Thin Air (40 page)

‘A scene I could have done
without,’ Jay said, swallowing thickly. ‘A vile dream.’

‘Are you OK?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. I think so.
God, Dex, was that real what we saw? Who killed Lorrance and why?
Was it Peter and Lacey’s people or Charney’s?’

‘It might not have been literal
reality,’ Dex said, ‘but a representation of it. Charney might see
Lorrance as a security risk now, or maybe someone else has taken
the law into their own hands, but somehow I doubt their method for
dealing with it will involve murder. That’s not often their style.
You know that. They have a thousand different ways to ruin
people.’

‘But it felt – and looked – so
real.’ Jay shuddered, trying to expel the image of Lorrance’s
falling body, and the blank eyes of the gunman, from her mind.

‘These things often do,’ Dex
said in a cynical tone.

‘Part of you doesn’t want him
dead, does it?’ Jay said.

Dex shrugged uncomfortably. ‘He
did a lot for me, but if a part of me still cares about him, it’s a
very small part.’ He stroked her face. ‘You’re the one, Jay.
Believe it.’ He smiled uncertainly, as if he hadn’t smiled properly
for a long time. The expression, in its boyish
naiveté
,
wrenched at Jay’s heart. She was filled with a certainty that it
was time for her to take back control of her life. She had seen
things that few people saw, given an insight into the complexities
of the universe and how nothing might be how it seemed. ‘Dex, it’s
time to make a choice,’ she said.

He closed his eyes, breathed in
slowly. ‘I know.’

‘Come back with me.’

He looked down at her, cupped
her chin in one hand. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Will you give me
some time?’

‘Some,’ Jay said. She reached up
and curled her arms around his neck.

Samantha Lorrance considered
herself to be a practical, rational person. Even though she read
her stars in the paper, she’d never admit to being superstitious.
Life had felt very odd over the last few weeks, but she put this
down to the pressures of her husband’s work. As his wife, she
couldn’t help but be sensitive to his moods and even though he
wouldn’t confide in her, she knew he was anxious about something.
Samantha didn’t like some of the people who’d been coming to the
house. The men in dark suits looked like gangsters to her. She
hoped Rhys wasn’t involved in anything dodgy. Still, she was
prepared to stand by him, whatever happened. She was his wife. He
cared for her. Loyalty was very important.

One morning, after her work-out,
Samantha went up to her bedroom. A song was looping through her
mind. It was an annoying tune she could not dispel and she found
herself singing the words beneath her breath. ‘I’ve seen the truth
in your heart, I’ve seen inside your fear.’ Not very nice words.
How did she know them? It wasn’t the sort of song she liked. Must
be something Rhys played.

As she changed from her leotard
and leggings, the wind slapped furiously against the window. The
frame rattled so much, Samantha thought the catch couldn’t be
fastened properly. She went to investigate. Down on the lawn, the
untidy leaves whirled and swirled around the bare tree trunks. The
garden seemed so huge, seen there from the top of the house. Dark
clouds belched across the sky, promising a deluge. The lawns were
still green, although the gardeners had been busy in the flower
beds, which now looked empty, the rich earth newly turned.

She heard a voice call from the
garden, a woman’s voice calling her name. It sounded like Lacey.
What was she doing out there?

Samantha felt impelled to open
the window. Once she did so, a surge of wind broke over her,
bearing into the room a scent of smoke and loam. Samantha leaned
out of the window, letting the wind dishevel her sleek hair. She
could not see Lacey in the garden. Perhaps she’d been mistaken
about the voice.

There was something exciting
about the autumnal smells and the chill, rushing air. Samantha
could see the hill at the far side of the estate, its bare crown
stark against the white sky. It seemed two figures were standing on
it looking back at her, but when she looked again there was no-one
there. The leaves filled the air. They confused her sight. Some of
them even came in through the window and stuck to her face.
Suddenly repelled, Samantha slammed it shut. Immediately she was
cocooned in stillness and silence. She could still see the violence
of the elements, but could no longer hear it. It was almost like a
tornado out there, everything being whipped around, the trees
leaning and swaying. She was worried one of them might fall on the
house. Then, quite suddenly, the wind dropped. It was so sudden,
Samantha wondered whether what she’d just seen was some kind of
minor twister wriggling across her land. She glanced down at the
lawn.

