Cold Blood

Chapter 18

Rosie had returned and was surveying the suite as the tea Lorraine had ordered arrived.

‘My, this is very nice, I could move in here,’ Rosie said admiringly, looking from the hangings over the bed to the luxurious bathroom.

Lorraine poured tea for them both. ‘How long did it take you?’

‘I walked there in forty-five minutes. If I’d been running I could have done it in less. Bar was jumping by the way, great music and a group outside drinking beer, kids mostly. This town’s hotting up, an’ I don’t mean the weather.’

Rooney did not appear for another twenty minutes, and he was hot and sweating. He sank on to the bed with a moan, paying no attention to the decor of the suite.

‘Fucking hot out there. Knock off ten minutes trying to flag down a cab, streets are crowded, and Mardi Gras’s not even started yet. They got clowns walking around passing out leaflets, and there was a couple of jams, but I’d say if Ruby had a clear night she could get there and back in just less than an hour.’

‘Which does not give her long to make the doll,’ Lorraine said moodily.

‘So she did it at Fryer’s,’ Rosie said, passing Rooney a cup of tea.

‘It wasn’t exactly well made,’ Rooney said.

Lorraine sighed. ‘You know, we’re just kind of grasping at straws, trying to make the jigsaw pieces fit together.’

‘You’re trying to get her to Tilda Brown’s house, right?’ Rooney said, and she nodded.

‘But nobody saw her there either, just like nobody saw her leave here, no cab firm picked her up, she didn’t have a purse on her.’

‘We’ve got a possible.’

‘Possible what?’ Rosie asked.

‘Cab firm. The staff use these two brothers for late-night pick-ups, but they’re not listed in Information, I’ve checked. I think they’re just two guys with a couple of cars, so they’re probably working without a licence. You want to check them out, Rosie? Maybe see them face to face. And when you’ve finished your tea, Bill, call that cop and get over to Fryer’s. Check out the necklace and put a feeler out about whether or not Ruby was there on the night of the fifteenth.’

Lorraine yawned, she felt tired and depressed, as if they were going round and round in circles. Time was moving, they had only five days left, and they all knew it. Bill and Rosie took off without complaint.

Lorraine hadn’t meant to fall asleep, she meant to let it all run by in her mind, sift over everything they had come up with so far. She didn’t hear the key turning in the connecting door, which opened so silently she was unaware that Robert Caley had walked into the room.

He stroked her cheek with one finger, and she woke with a start.

‘Hi! I was beginning to think I’d never see you again.’

She eased herself up, blushing.

‘You never return my calls, do you know how many times I have tried to see you, talk to you? In fact, the receptionist at your hotel knows me so well I don’t even have to say my name.’

‘I’m sorry, but I’ve been caught up.’

He sat on a chair opposite the bed. He was wearing a white collarless shirt and jeans, with the loafers she liked.

‘I wanted to take you to one of the riverboats, I’ve wanted to take you to a whole lot of places.’

‘Well, I am here to work you know, Robert.’

‘Oh, I know that, but if you don’t want to see me, why don’t you come out and say so?’

‘Things keep on getting in the way.’

He cocked his head to one side. ‘How about dinner tonight?’

‘I don’t think so.’ She wouldn’t look at him.

‘You don’t think so? Do I take it that you have other engagements? What do you mean, you don’t think so?’

She chewed her lip. He stared at her, trying to fathom her out, and then leaned forward. ‘It would be nice to celebrate with someone.’

She looked up. ‘Celebrate?’

He nodded. ‘Casino development’s going ahead. An out-of-town group got the licence, but because I had the land I’m in as a partner. Dulay switched sides, but I’ve got him and his group eating right out of my hand. So the big bucks are going to start rolling in.’

‘How is Elizabeth?’ she interrupted.

‘I don’t know. I told you the last time I saw you — I’ve left her. I’ve been here since then, waiting for you behind that connecting door!’

‘Have you?’ Lorraine eased her legs from the bed and pressed her feet into the carpet, staring down at her toes. She took a deep breath and slowly raised her head to meet his eyes. ‘You are a very good liar, Mr Caley, one of the best I have ever come across.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me, you are a liar.’

He leaned back, turning his palms up. ‘What have I lied about?’

She eased herself from the bed and walked to the dressing table. He reached to touch her but she sidestepped his outstretched hand. She began to brush her hair, keeping eye contact via the mirror. ‘What have you lied about? Well, let’s try Ruby Corbello for one.’

He leaned back again slightly but he didn’t take his eyes off her face.

‘She got a message to you, via the bell-boy Errol, for you to meet at the swimming pool. That would be on the night of February fifteenth last year, and in case it has slipped your memory, that was also the night your daughter, or adopted daughter, went missing.’

He looked away, showing no emotion at all.

‘Ruby had a diary, didn’t she? Tilda Brown’s diary, and in this teenager’s diary it gave explicit details of her sex life with you. You, Mr Caley! So that kiss on the tennis courts wasn’t quite as innocent as you made out, was it?’

He shrugged his shoulders and then leaned on his elbow, his hand partly covering his face, but his eyes were steady and didn’t flinch from her angry gaze.

‘What have you got to say to that?’

‘Not a lot, Lorraine, but if you want me to go into details then I will. Tilda Brown was not under age, she was eighteen years old. In fact, she made all the moves, and as you are more than aware of my wife’s physical problems, not to mention her mental state, having a young, pretty and nubile girl creeping into your bedroom at night is hard to ignore, let alone the hard-on she gave me. So I fucked her. She liked it, I liked it, and there is no more to be said.’

‘She also committed suicide,’ snapped Lorraine.

‘I know, and I am deeply sorry about it, but I don’t see that my sexual relationship with her can have anything to do with it.’

‘Don’t you?’

