Undone (31 page)

‘I’d really like to fuck you now,’ said Ilya, ‘but I think you’re traumatised enough so I’ll spare you.’

‘Who
are
you?’ My voice was a shivery whisper.

‘I help people out,’ he said calmly. ‘Make sure business transactions go smoothly. That kind of thing.’

‘What kind of thing? Who’s Misha?’

‘
Was
Misha,’ he corrected.

‘Who was he?’

‘He was a grasping, double-crossing cunt,’ said Ilya, his voice perfectly level. ‘He was supplying certain chemicals to, let’s say, a different pharmaceutical industry to the one he legitimately worked in. Then he got greedy and started supplying to a rival company. It’s quite fortunate he died, really. I was about to have a quiet word in his shell-like on behalf of some associates.’

‘And you were going to do that in my bar?’ I asked. ‘That’s why you were looking for him? Is my bar some kind of drugs den?’

Ilya gave me an icy grin. ‘I wasn’t looking for
him
, Lana. I knew he was dead. I was looking for you.’

‘Why?’ My voice fractured into a sob.

‘So you can steer Sol and his merry men away from me.’

‘I don’t know anything,’ I said, my words tumbling in a panic. ‘I swear. I don’t know how I can influence Sol. I have no money, no connections. I don’t know what I can do. Please, please! Don’t hurt me, please.’

‘You’ll think of something.’

‘How? What? Sol’s not going to listen, is he?’ I cried. ‘Not if I don’t mean anything to him. Not if it was all a sham.’

Ilya released my hair and stood. ‘And that’s the greatest tragedy,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen you together. It’s obvious he adores you. But, trust me, he can’t have it both ways. Now tidy yourself up and leave. You’ve served your purpose.’

I couldn’t move. ‘You’re vile,’ I said. ‘Despicable.’

‘I know,’ he said, grinning. ‘But you enjoyed it.’

Dressing and trying to make myself presentable was the worst humiliation. I wanted out of there, fast. I made a cursory attempt to clean myself with tissues but the lipstick remained as a stubborn red blur across my chest. I gave up and grabbed my bag. I tried to fasten my shirt to the neck as I hurried from the room but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

‘I’m watching you, Lana,’ he said as I left.

I fled down the white corridor, following the enormous Persian runner to the entrance hall, where light glowed in the glass panel of the door. Outside, in the strange, sudden ordinariness of the sun, I ran down the gravel driveway, trying not to sob. The central metal gate parted as I approached, the large gate for vehicles rather than the side gate for people, as if Ilya wanted to emphasise I truly was free to go. The gates swung open, ironwork arms welcoming me on to the empty avenue, where my car stood like a small sanctuary. Evidently, he was still watching me. I imagined him smirking at my image on a screen, the damsel in distress fleeing the ogre in his lair.

Even now, hours later and safe at home, I feel as if his eyes are on me. I’ve bathed twice since then. I can’t get rid of him.

For the first time in years, I didn’t swim today. I must swim.

I need another lipstick too. I left mine at his, discarded on those buttermilk, fake-stone tiles. He won’t return it, will he? Maybe he’ll bin it or keep as a souvenir. Maybe he’ll use it on some other poor woman. I’ll never be able to wear that colour again.

I can still feel the line of his saliva on my neck, as if its coldness has been soldered there. I don’t know what to do.

How can I influence Sol if I can’t even contact him? I contemplated leaving a message on his phone, telling him what has happened, but I’m too scared. His phone could be tapped. I don’t know who’s watching who, or how to distinguish lies from truth.

My head’s spinning as I sit here, propped up in bed, writing. My brandy is enormous. I’m going over and over the past, analysing Sol’s behaviour from my new, darkened perspective. Everything makes a sick kind of sense and I wish it didn’t. I wish I could roll back time so I could unmeet him, unsleep with him, unknow him, unlove him.

And if he knew the truth about me, if he knew what I’d done, he’d probably wish for much the same.

I close the journal and switch off my Maglite. There are no further entries after that. I feel guilty as hell for reading her inner life. But, as I peel off my gloves, I’m also thinking I am seventeen different kinds of fucked. My cover’s been blown. Travis is on to me. I need to get off the case, pronto. Worse, after all I’ve put her through, Lana’s going to hate me to high heaven and I can’t say I blame her because now I hate me too. I fucking hate me. Have done for a long time, doing a job like this. Right now, the hate is spiking.

