Dead Man's Grip

83

Carly sat in the back of the limousine as they drove through the gates of the Revere home. A few yards on she could see Detective Investigator Lanigan standing by his car and told her driver to stop.

‘So?’ he asked with an inquisitive but sympathetic stare.

‘You were right,’ she said, and gave a helpless shrug. She was still in shock from the way Lou Revere had spoken to her.

‘It didn’t go like you planned it?’

‘No.’

‘What’s with Mrs Revere driving off like that? She was pissed at you?’

Carly fumbled in her handbag, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, inhaling deeply.

‘She was drunk. She wasn’t in a rational state of mind. I have to try again,’ she said. ‘Maybe I could come back in the morning when she’s sobered up.’

He dragged on his cigar and blew the smoke out pensively. ‘Lady, you’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.’ He smiled. ‘You look like you could use a drink.’

Carly nodded. Then she said, ‘What’s your advice? What do you think I should do – you know – how can I deal with these people? There must some way – there always is.’

‘Let’s get you to your hotel. We’ll have a drink and you can talk me through what happened in there. Before we leave, is there any point in me trying to speak to Mr Revere?’

‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Not tonight. No.’

‘OK. Your driver knows where to go?’

‘The Sheraton JFK Airport Hotel.’

‘I’ll follow you. I’ll be right behind.’

She took two more rapid drags on her cigarette, crushed it, then got back into the limousine and gave the driver her instructions.

She sat perched on the edge of her seat, replaying the events of the past ten minutes in her mind, as they drove away down the lane, then made a left turn, heading away from the town. Inside she was jangling, with nerves and tiredness. The bad dream just seemed to keep getting worse.

She closed her eyes and prayed, a short silent prayer. She asked the God she had not spoken to in years to give her some strength and a clear mind. Then she rummaged in her bag for her handkerchief and dabbed away the tears that were streaming down her cheeks.

Darkness slid by on either side of the car. For several minutes it did not occur to her that it was strange that no headlights were coming in the opposite direction. She looked at her watch: 9.25 p.m. New York time, 2.25 a.m. in England. Too late to call Detective Sergeant Branson and give him an update. She would do that in the morning. Hopefully after she had made a revised plan with Detective Investigator Lanigan later this evening.

She yawned. Ahead, through the windscreen, she saw red flashing lights and the bright tail lights of traffic braking and backing up. Moments later the limousine slowed, braking increasingly sharply, and they came to a halt behind a line of stationary vehicles.

The driver ended yet another of the constant calls he was on and turned his head towards her. ‘Looks like an accident up ahead.’

She nodded silently. Then she heard a rap on her window and saw Detective Investigator Lanigan standing there. She pressed the button and lowered the window.

‘You want to come with me? Sounds like Mrs Revere’s involved in a wreck up ahead. They’ve closed the road.’

‘An accident? Fernanda Revere?’

‘Yup,’ he said grimly, and opened the door for her.

The words flooded her with dread. She climbed out shakily and the night air suddenly seemed a lot chillier than ten minutes ago. She pulled her mackintosh tightly around her as she followed the detective past a line of cars towards a stationary police car that was angled across the road, its roof spinners hurling shards of red light in every direction. A row of traffic cones was spread across the road behind it.

An accident. The woman would be blaming her. Everyone would be blaming her.

A cacophony of sirens was closing in on them. Just beyond the patrol car now, she could see the mangled wreckage of a car partially embedded in the front of a halted white truck. Carly stopped. This wasn’t just a minor bump, this was major. Massive. Horrific. She turned away, towards Lanigan.

‘Is she OK?’ Carly asked. ‘Have you heard if she’s OK? Is she injured?’

The sirens got louder.

He strode on, through the cones, saying nothing. Carly hurried after him, feeling like a thousand different knots were being tightened inside her all at the same time. She tried to look away from the accident, but at the same time she was mesmerized by it, kept looking, looking, staring.

A cop was standing in their way, blocking their path. A young plump man wearing glasses and a cap that was too big for him. He looked about eighteen years old and waiting to grow into his uniform.

‘Stay back, please, folks.’

Lanigan held up his police shield.

‘Ah, right. OK. OK, sir.’ Then he pointed questioningly at Carly.

‘She’s with me,’ the Detective Investigator said.

He waved them past, then turned in confusion as an ambulance and fire tender screamed to a halt.

Over to her right, Carly saw a man in a boiler suit walking around unsteadily, as if he were disoriented. He was in shock, she realized. Ahead of her, Lanigan had pulled out a torch and switched it on. In the beam she saw what might have been a grim tableau in a museum of modern art.

The front wheels of the truck had been pushed back several feet by the impact, so that they were right underneath the cab. The side of the gold Porsche facing them had been so badly buckled that the front and rear of the car were almost at right angles to each other. The destroyed vehicle resembled a crudely sculpted artistic impression of a snow plough, as if it was actually part of the front of the truck.

Carly smelled the stench of vomit, then heard a retching sound. There was a smell of petrol, too, and of oil, but another deeply unpleasant, coppery smell mixed in.

‘Jesus!’ Lanigan exclaimed. ‘Oh shit!’

He stepped back and put out an arm to prevent Carly from seeing the same sight. But he was too late.

In the torch beam Carly saw a pair of legs, covered from the knees down by turquoise tracksuit bottoms, but the top part was naked. A mess of crimson, black, dark red and bright red was splayed out around the crotch. Out of the middle of it rose, for about eighteen inches, what looked like a giant white fish bone.

Part of the woman’s spine, she realized, clutching the detective’s arm involuntarily, her stomach rising up into her throat. Fernanda Revere had been cut in two.

Carly turned away, quaking in horror and shock. She staggered a few yards, then fell to her knees and threw up, her eyes blinded by tears.