‘No, I don’t, but you obviously do. So if you have something to say, say it.’

Lorraine threw down her hairbrush. ‘Your daughter was fighting Tilda Brown for your affections, and you knew it. What happened, you get a kick out of that as well? As you pointed out to me, Anna Louise was not your daughter anyway, so were you also fucking her?’

‘No, I wasn’t. Just Tilda and a few other lady friends, you want their names?’ He sprang to his feet, and now she could see how angry he was. A small muscle at the side of his neck was twitching. ‘I lied to shield Tilda. She was already deeply distressed by Anna Louise’s disappearance, and I wanted to protect her from further unnecessary questions by the police and investigators.’

‘To shield Tilda or yourself?’

‘Does it matter?’

Lorraine snapped open her briefcase and took out the towel with the doll in it.

‘Unwrap it, have a look, I think your little blackmailing friend, Ruby Corbello, made that for your daughter to give to your girlfriend Tilda. Go on, open it, Robert. As you said, she was eighteen, she knew what she was doing. What you didn’t say was just how long you had been having a sexual relationship with her. She was your daughter’s childhood friend, wasn’t she?’

He slapped her face, and she picked up the brush and swiped him across the cheek. He stepped back. ‘My, that was a nice left hook, but then you’re a tough lady, aren’t you? And you have the scars to prove it. A whore, a drunkard... I should have asked for a blood test before I fucked you, shouldn’t I?’

‘You bastard!’ she snapped.

‘Am I? And what are you? At least I know with someone as young as Tilda she’s unlikely to be diseased.’

She kicked him hard in the groin. He gasped and clutched at himself, leaning forward. ‘I can also take care of myself, Mr Caley. You want to say shit to me, you’ll get it back, which is something else maybe a young innocent kid couldn’t do. Now look at the doll.’

He was wincing with pain, still bent forward, as she flipped open the towel to show the voodoo doll.

‘Do you know if Ruby Corbello made this for your daughter?’

“Course I fucking don’t, it’s disgusting!’

‘So are you. I found this in Tilda’s bedroom, hidden in a tennis racquet case.’

He turned back to sit on the bed. ‘Anna Louise wouldn’t do something as sick as that. Her mother, maybe. In fact, if you know who made it I’ll order one for Elizabeth.’

‘You think it’s funny?’

‘No, I don’t, I don’t know what the hell to think, and with this burning fucking pain in my testicles it’s tough thinking about anything right now. What the hell did you kick me in the nuts for?’

Lorraine rewrapped the doll. ‘You’ve got away with stealing from her trust fund. You’re a thief, Robert Caley.’

He laughed. ‘Bullshit, I’ll be able to pay every cent back. I’ve even offered to, but Lloyd Dulay wouldn’t hear of it, and it’s his cash, Lorraine. So who’s stealing from whom?’

‘You stole Tilda Brown’s innocence.’

He threw his head back, laughing. ‘Did I? So what was that you told me about her and Anna Louise getting gang-banged at some club? Lorraine, you are thrashing around trying to find something, anything, to prove that I am... what? What are you trying to prove I am?’

‘A thief.’

He laughed. ‘I admit it. Right, what next? Oh, of course, a child molester, right, that’s the second thing, anything else?’

‘A murderer, maybe.’

He straightened up, still nursing himself between the legs. ‘Who did I murder, Lorraine? Anna Louise, is that what you are trying to prove?’

She folded her arms.

‘I didn’t kill my daughter, I know no reason why she disappeared off the face of the earth unless it was to get away from her fucking mother, like I am doing. I admit I used Anna Louise’s trust fund, but I had every right, I had given the best years of my life to Elizabeth, and to her daughter. I looked out for that child from the day she was born, and I had to be satisfied with that bitch doling out money as if I was a hired hand. It was me that built up her properties, worth fuck-all when I found them, now valued at millions. It was me that covered for her drinking, her drugs, me that saved her life, not once but Christ knows how many times, and I was never shown an ounce of respect. I have been cross-questioned, interviewed, interrogated by cops and people like you, that in the end are all pursuing the investigation for money. But you, you win the prize. You’re so desperate for that one million bucks my crazy wife offered, you will try anything, and I know why. You have only five more days to crack this case. You even fucked me to get more information. You, sweetheart, are the lowest of them all. Now get your stinking piece of evidence and get out of here before I throw you out on your ass, you whore!’

He was so angry he was panting, but she didn’t back down, instead she smiled at him.

‘Takes one to know one, Robert.’ She threw a right upper cut, and he stepped back and let go with a body punch that made her gasp and totter backwards, but she pushed herself off the wall, ready to go at him again. She walked into his fist, catching her right eye. He froze, not wanting to brawl with her, and that was his mistake. Lorraine brought her knee up, crunching him yet again, and then she punched him in the face so hard she felt her knuckles split open on his teeth. He sank to his knees, unable to make a sound.

She picked up her briefcase, shoved the doll inside and snapped it closed. She tossed twenty bucks on to his moaning, huddled figure. ‘That’s for the tea.’

She was shaking her fist — it hurt her more than his punch to her eye. As she opened the door, the telephone rang. She hesitated and picked up the nearest extension to the door.

Rosie was so excited she was gasping. ‘We got lucky. Nicky Gordon picked up a girl outside the staff exit of the hotel, he had just dropped off a regular.’

Lorraine interrupted Rosie, partly because Robert Caley was slowly getting to his feet, and partly because she was eager to know where the luck came in.

‘Where did he take her?’

‘Tilda Brown’s.’

Rooney laid the steak over Lorraine’s eye, which was now really swollen.

‘Hey, if you think I look bad, you should see the other guy.’

Rosie was bandaging her knuckles, which were swollen, the skin split open. ‘You might have a cracked knuckle, Lorraine,’ she said.