I drop the gloves on the bed beside the journal and remove my glasses. A noise startles me. I turn. She’s standing in the bedroom doorway, so petite and fair, my English rose. I didn’t hear her come back. Too absorbed in my reading. Hell. A rookie mistake. Her blue eyes are wide, a hand’s clamped to her mouth, and she’s just staring at me. Staring and staring like I’m a monster. And I think, no. Now I am eighteen different kinds of fucked.

But so is she. Because this account of events isn’t a diary. It isn’t her truth. It’s a lie, a trap, an alibi, or something else I can’t begin to wrap my head around. My English rose, she isn’t without her thorns. Meaning she’s screwed too. We are both damned. We’re going to hell in the same handbasket or to jail alone.

I want to haul her into my arms because, holy fuck, this woman blows my mind and I’ve missed her. But now we’re strangers to each other because I’ve read her shit and I’m busted and we can’t get near. Besides, if my suspicions are correct, I’m concerned she might be dangerous. Petite and fair can be deceptive, especially to dumb schmucks like me who allow their dicks to get the better of them. But, no, who am I trying to kid? It wasn’t my dick, it was my heart. Still is.

‘I didn’t know you swam every day,’ I say, feeling nervous.

She drops her hand from her mouth. ‘Is it true?’ she asks. ‘Are you a cop?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh fuck fuck fuck.’ Her voice is so soft and thin, so devastated. ‘Are you wired up now?’ she asks. ‘Or bugged or … or whatever the terminology is?’

‘No, I’m clean. It’s just me and you. Always has been.’

She shakes her head. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I don’t blame you,’ I reply. ‘Listen, sit down. Let’s talk this through.’ I pat the bed and immediately regret it. That must have looked pretty skeevy.

Wisely, she ignores my suggestion. ‘Sol Miller?’ she says. ‘Is that even your name?’

I shake my head. ‘I’m Sol Revivo. Solomon Revivo.’ And in my mind, my wisecracking alter ego pipes up, ‘Hey, good to meet you!’

She covers her mouth again, arms wrapped across her front, and goes back to doing the stare thing.

‘Lana—’

She lowers her hand from her mouth. ‘Who are you working for?’

I breathe as quietly as I can. I feel like a stabbed coffee bag, life whistling out of me. ‘London Met.’ I try a smile. ‘So I can get you all the police-issue handcuffs you want, Cha Cha. Upgrade those old Hiatts.’ The joke falls flat. That’s understandable.

‘I don’t know who you are,’ she says, voice shaking. ‘You are made of lies.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Not made of, I swear. I’ve lied to you, yes, and from the very bottom of my heart, I am sorry for that.’

Hell, I can’t say anything that doesn’t make me sound like an asshole. I decide to shut up. Almost. ‘Ask me anything you want,’ I say, and a voice in my head goes, ‘Gee, that’s big of you, Revivo.’

‘How did you get into my house?’ she asks.

Straight for the jugular. ‘I made a duplicate of your key.’ I have never felt shame as bone-deep as this.

‘You bastard,’ she breathes. ‘How? When?’

I clear my throat. ‘I took a clay impression.’

These sordid truths of my profession feel like a tawdry gift. I can’t offer much to excuse my behaviour but at least I can expose how we work. Keep on giving her one hundred per cent truths. Not that I can ask her to believe them. But she’s not exactly Mary Poppins herself. Lord knows what her story is. I have to remind myself that, much as I want to hurl myself at her feet and beg forgiveness for my deception, I need to be on my guard. Because Lana Greenwood probably ought to be begging for forgiveness too. Unless, oh fuck. Unless this relationship means jack shit to her and I’m a bigger fool than I thought. My self-loathing reaches new heights. What world do I inhabit?

‘What are you doing here?’ she asks. ‘Are you back from Birmingham for good?’

My heart breaks a little. ‘Lana, there was no Birmingham. The new job doesn’t exist. It’s part of my exit strategy.’

She shakes her head as if trying to clear her thoughts. ‘Your
what
?’

‘I’m being pulled from the operation,’ I say. ‘I have to withdraw from you without arousing your suspicions. I’m meant to dick you about a bit, make you mistrust me. Then I vanish.’

‘Withdraw?’ The word is pure contempt.

‘I’m too involved with you, Lana. And my superior officers know it. We’re not meant to get romantically attached to people we’re—’

‘Romantically attached?’ She’s sneering at my choice of words again.

‘It’s the Met, Lana.’ I’m trying not to raise my voice but I’m so fucking frustrated. ‘We don’t use the phrase “fall in love”.’