The leaves had fallen into a
perfect formation: a message. Not the face of a demon, nor an
omenic pictogram, but simply a number: ten digits. Samantha studied
it in surprise for a moment. It was a London telephone number. How
could that happen? Then, a low breeze scudded across the grass and
the leaves twisted into it, becoming a chaotic scatter once
more.

Samantha found that she could
remember the numbers she’d seen quite easily. She was a rational,
practical person, but because there was a phone in the bedroom, she
acted impulsively. She punched in the number and it rang about
three times. The voice that answered was her husband’s.

She said, ‘Rhys?’ Perhaps her
voice sounded odd.

He barked, ‘Who is this?’

She answered, ‘Me.’

The phone slammed down at the
other end, leaving Samantha with a silent line.

She sat down on the bed, the
phone in her hands. She felt boneless. Where was Rhys? How had that
number appeared to her? What did it mean? She picked up a pen and
wrote the digits down on the notepad that lay on her bedside table.
For several minutes, she just looked at it. Then she rang the
number again, just to check, just to see. It rang and rang. No-one
answered, although she could almost feel the eyes that watched that
ringing phone, willing it to stop.

For an hour or so, she pottered
around the house in a daze. Was it a woman’s number? Was Rhys
having an affair? Her stomach felt hollow at the thought of it.
Maybe there’d been no number in the leaves at all. Maybe it was her
own mind that had made her think she’d seen it. It could have come
from her memory.

Rhys’s office was always kept
locked when he was away from the house, so Samantha had to ask the
security man, Terry, to break in for her. She would pry into Rhys’s
desk, see what she could find out, look for the number. Rhys would
not expect something like that from her, and neither did Terry. He
was not suspicious of her request, and accepted her excuse of
having left a sheaf of bills in there that needed paying
urgently.

‘Thank you,’ said Samantha in a
dismissive tone, once Terry had forced the lock. She stood at the
threshold, looking at him, until he went away.

The study was dark and watchful.
Old ashes in the hearth gave off a bitter smell. Samantha went to
the desk, which was empty of papers. Only an old-fashioned blotter
and a black telephone lay on the gleaming surface. Samantha pulled
the handle of the wide central drawer of the desk. It was locked.
She hesitated. Should she break into the desk? Oh why the hell not
? She’d already have to explain the forced door. Terry wouldn’t do
it, though. He’d think that was too much of a liberty.

Samantha marched into the
kitchen and took a large cook’s knife from the draining board. Mrs
Moran was at the sink. The moment she saw Samantha, she said,
‘what’s the matter?’

Samantha gave her a fierce
glance. ‘I’m going to find out,’ she said, her mouth unusually
firm.

Mrs Moran, wiping her hands on a
dish towel, followed Samantha back to the study. Samantha didn’t
stop her. The housekeeper looked on in bewilderment while her
employer attacked the desk drawer lock with the knife. ‘Be
careful,’ she said.

Samantha ignored her. The more
the lock resisted her, the angrier she became. Certainty was
settling within her: Rhys had betrayed her; Rhys had secrets.

Finally, with the wood around it
scored and splintered, the lock gave way. Samantha threw the ruined
knife onto the red carpet. Mrs Moran still stood at the doorway,
her eyes round. Samantha sat down in her husband’s leather swivel
chair. She started to pull all the contents of the drawer out onto
the desk. Most of them were just receipts, but she did find an
address book. Too convenient. As she suspected, the number she’d
seen in the leaves wasn’t there. Rhys would have another book, one
he kept on him at all times. Private numbers would be written in
it.

‘What are you looking for?’
asked Mrs Moran, walking gingerly towards the desk.

Samantha looked up at her. ‘I
don’t know. Where you find evidence of infidelity?’

‘No!’ exclaimed Mrs Moran.

Samantha couldn’t explain about
the leaves. Mrs Moran would think she was mad. She stood up and
stalked into the living room, where there was an extension of her
own telephone line. She called an old friend, whom she knew could
find someone to gather information for her.