‘Bullshit, it’s okay, I’m okay.’ Lorraine struggled up and wove to the mirror, she took one look and felt as if she was going to faint; her right eye was closed and already dark bruising was showing above and below.

‘Well, I look really good, didn’t think it was this bad. Anyway, let’s not waste any more time.’

Rosie flipped open her book. ‘Reason he never reported it, or has never been questioned, is because he thought the girl was staff and she wore a head-scarf and dark glasses. She came out of the staff entrance as he dropped Mimi Lavette, a fifty-year-old chambermaid, off for the late shift. He was doing a U-turn when we think Anna Louise waved him down, gave him the address, and got impatient with him when he had to double-check it. He got all nervous, even talking to me, just for the so-called reward. You were right, he hasn’t got a taxi licence, and judging from the look of the vehicle I’d say that it’s not taxed or insured neither.’

Lorraine pressed the steak to her eye as the telephone rang. Rosie answered, told the caller to hang on, and for a moment Lorraine thought it might be Robert Caley, but it was the cop, Harris Harper. He couldn’t see Rooney until the morning.

Lorraine suggested they leave visiting Fryer’s bar until the following day. Returning to Tilda Brown’s home had to be their first priority.

Rosie remained in the car as Rooney and Lorraine went up the steps and rang the bell which echoed through the dark hallway. Lorraine peered in through the glass as Rooney rang again. A maid turned on the hall lights and opened the door.

‘I need to speak urgently to Mr or Mrs Brown.’

“Fraid they are not at home.’

‘When will they be back?’

‘They is dining with friends.’

Lorraine, Rooney and her driver François sat in the car for over an hour. At last they saw the headlamps of a car heading towards them.

‘Here they come, I hope.’

They watched the car slow down and swerve past them to take a left-hand turn into the drive. Lorraine dug François in the back. ‘Go after them, we don’t want them to refuse us entry.’

Mr and Mrs Brown turned, startled, as Lorraine got out of the car.

‘Mr Brown, I’m so sorry, but I need to speak to you.’

Half an hour later, Mr and Mrs Brown were still adamant that Tilda, on the night of 15 February, had remained in her room watching her own TV. She had not eaten with them but had had a tray sent up at 7.30. They had both gone up to say goodnight at 10.30. She had not left her room, no one had called by and no one had telephoned. All this had been stated over and over many times and Mr and Mrs Brown were tired and becoming irritated.

‘Could I just go to her room, please?’

Rooney and Lorraine stood in the centre of the dead girl’s bedroom as Mr Brown opened the doors on to the low, metal-railed balcony. Mrs Brown had started weeping again, and her husband was angry at the intrusion, but Lorraine refused to leave. Rooney was embarrassed at the couple’s obvious distress, and he was very uneasy. Lorraine looked bad, her bruised eye had swollen and was still closed.

‘Maybe we leave it until the morning,’ he had said quietly.

‘No. If that cab driver was telling the truth, then Anna Louise Caley came here that night.’ Lorraine stepped out on to the balcony and pointed to a narrow metal stairway leading down to the garden. ‘You don’t have a dog, do you?’

‘No, we don’t.’

She looked across the garden. ‘So if someone did come here at night and crossed the lawns, they could easily walk up to this balcony?’

‘Yes, I suppose so, but why would they want to?’

‘If they didn’t want to be seen, Mr Brown, and if they also knew the layout of the house, knew by looking up at this window that Tilda was here, someone could have come and gone?’

Mr Brown pursed his lips and then suddenly rounded on Lorraine. ‘What exactly are you trying to suggest? That my daughter had someone up here, someone she didn’t want us to see?’

‘No, Mr Brown, maybe that someone did not want to be seen. Could you leave us alone for ten minutes? I’d appreciate it.’

The Browns left Rooney and Lorraine alone, but it was quite obvious they did not approve, and said they would wait in the drawing room for ten minutes and no more. As the door closed, Lorraine turned to Rooney.

‘What you thinking?’

He sat down on the dead girl’s bed. ‘Not a lot, so Anna Louise came here and left. We got almost four missing hours before Robert Caley and his wife contacted the police, so she could have met with Tilda Brown, but after that God only knows what happened to her.’

Lorraine picked up the white Polar bear, and tossed it back on to the bed. ‘If she left, she didn’t take a cab, no record of her doing so, and the taxi she came in had already left. Bill, what if she never left here?’

‘What?’

Lorraine walked out on to the balcony and stared across the gardens. Just to her right was the playhouse, the place where the two girls had played as children, now locked up, and suddenly Lorraine knew. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

‘I don’t think she did.’

‘What?’ It was Rooney’s turn now.

‘Come on downstairs, Bill.’

Mr and Mrs Brown sat in their drawing room in subdued but angry silence as Lorraine walked in, but before they could ask her to leave she pointed to the window with its expensive slatted blinds.

‘The playhouse in the garden, I noticed it was padlocked, can you tell me why?’

Mrs Brown looked at her husband in confusion, but he only frowned in response.

‘Did you padlock it, Mr Brown?’

‘Not that I can recall. Did you, honey?’

‘No, I thought perhaps you had done it. Maybe Tilda did.’

He stood up. ‘I didn’t, in fact I avoid looking at the thing, it brings back such memories. Are you sure? Padlocked?’

Lorraine shrugged. ‘Well, I saw the chain when I was here in daylight, maybe I’m wrong. Do you have a flashlight?’

Rooney plodded after Lorraine, Mr Brown walked ahead with the light.

‘Can you tell me what the fuck we’re doing, Lorraine?’ Rooney whispered.

‘You tell me. Everybody else on this street has security cameras, they don’t, they leave their gates open and put a padlock on a kids’ playhouse? Doesn’t make sense.’

The faint beam of the flashlight showed there was a padlock, and quite a heavy one.