I want to show her the truth, to unpeel my outer self and say, here, take a look, this is me. But I can’t. We can’t. None of us can ever completely know another person but this is a different ball game altogether. My line of work amplifies the basic tenet of human existence, the unknowability that leaves us locked in our own meat, clawing to get out in search of another’s unreachable soul. Trying to stave off the isolation. Not that they mention that on any training course.

‘This fake IT job was going to land me a contract in Spain,’ I continue. ‘I’d make out you could come and visit. I’d send you a postcard from Europe. Just one. Then you’d never hear from me again. That’s the plan. I’m meant to be executing it now.’ I crimp my lips together, trying to stay tough on the outside. ‘But I can’t do it, Lana.’

My voice thins to a squeak. It’s pitiful.

I cough and draw a breath. ‘If it helps any,’ I say, ‘you could get me hauled over the coals. Sue the ass off the Met.’

‘Every cloud,’ she says bitterly.

‘I’m sorry.’ The word will never suffice but what else do I have right now?

She takes a step into the room, arms curled around herself as if it’s cold in here. ‘So is my life in danger?’ she asks. ‘From Ilya Travis?’

‘We can get you police protection.’

She looks at me, aghast. I feel bad that it’s about to get worse.

‘Why did you kill Misha, Lana?’

A sob erupts from her, a snatch of a wail that chills me to the marrow. She tries to swallow it, clamps a hand to her mouth again, and staggers back against the bedroom door. Bump. Her noise falls to whimpers and sniffles. I know I’ve guessed correctly. It’s some time before she has the composure to speak. But that’s OK. I can wait.

Eventually she says, ‘Are you spying on me? Is this why we were together? Have you known all along?’

And that breaks me, that totally fucking breaks me. I’m half off the bed, about to run to her, to scoop her up in my arms and squeeze the pain away. And the words are there, formed, ready to leap from my mouth:
No, Lana, no! I love you, you crazy fucking bitch. I love you, and this isn’t about that.

But I freeze and I don’t speak because sanity kicks in. I realise those aren’t appropriate declarations to make to a suspected murderer, especially not when you’re a cop. Besides, she’s kinda in the ballpark with those questions of hers.

‘I smelled chlorine in your hair,’ I say. ‘At Dravendene. When we were fucking in the forest.’

She nods heavily. Comprehension’s dawning, for one of us at least.

‘The way you cried out,’ she says. ‘When you came, you howled like…’

‘Like I was in pain,’ I offer. ‘Like I was shattering into pieces. Like I’d just realised this woman I was fucking, who I was really getting to like, realised she was my enemy. And I should back off if I knew what was good for me.’

‘I’m not your enemy.’ Her voice is soft as velvet.

There’s a lump in my throat. ‘Why did you kill him, Lana? That’s the part I can’t figure out.’

‘It was an accident,’ she says, quiet as a mouse.

‘Care to tell me about it?’

Maybe my tone is off. She’s suddenly angry. ‘Why the fuck should I tell you anything?’

I have to concede she has a point.

‘For a long time,’ I say, ‘I had you pegged as working with Misha. Thought maybe the bar was a business front. But I’m pretty sure I’m wrong on that score. If I’m not, then you’re damn good, Lana. And I take my hat off to you.’

‘I didn’t know him,’ she says. ‘Just a customer. It was an accident.’

‘So you keep saying,’ I reply. ‘You wanted me to read this journal, right?’

She’s silent, just looks embarrassed.

‘Because you’re always leaving it lying around the place. Hell, Lana. One night you left it open on the coffee table.’

‘Why are you in my home?’ she asks.

I sigh. We’re back to me being the one in the wrong. I figure I have to take it. This isn’t the time to discuss who has the moral advantage here, who’s committed the worst sin.

‘I came back to continue reading your … story,’ I say. Man, I didn’t meant that to sound quite so sarcastic. ‘I started reading before I made out I was leaving for Birmingham,’ I explain. ‘Couldn’t leave it hanging. Thought the truth might start to emerge if I wasn’t on the scene.’ I check my wristwatch. ‘I thought you’d be at the bar till late.’

‘I’m in no mood for it tonight,’ she says. ‘Raf’s with Bruno. They’re going to lock up. I’m exhausted. I came back to sleep. I saw you through the blinds so I crept in.’

Ah, yeah. Those blinds I’d left open so I could spot her if she came back early. Hoist by my own petard.

‘So what are you trying to convince me of with this?’ I say, gesturing to the journal. ‘Your innocence?’

She nods.

‘But you’re not innocent,’ I say.