

‘May I speak to Jamie?’ he said. ‘I’m Joe Carter, a friend of Kamila’s. From London?’ He employed the rising inflection for its disarming effect.

Unfazed, the woman smiled. ‘Yes, yes, of course. Do come in, but would you mind …?’ She indicated several robust doormats that covered a couple of square yards of the spacious hallway.

Joe stepped inside, wiped his feet, then decided to stay where he was. Not worth removing his shoes if he was about to get kicked out.

Moving away from him, the woman glanced back. ‘Joe? A friend of Kamila’s?’

Joe nodded, marooned on the doormat as she disappeared into the kitchen. The hall carpet was pure white and spotlessly clean, and he had a vision of the children forced to wear protective overshoes at all times. Or maybe they never went out …

He heard the woman speaking, a good-natured appeal for quiet, and then a man’s voice, one word emerging clearly from the murmured conversation.

‘Who?’

Seconds later, he stepped into view. Jamie Pearse was an inch or two shorter than his wife, not unattractive despite narrow shoulders and
a weak chin. He was around fifty, with sandy grey hair and bushy eyebrows. He wore dark blue jeans and a brown Tattersall shirt. With his wife hovering at his shoulder, he beamed at Joe as though they were old friends.

‘Joe, hi! I completely forgot. We need to talk about the Lambert account.’ Undetectable in his voice, his expression frantically signalled that Joe should pretend to understand.

Feeling like a louse, Joe had little option but to nod enthusiastically. ‘If you can spare the time. I thought, seeing as I was in the area …’

‘Yes, why not? Good man. We have nothing on this morning—’

‘Lunch with the Vinalls,’ his wife interjected.

‘Oh, bags of time yet. This won’t take long.’

He grabbed a light brown cord jacket from a hook. ‘I say we get a coffee. Not fair to inflict our business woes on the family, eh?’

‘Quite,’ said Joe.

Pearse exuded relief as he called a farewell to the children and shut the front door behind him. He led Joe along the deserted street, the only sound their footsteps on the gravel.

‘Awful, isn’t it? Crunch crunch crunch. Drives you mad. Anyone strolls past, it sounds like a bloody regimental parade. And the mess! Ruins your carpets, scratches the wooden floors to buggery. All because it looks nice from the air, apparently …’

‘You didn’t know about it before you bought the house?’

A sly laugh as Pearse acknowledged Joe’s dig at him. ‘Oh, yes. Small quibble, really. We were one of the first here. Bought two, one for the investment portfolio, and saw prices double in three years. Not a bad return.’

Joe made no comment. What had started as a mild distaste for the man was rapidly transforming into a full-on loathing.

Once they were at a safe distance from the house, Pearse gave him a confiding look. ‘Apologies for the spot of subterfuge. Better all round to keep shtum. Now, d’you want to explain who you are and what this is all about?’

‘I’m doing a favour for a friend,’ Joe said. ‘Kamila’s sister.’

‘Ah. Alise.’ Pearse wrinkled his nose, as if at a bad smell. ‘How did you find me?’

‘The hotel where Kamila worked.’

Pearse frowned, but not at Joe’s use of the past tense. ‘Bit naughty of them. Data protection and what have you. Not a mad axe murderer, are you?’

He guffawed, then abruptly stopped. ‘Or police,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘That would almost be worth the grief. If you’re here to tell me you’ve found her.’

Joe stopped dead. Pearse took a couple more steps before he noticed that Joe was no longer keeping pace. He turned, his feet scraping the gravel like a cyclist slewing to a halt.

‘You know Kamila’s missing?’ Joe asked.

‘Missing? I should think she’s bloody missing.’ Pearse was grinning until he saw Joe’s face and understood that they’d been talking at cross-purposes. But he must have mistaken Joe’s confusion for a sense of fellow feeling.

‘Oh dear,’ he said ruefully. ‘Don’t tell me you’re the latest victim?’

Fifty-Six

GLENN WENT TO
the door and returned with Leon Race. That explained the phone call, Diana thought.

Leon wore a broad smile, but his eyes were as cold as the sea in winter. Diana stood up as he opened his arms and embraced her, kissing her cheeks like some exuberant Italian nephew.

‘Di! You’re looking great. It’s been too long, hasn’t it? Glenn never brings you over.’

‘No.’ Her own smile was an invitation to dispense with the soft soap.

‘Drink, Leon?’ Glenn said.

‘Glass of water, thanks.’ Leon sat opposite Diana, in the chair that Glenn had vacated.