‘Perhaps the gardener is storing equipment in there?’ Mr Brown suggested.

‘Do you have bolt-cutters or something we can get the lock open with?’

‘Why?’ asked Mr Brown.

Lorraine hesitated. ‘I want to see inside.’

It was another ten minutes before they had prised open one of the links in the thick chain. Lorraine eased back the child-size door and stooped low to enter.

‘Can you shine the light inside, please?’

Two chairs and a small matching table set with plastic tea cups and saucers, and a tiny cot-like bed with two dolls tucked under a blanket were all that could fit inside.

‘There’s nothing here,’ Rooney said.

Lorraine took the flashlight from Mr Brown and shone it around the house, then down to the plastic sheeting that covered the floor.

‘Can you smell anything, Bill?’

Rooney sniffed, leaning in from the tiny door. ‘Just mildew.’

‘I’m rather cold,’ Mr Brown said, standing outside, behind Rooney. Lorraine suggested he return to the house, and after hesitating a moment he walked away. She shone the yellow beam slowly over the interior, sniffing, until she got down on her knees and sniffed closer to the ground.

‘Mildew, you sure?’

Rooney sighed, and bent low to get inside. He sniffed. ‘Yeah, mildew, like moss or mould or something, but that’s natural. It must be hot as hell when the sun shines inside here, it’s all plastic and it’ll sweat with the heat. What you doing?’

‘Hold the goddamned light, Bill, I’m gonna pull back the ground-sheet.’

‘For God’s sake, Lorraine, why don’t we come back in the morning?’

‘Because we’re here now, so do as I say.’

Rooney was on his hands and knees, shining the flashlight as Lorraine began to pull back the plastic ground-sheet. She pushed the little chairs and table aside, and crawling on all-fours, dragged back the sheet. She sat back on her heels, reached over to the table and took one of the small plastic plates.

‘What you doing?’

‘Digging, what do you think it looks like? Keep the light up for chrissakes, I can’t see.’

Rooney crouched down, watching as she scraped the earth away from beneath the ground-sheet.

‘Ground would be dry in here. It was February, right? So if something was buried under this sheet it’d stay dry, and being inside, you said it stinks of mildew. Well, if a body was hidden under here we’d expect a lot of mould, same smell as mildew.’

Rooney held up the torch, then moved its beam to spread further over the tiny floor space, leaving Lorraine in darkness.

‘What you doing?’

‘Looking for droppings, rats’d be clawing their way in here if there was a body, and there’s nothing, Lorraine. Plus they got raccoons in these parts, they’d have torn the place apart.’

She continued digging with the plastic dish, her hands and nails filthy, and Rooney shone the torch, watching. One inch down, two inches down, and still she shovelled the earth, making a deep hole. Then the beam from the flashlight began to fade.

‘Batteries are running out,’ he said.

Lorraine began to scratch and dig the earth with her bare hands, and then she sat back. ‘There’s something here, come closer. For God’s sake, get closer, I can’t see. And it’d help if you gave me a hand.’

Rooney crawled towards her, the flashlight beam now just a faint yellow. ‘What is it?’

‘I dunno, I can’t fucking see. You dig, I’ll hold the light.’ She leaned back and took it from him as he began to dig harder. He used one of the plastic cups, scooping up the earth. Soil sprayed over Lorraine, and she brushed it aside.

‘Shit! You’re right, there is something.’ Rooney dug for a few more minutes and then squinted at the hole. They could just see a corner section of a black plastic trash bag. Rooney lifted up his hand; white maggots were clinging to it, covering the cuffs of his jacket. ‘Aw shit, there’s millions of them, maggots, fucking white maggots.’

‘Gimme the flashlight, I can’t see a damned thing.’

Lorraine passed the light over and he shone it down into the hole he had sliced through the black plastic. As he carefully inched it aside they could see part of a skull in the yellow beam, the skin completely decomposed, but there was a portion of long blonde hair and what looked like a head-band.

‘I think we just found Anna Louise Caley,’ Rooney said softly.

‘We also maybe just got one million dollars,’ Lorraine added.

Rooney looked at her face, a black eye on one side and her scar running down the other. She looked like a prize fighter coming up for round ten.

‘You don’t give in easy, do you?’

‘Nope, but then life’s not that easy. Least, mine isn’t.’ She stood up, still having to bend as the roof of the house was so low. ‘I’ll go and see the Browns.’

They were still there at dawn, as the police put up their cordons and arc lamps. It took two hours for the entire body to be dug up. The corpse was wrapped in four layers of black garbage bags, sellotape wound round and round the bags, virtually mummifying the body. All that was left were scraps of rotting cloth. The corpse had been buried almost a year, judging by the extent of the decomposition. Beetles and maggots were lodged in the eye sockets and the inside of the skull. There had been no terrible odour of death because all the gases had evaporated and the mummification of the body, wrapped tightly with no air, had dried all the body tissues. There was little left as a means to identify the body, but the dental records and possibly the fine, almost waist-length blonde hair. They would even find it difficult to determine what had caused the death.

By eleven o’clock the next morning, the dental records had been flown to the forensic laboratory from Los Angeles. The body was formally identified at 12.30. Anna Louise Caley had died approximately eleven months ago. She had been killed by a single blow to the back of her head, probably inflicted by a rounded, blunt-edged instrument.

Elizabeth Caley was informed at 12.45 p.m. that the body of her daughter had been recovered at Tilda Brown’s home. She was also told that it had been discovered by Lorraine Page and her partner, Mr William Rooney. It was just after two the same afternoon that Lorraine and François drove back through the Garden District to the Caley residence.

‘You want your bonus?’ Elizabeth asked coldly. She looked as elegant as ever, and Lorraine was impressed at the woman’s resilience.