Rhys didn’t come home that
night. She didn’t hear from him. That alone told her something was
amiss. He’d been due back for dinner. She resisted calling him on
his mobile and whenever she tried to call the number the leaves had
given her, there was no reply.

The next morning, a man named
Jones called her and told her how much it would cost to hire him.
Samantha engaged his services immediately. Jones said that normally
he would expect to receive payment in advance, but as a favour for
a friend of a friend, he could give her an address now.

‘What address is this?’ asked
Samantha.

‘Of the number I was given,’ he
replied, rather smugly.

‘That was very quick’ said
Samantha. ‘Thank you.’ She wrote the address down as he dictated
it. The address belonged to a man named Gus Lyons. Then Jones asked
her what further requirements she had.

‘I may not need anything else,’
she said. ‘Send me a bill.’

Jones laughed. ‘That’s not the
way it works.’ He sounded displeased now, sorry he’d given her the
address.

‘Where shall I send the cash?’
Samantha said impatiently. He gave her a PO Box address.

After she’d ended the call,
Samantha dressed herself with care, cancelled her personal trainer
for the day and went out to her car. The wind was not blowing
today, and the sun shone harshly on the garden. Samantha looked
back at the house, suddenly sure that she would not be living there
for much longer. A sense of ending hung over the bare trees, and
enveloped the stark white walls of the house. Samantha tossed back
her hair and got into her car. She was going to London.

For a few hours, Samantha went
shopping. She drew out some cash from her account, and posted it to
the address Jones had given her. That was dealt with now. She
wouldn’t have to remember it. Late in the afternoon, she went into
a cafe, where she studied her A-Z street guide of the city. The
address she’d come to find was in a fashionable area, expensive. It
belonged to a man, yet Samantha was sure a woman was involved. She
could almost smell an alien perfume.
I may be wrong
, she
told herself. Strange men had been coming to the house for years.
This Gus Lyons could be any one of them. Rhys might have been at
the flat because of business. Yet still she couldn’t dispel her
suspicions. She’d have to go there and see for herself. Samantha
sipped her cappuccino, her face numb. She would do this thing,
then, depending on the outcome, she might contact one of her
friends. So far, she’d called none of them.

Samantha walked down the street,
looking up at all the lit windows. She could see houseplants, wall
hangings, paintings, book-cases. Why didn’t people close their
curtains, draw their blinds? The door she was looking for was like
all the other doors; painted black, set in a cream facade. Steps
led up to it. Samantha didn’t pause. She went right up to it and
rang the bell of the appropriate flat. She knew, even before the
call was answered, that a woman would respond. Samantha rang the
bell again, and eventually a woman’s voice oozed out of the
intercom; husky and confident. ‘Who is it?’

I have to get in
,
Samantha thought. ‘Mrs Lorrance,’ she said. Her heart had increased
its pace a little.

‘I don’t know any “Mrs
Lorrance”,’ said the voice.

Samantha hated that voice
already. ‘I just want a moment of your time,’ she said. ‘It’s a
personal matter.’ Her own voice was light and friendly. She wasn’t
stupid enough to go pounding in with anger and accusation. That
would get her nowhere.

‘I’ll be out in a minute,’ said
the woman and the intercom went silent.

You don’t know anything
yet
, Samantha told herself as she waited on the door-step. This
might all be explained. She stood with her back to the door,
looking down the street.

The door opened and Samantha
turned round. She noticed the bright red hair first, then the face
with its puffy eyes, the look of someone who’d just woken up. The
woman had a striking appearance, but there was a slyness to her
expression. She said, ‘Yeah? What is it?’

Samantha smiled. ‘Hello, I
realise you don’t know me, but I called my husband here the other
day - Rhys Lorrance.’

A small smile played subtly
around the woman’s mouth. She said, ‘Did you?’

‘Yes. Would you mind telling me
what he was doing here?’

The woman’s smile became more
blatant. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

At that point, Samantha knew she
was looking at her husband’s mistress, a woman who was enjoying
this encounter. ‘I’m asking you,’ she said.