‘I will have all my reports typed up and sent to you, either in Los Angeles or here, whichever you prefer.’

‘How did she die?’ Elizabeth asked, lighting a cigarette.

‘It’s difficult to give you details at this stage, but she had a deep indentation on the back of her skull.’

Elizabeth inhaled. ‘They brought a head-band, the police asked if I could identify it as Anna Louise’s. It wasn’t hers, it was mine.’

Lorraine checked over all the receipts of their expenses which Rosie had meticulously kept and clipped neatly together.

‘I will send our details of costs for the trip to New Orleans to Phyllis, unless you would like them left here? Mrs Caley?’

Elizabeth stared out of the long window at the fig orchard. ‘Send them to Phyllis, she’ll pay you.’

Lorraine replaced the documents in her briefcase.

‘Who killed her, Mrs Page?’ Elizabeth asked quietly.

Lorraine hesitated. ‘This is just supposition, because without her statement obviously we will never know exactly what happened.’

‘So what do you think happened?’

‘Well, your daughter was very jealous of Tilda Brown. Did you know she was having a sexual relationship with your husband?’

Elizabeth arched one fine eyebrow, ‘Well, I suppose he needed to get it someplace. It certainly wasn’t from me.’

Lorraine looked away, Mrs Caley sickened her, there seemed no emotion in her whatsoever, she was calm, almost sarcastic.

‘Go on, please. I’m paying you for this, so I might as well hear what you have to say.’

‘Anna Louise seemed to be very jealous because she was in love with her adopted father, and the fight the two girls had before you and Anna Louise left Los Angeles was because your daughter had seen Tilda kissing or embracing Mr Caley.’

‘The cheap bastard,’ Elizabeth said bitterly, stubbing out her cigarette.

Lorraine licked her lips. Her head was throbbing and her eye, although now less swollen, was still painful; moreover she had been up all night.

‘Go on, Mrs Page,’ Elizabeth snapped.

‘Well, after you arrived at your hotel that afternoon of February fifteenth, Tilda...’

Elizabeth crossed to the window and stood gazing out at the trees as Lorraine continued.

‘I know that your husband met with a Ruby Corbello, a girl that used to be a maid at Tilda Brown’s. She was trying to blackmail him.’

‘What?’

‘She had found Tilda Brown’s diary and she wanted to get money for it. The diary contained confirmation that Tilda and your husband were having a relationship.’

‘You read this diary?’ Elizabeth asked.

‘No, I did not. I have not seen the diary, but your husband has admitted that he did meet with Miss Corbello, and she did give him the diary. He paid her two hundred dollars for it.’

Elizabeth laughed. ‘Cheap at the price, silly child could have asked for a lot more. Go on, Mrs Page.’

‘Ruby Corbello was then led via the staff entrance up to Anna Louise’s suite. She left the hotel after ten minutes, but was seen back at the hotel, in the courtyard beneath your daughter’s balcony. I think your daughter asked Ruby Corbello to make her a doll, a voodoo doll in the shape of Tilda Brown. She possibly passed over a photograph of Tilda to use as its face, and may have paid Ruby Corbello, but she has not admitted that she did make the doll, and without your daughter’s statement, it would be difficult to prove.’

Elizabeth lit another cigarette. Lorraine noticed her hand was shaking, but otherwise she remained impassive, gesturing for Lorraine to continue.

‘I traced a cab company, not a licensed company, but one used by the staff at the hotel to ferry them back home when they were working late. A driver recalls collecting a young woman from the hotel and taking her to Tilda Brown’s house on the night of February fifteenth last year.’ Lorraine reached over and sipped some iced tea that had been brought in when she arrived. ‘That was the last sighting of your daughter, nobody ever saw her again. I think she knew Tilda’s house so well that she did not enter via the front door but climbed up on to the balcony which is only on the first floor, and saw Tilda there. Her parents have stated that Tilda never left her bedroom that night, so possibly they met at around seven forty-five.’

Elizabeth sat down, running her hand down her slim-fitting skirt, crossing her ankles. ‘Go on, please.’

Lorraine sighed, her head really throbbing now. ‘How do we know what exactly happened? They were young, angry with each other, jealous, and both had been to Juda Salina on numerous occasions for tarot reading or whatever. Both girls, having been brought up here, were obviously aware of voodoo, Anna Louise perhaps because of your connections.’

‘My connections?’ Elizabeth said sharply.

‘You did play Marie Laveau, you even have a portrait of yourself in the role in the house in Los Angeles. So Anna Louise must have been aware of the voodoo culture. Perhaps they were both afraid of it, I don’t really know, but I think Anna Louise wanted to scare Tilda, wanted to frighten her badly. Perhaps she showed her the doll and that started it, who knows, but they had fought before. In fact, when I interviewed Tilda she described how Anna Louise had struck her and punched and scratched her. So these two girls had fought before — perhaps that night they did again, and perhaps Tilda picked up something, a tennis racquet maybe? And struck out at Anna Louise.’

As Lorraine opened her cigarettes and lit one, Elizabeth remained silent, head bowed slightly.

‘Perhaps Anna Louise was leaving, facing the balcony, and Tilda struck her from behind. There were stains on the carpet in that area, but after Tilda’s suicide the carpet was cleaned so we will never know if there had been blood there or not.’

Elizabeth looked blankly to the window.

‘I think Tilda went down to the kitchen for some plastic bags straight away because the body was wrapped very tightly soon after death. She then used reels and reels of sellotape to seal the bags around the body. She may have hidden it in her room, waited until the following morning, and could have dropped it over the balcony and dragged it to the playhouse. At some point she dug the grave, and buried Anna Louise, then put a padlock on the door and...’

‘Left my baby rotting,’ Elizabeth said softly.

‘Yes. She did not return to college, she remained with her family, and from people I have interviewed I understand she became nervous and withdrawn, probably living in a state of terror that the body would be found. I think my visit to her must have scared her very much because someone new was making enquiries after all that time. I think I was the only one who had discovered not only the two girls’ sexual permissiveness, but also their jealousy. Tilda became very upset when I interviewed her but did not give me any indication she had played a part in Anna Louise’s murder.’

‘Played a part? Dear God, she killed her!’

‘I would say the surrounding pressures and the—’

‘Please don’t excuse the girl, she murdered my daughter.’

‘Yes, she did.’

Elizabeth stood up, pressing her hands down her sides, then brushed one across the crease in her skirt. ‘So, it’s over.’

Lorraine also stood up. She swayed, feeling faint, and had to hold on to the arm of the chair.

‘Are you all right?’ Elizabeth asked, looking directly at Lorraine for almost the first time since she had arrived.

‘I am very tired.’

‘What happened to your face?’

‘Oh, I bumped into a door, it’s nothing, but I would like to leave now.’

Elizabeth crossed to an escritoire and opened it. She sat down on one of the delicate English chairs and drew out a cheque-book. Lorraine collected her jacket and picked up her briefcase.

‘Do you still have the doll, Mrs Page?’

‘Yes, yes, I do.’

‘You didn’t give it to the police?’

‘No.’

‘Would you leave it here? I don’t think it is necessary for it to be seen by anyone else.’

Lorraine opened her case again.

‘Why didn’t you give it to the police if I might ask?’

‘Well, it is only circumstantial evidence.’

‘My, my we are so professional, aren’t we?’

Lorraine put down the doll, still wrapped in the hotel towel.

Elizabeth ripped out the cheque and blew on it to dry the ink. She then held it out at arm’s length. ‘Your bonus, Mrs Page.’

Lorraine walked the few paces towards Mrs Caley and took the cheque. She glanced at the amount: one million dollars.

‘It won’t bounce,’ Elizabeth said as she closed the lid of her desk. Then, without turning back, she picked up the doll and walked to the door.

‘The maid will show you out, Mrs Page. Thank you very much.’

Lorraine remained standing, staring at the cheque as the click-click of Elizabeth Caley’s high heels died away on the hall tiles.

Missy appeared and gestured for Lorraine to go with her to the front door. By now Elizabeth was almost at the top of the sweeping staircase, but she didn’t look back as Lorraine left.

Elizabeth watched her depart in her car with her driver, and then let the curtain fall back into place. She crossed to the bureau. The head-band was still in the plastic bag the police had brought it in, and she touched it with one delicate finger, before picking it up and tossing it into the wastepaper basket. She crossed to the bed where she had placed the doll and slowly unwrapped it, staring down at the hideous face with Tilda Brown’s photograph, the pin stuck through the doll’s left eye. She picked it up, carried it to the old wide fireplace, bent down and set it on the bars of the empty grate. She emptied an entire bottle of nail varnish remover over it before she struck a match and set it alight. She stood there as the flames caught and burnt it quickly; last to blacken and melt was the small plastic doll’s head with Tilda Brown’s face.

Elizabeth waited until all that was left were charred ashes and the acrid smell of burnt plastic. She then went to her bedside and picked up Anna Louise’s photograph and held it to her chest. She lay down, clutching the picture, her face impassive, but gradually her eyes filled with tears and they trickled down her cheeks, until she sobbed quietly, saying her daughter’s name over and over again, whispering that she was sorry, so very sorry.

Robert Caley had asked to see the body or what was left of it, but nothing had prepared him for the blackened, decomposed corpse. He was shocked and distressed, staying no more than a few moments. Like his wife, he wept for Anna Louise. He also asked for her forgiveness, knowing that he had in many ways been to blame. He was now on his way to accomplishing everything he had dreamed about, and he would without doubt be a very rich man, but he felt empty, drained and ashamed. Two young girls had died as a result of his foolishness and selfishness. The woman he could love had seen him for what he was, and he knew the damage was irreparable. Just thinking of her made him look towards the connecting bedroom door, and his heart thudded as it opened.

‘Excuse me, Mr Caley, but the manager has asked if you will still be requiring the double suite as...’

‘No, no, I will also be leaving by tonight.’

‘Shall I tell the manager then, Mr Caley? Only with Carnival coming up...’

‘Yes, please, thank you.’

The maid shut the door and locked it, and he packed his bags, wanting to get out as soon as possible.

The bell-boy was carrying them to his car when Saffron Dulay drove up in her convertible Rolls Corniche.

‘Honey, you’re not leavin’, are you?’

He looked at her as she slid out of the driving seat and sashayed towards him, arms held out for a hug. Golden-brown, golden-haired, she reminded him of Anna Louise.

‘Daddy, give me a hug, give me a big bear hug and tell me you love me lots, lots and whole lots.’

Caley wrapped his arms around Saffron; he was crying.

‘Shush now, honey, I know, I know they found her,’ Saffron cooed, stroking his head.

He turned away, embarrassed by his tears, and she drew him close.

‘Now, you’re not leaving, are you? Not when I have come all this way to see you, and Daddy and you being in business together, you are not upping and leaving, you have to celebrate.’

Saffron had already dismissed Anna Louise’s death. That was over, that was all in the past. She saw him waver, hesitate, and she turned to the bell-boy.

‘Put Mr Caley’s bags in my car, would you?’ She gave him that wide, frosty smile. ‘Hey, we are going to have a ball, it’s just starting, it’s Mardi Gras!’

She walked around to the driving seat as his luggage was placed in the trunk, slipping on her dark glasses as she started up the engine.

‘My daddy says you’ve gone and left that lush you been tied to for more than twenty years. That true, Robert?’

He nodded, getting in beside her, and like her he slipped on his dark shades as they eased out into the traffic. They headed towards Esplanade, Robert with his arm lying loosely along the seat, his hand stroking Saffron’s slender neck.

‘Oh yes, that is so nice.’ She laughed.

Caley smiled, a sad smile, because he knew his life from now on would be filled with Saffrons. Money breeds money, breeds bastards.

Lorraine stared from the window of Francois’s steaming hot car. She was sure Caley had not seen her, and she was glad, not because she looked bad, but because she might not have been able to hide her expression. Saffron’s blonde head was tilted back, laughing, Robert Caley’s hand resting at the nape of her neck. A golden couple, seemingly with no remorse, no pain and no grief. She was more than glad, because it made her angry that she had been such a fool to have felt something for him, even for a moment. He was not worth it, not worth another thought, and whatever she felt would soon pass. He would soon be forgotten, just like poor misguided Anna Louise, whose skeleton lay covered in the morgue.

Lorraine walked in as Rosie snapped her last case shut on her pink, frilled, nylon bedspread.

‘Right, that’s me packed. You know they want us out as soon as possible as they’re booked out?’

‘How long did you book the room for?’

‘Well, I did tell you we got a special rate so long as we leave before the hotel fills up. Mardi Gras is their busiest time.’

‘I know that,’ Lorraine snapped.

Rosie crossed to the writing table. ‘I did a provisional booking at a place way out of town in case we needed to stay on, but we don’t, do we?’

Rooney barged in and dumped down his bags.

‘So, how did it go?’

‘Cheque’s in my wallet, one million!’

Rosie whooped, and Rooney hit the flimsy wall with his fist. ‘Yes, yes. One fucking million.’

Lorraine folded her arms. ‘So you’re both leaving?’

Rooney frowned. ‘Well, we all are, aren’t we? I mean, did you want to stay on for Mardi Gras?’

‘Nope, I’m not crazy about the idea of being elbowed around the streets, but...’

‘But what?’ Rosie said as she opened Lorraine’s wallet and took out the cheque.

‘But, well, you think we’re all done here?’

Rosie passed the cheque to Rooney.

‘You mean we should see if it’s good? I doubt if she’d bounce it on us,’ he said, squinting at the cheque.

Lorraine had that edgy feel, sort of shifting her weight from one foot to the next.

‘Nick’s room rented, is it?’

‘What?’

‘I said, is Nick’s room rented out?’

Yeah, well, we stopped paying for it,’ Rosie said, becoming suspicious.

‘His body collected by his sister?’

Yes,’ Rooney said, frowning.

You know it was, we told you it was, he’ll be buried by now.’

‘And forgotten, just like that? Forgotten like that pitiful skeleton in the morgue? Well, for your information I have not forgotten Nick Bartello, I have not forgotten him in anyway.’

‘Shit, Lorraine, nor have we. If this is leading to us giving his relatives something from the one million, I don’t mind,’ Rooney said.

‘We don’t need to give anybody else a cut of the one million,’ Lorraine said, slumping into a chair and leaning forward, her head in her hands.

‘So what’s up?’

She shook her head and then leaned back, closing her eyes. ‘What’s up is some piece of shit killed Nick, and that shit, whoever he is, is just walking, and nobody is doing anything about it, that’s what’s up.’

Rooney sighed, he could feel the carpet being tugged from under his big flat feet. ‘Lorraine, the cops have nothing, we got nothing. What do you want us all to do now, stay on here and start up another investigation?’

‘I want us to finish off what we started, I said I wanted you to visit Fryer Jones’s bar, I said I wanted his place searched with that cop you palmed five hundred bucks to, because some fucker got his necklace. Some bastard killed Nick Bartello and I just want us to check out a few things before we all piss off back to Los Angeles and buy our own condominiums, okay?’

Rooney sighed, lifting his hands up to calm her. ‘Okay, just stay cool, I’ll contact him right now, we can do it straight away. But, Lorraine, if we come up with nothin’ then I don’t care what you say, I’m out of here. What about you, Rosie?’

Rosie nodded. ‘Yes, I’ll leave with Bill.’

Lorraine stood up. ‘Fine, but I might hang around until I am satisfied we gave Nick a run for his cut of the cash. So, we’ll keep one room for us all, make it mine as I haven’t started to pack.’

Lorraine slammed the bathroom door shut hard, and Rosie sighed.

‘When she gets into these moods, I could punch her, I really could. I mean, how can we come up with something if the police got nothin’, huh? You tell me that? She just gets obsessive.’

Rooney rubbed his chin. ‘If she wasn’t so obsessive, Rosie, we’d never have found Anna Louise Caley or be looking at a cheque for one million. So we get off our backsides and do like she says because we got to keep her sweet. I don’t want her suddenly saying she’s got a right to a bigger cut.’

‘She can’t do that!’

Rooney dangled the cheque. ‘This is made out to her, Rosie. She’s gonna have to put it in her account, then pay us our share, so I’d say we do whatever she wants us to do.’

Lorraine showered and changed but didn’t feel very fresh or energized, just angry, and she knew it was connected to seeing Robert Caley. She glared at her reflection in the mirror.

‘Hey, chill out of this one. Remember, he’s not worth one more second of your time, so stop this!’

Rooney tapped and she opened up. ‘You got someone in here?’

‘No, I was talking to myself.’

‘Oh well, this cop’s downstairs, you want to talk to him?’

‘Yep.’

Rooney held open the door. All their bags were littered around the room. ‘Lemme warn you, he’s no Burt Lancaster, he’s kind of a bit freaky-lookin’.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah, his neck is as wide as his ass!’

Harper sat with Rosie, well beamed herself; they made a good couple. He had a beer in his fat pudgy hand, and lifted half a cheek of his ass as Lorraine joined them. They were sitting beneath an umbrella on the blue and white plastic furniture of a cheap sidewalk café, its neon signs glowing weakly in the daylight. The pavement in front of them was thronging with people.

‘This is Lorraine Page.’

‘Hi, how you doing?’

‘Fine, thanks for coming over.’ She looked across at him over her dark shades. Rooney was right, the guy was obese.

‘No problem, you want a beer or...’

‘Coffee,’ she said, and lit a cigarette.

‘Place is hotting up. Pity you aren’t sticking around for Carnival.’

Lorraine stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Okay, can we get down to why we wanted to see you?’

‘Sure, fire away.’

Lorraine spoke quickly, detailing the events that led up to Nick Bartello’s death and mentioning the fact that he had been in Fryer Jones’s bar the previous night, and might possibly have returned.

‘Look, I know he was your pal, right? But he was crazy to go to Ward 9 late at night and to get involved with anyone there. Now, I know we investigated this, we asked around, because he was found close to the bar, you know, about a block away down an alley, but nobody there saw him. Nobody saw him down the alley either.’

Lorraine leaned forward. ‘Okay, so you’re sayin’ with Mardi Gras comin’ some poor fucker is gonna walk off the main drag by accident, go into Fryer Jones’s bar, have a few beers, walk out and get his throat cut? And all the cops are gonna say is that he shouldn’t have been in that district? You got notices up there saying, “Beware, you could end up fucking dead”?’

Harper wrinkled his pig-nose, annoyed at being spoken to by a woman in that tone.

Lorraine ticked off on her fingers. ‘We know he went there, we know he pissed off some kids because they were shooting a pistol and shoving it up Fryer Jones’s nose. We know he made them look dumb, we know all of that. We know that Fryer Jones gave Nick a necklace, a gris-gris, which wasn’t on his body when he was found, nor were his wallet or his driving licence. He used to keep them in separate back pockets.’

‘Uh huh.’ The fat face wobbled.

‘Fryer Jones admitted to me that he had met Nick, and I want to know who was in the bar that night. I want to know who was in the bar the following night — in other words I want to know if Nick Bartello went back to Fryer Jones’s bar and somebody there cut his throat. So if it means getting a search warrant, if it means—’

Harper shook his head. ‘You are an impatient lady, that’s for sure.’

‘Well, we only got the room booked for one more night,’ she said with a tight-lipped smile.

‘Okey dokey. This area that your friend went into is well known as the wrong neighbourhood for whites to go drinking in the early hours, unless they are known or trying to score dope. Your friend use dope, did he?’

‘No, he didn’t,’ snapped Rooney.

‘Okay, so he was acting dumb. But we don’t like going into bars like Fryer Jones’s without real good evidence. We don’t like doing that, because Fryer is an informant.’

Lorraine leaned back. ‘Is he? That’s why you arrested him on the night Anna Louise Caley was missing?’

‘Yes, ma’am, we did arrest him and we hadda knock him around a bit. We needed to ask old Fryer if he had heard anythin’, you know, if he knew where she might have disappeared to, because there is nothing down in that section of town that Fryer Jones don’t know about. But we have to always make it look real good, because if it was known, then it’d be old Fryer with his throat cut like your friend.’ Harper rested back in his chair and burped, he thumped his chest with a curled fist. ‘Better out than in.’

Lorraine lit another cigarette and looked up and down the street, inhaling the smoke. Okay, let’s try this another way. You’re telling me you couldn’t get a warrant to search that bar, maybe haul a couple of guys into the station? That is what you are saying, isn’t it?’

‘I guess so. We don’t like to rock the boat.’

‘Right, so what would it cost to rock it?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Come on, you heard me. I am asking you what it would cost to get maybe four or five of you to back me up, get yourselves armed with more than your wooden bars. They can be cops, or they can be cops not acting as cops, if you follow me?’

Rosie could feel the non-alcoholic beer churning in her stomach. Rooney turned to stare down the street but the sweat was trickling off his face.

‘How much?’ Harper asked.

‘You tell me,’ she said softly.

Rooney flicked a glance at Rosie. Her face glistened with perspiration, and she was twisting a bit of the tablecloth round and round one of her fingers.

Harper caught a drop of water running down the neck of his cold beer bottle. He licked his finger. ‘Are you gonna be around until this afternoon?’

‘Back at the hotel, sure, we can wait for you to contact us.’

Harper pushed back his chair. ‘Be in touch. Been nice talkin’ to you, Mrs Page, Bill, and nice to meet you, Rosie.’

He waddled off, seeming to make a wave through the people in the street, his girth not something to push around but to bounce off, his thick neck giving him a thuggish quality accentuated by the thin black moustache on his baby’s lip.

‘How much do you think he’d want?’ Rosie asked.

Lorraine stood up. ‘Why, you worried about parting with your hard-earned money, Rosie?’

‘No, just being cautious. And you should put that cheque in the bank before you lose it.’

Lorraine laughed, and swung her purse round her shoulder. ‘Sure, and I guess you both want a cheque for your cut, but you mind if I wait until it’s actually in my account?’

She walked off, and Rosie reached over for Rooney’s hand. ‘I didn’t like him and I’m getting to not like her.’

They both looked towards Lorraine. She was standing on the pavement, slowly turning to face them as on the opposite side of the road she saw a red convertible Mustang cruise past. It was driven by Raoul Corbello, one hand trailing down over the door, the other lazily holding the white steering-wheel. Rap music blared out, and his eyes, hidden behind the mirrored shades, were checking out a young black chick selling postcards. He drove on, he could do a lot better for himself than a street vendor, and he needed to get to his uncle’s bar, Fryer Jones’s place. Raoul was hyped up on crack and needed to get easy, chill out for a while so he could face his family and see his precious Ruby crowned. That’s what he’d come home for: Mardi Gras.