Cold Heart

Chapter 9

Decker got Lorraine an appointment with Feinstein almost immediately. His address in Century City was certainly impressive, on one of the smartest blocks of the Avenue of the Stars. The building had only recently been opened, and Lorraine had to concede that it was a truly handsome piece of modern architecture, a soaring tower of golden granite and blue glass that seemed to cut the sky.

Lorraine went up the steps and into a lobby whose sheer moneyed lustre exceeded anything she had seen, even in Los Angeles. The commissionaire directed her to the forty-third floor, and she made her way to the bank of elevators.

She emerged from the elevator car into another lobby bathed in light, streaming in through semi-transparent blinds of fine white cloth. Feinstein’s receptionist was a beautiful, long-limbed girl, wearing a straight tunic dress in mint green crêpe-de-chine and a pair of transparent plastic court shoes, whose four-inch heels made her well over six feet tall. She introduced herself as Pamela, with a charming smile, and asked her if she would mind waiting a moment. Lorraine sat down in one of four low armchairs with curving black backs and white leather upholstery ranged round a table of quaking-leaf fern.

Feinstein kept Lorraine waiting only a minute, then she was shown into an enormous office carpeted in a smooth silver grey like whaleskin, full of beautifully crafted wooden furniture whose dignity and majestic scale jarred with the bald, weasel-like lawyer. He only bothered to rise a couple of inches from his chair and motioned Lorraine to a lower seat placed in front of his huge desk. She began to thank him for seeing her, but his intercom blinked and his voice rasped loudly, making her jump: she had not noticed the transparent plastic speaker plugged into his right ear or the mouthpiece at the corner of his lips.

‘Just tell her I’m in conference, Pamela, and that goes for the rest of the week!’ He listened to whatever Pamela said in reply, then snapped, ‘I am not talking to her, Pamela!’ and detached the headset. He began to shuffle files on his desk, avoiding Lorraine’s eye as he asked what she wanted to see him about and reminded her that he was a busy man. He opened a drawer and took out a foot-long cigar, sniffed it before unwrapping it, then sniffed again and clipped the end.

‘I’m a private investigator,’ Lorraine began, and Feinstein sighed, sucking on the unlit cigar end.

‘Yes, Mrs Page, I know who you are.’ He patted his pockets, looking for his lighter.

‘I was acting for Mrs Nathan,’ she said. He ran his lips around the fat cigar and puffed it alight, the smoke forming a blue halo round his head.

‘Just get to the point. I’m inundated with calls from Kendall Nathan, and so I’ll tell you what I’ve told her — and keep on telling her. Until I’ve had time to assess the Nathan estate, I can’t give any personal or financial information to anyone.’

‘I wanted to discuss Cindy Nathan’s—’

Feinstein cut her off. ‘Suicide? Well, I’m sorry, obviously. Is that why you wanted to see me? Or — don’t tell me — you, like everyone else concerned with Nathan, want a pay-off? Worried you won’t get your fee, is that it?’

‘I wanted to ask you for some details about the art gallery, and specifically Mr Nathan’s art collection,’ Lorraine said, controlling her temper — she would have liked to punch the cigar down his throat.

‘I’m not prepared to discuss anything with you, Mrs Page. Like I said, I’m sorry about Cindy, but it doesn’t come as a shock. I mean, you threaten to do something often enough, kinda takes away the element of surprise.’ He gestured in the air, one hand clutching the cigar.

‘Cindy had threatened suicide before?’

Feinstein looked at his watch. ‘She made it public knowledge often enough, and I got enough faxes and notes from her, threatening the same thing, to paper the walls with. She was...’ He twisted his finger at the side of his temple.

Would it be possible for me to see them?’

‘No, it would not. If however, the police require them, that is a different matter.’

‘And I suppose Harry Nathan had nothing to do with Cindy’s previous suicide attempts?’

‘Maybe, maybe not. I don’t know the ins and outs of my clients’ domestic set-ups — it’s tough enough getting the business side of their lives sorted out.’ He sighed. ‘I know she was young, but she’d been around and, to be honest, I couldn’t stand the girl. Never could understand why my client put up with her hysterics, but then, once a man gets involved with these bimbos, what can you expect? Money’s all they’re after. I see a lot of greed in my profession. I’ve even got Harry’s goddamned domestics calling, plus his entire family, all like vultures, all wanting to know how much. I have to protect my clients.’

‘But not all your clients are murdered, I hope,’ Lorraine said quietly.

Feinstein examined his manicured hands. The cigar stuck in his wet lips as he dragged heavily on it and blew a wide ring of smoke behind his head, his voice halting with false emotion. ‘Harry Nathan was my client, and he was also a man I admired and respected. Whatever he did in his private life was none of my concern. If you submit your account to my assistant, I will endeavour to see that it’s paid. Now, as I said, I’m a very busy man, Mrs Page, so if there’s nothing else...’

‘What will Kendall Nathan inherit now under the will?’ Lorraine asked.

Feinstein started at her, his gaze studiedly blank. ‘I don’t see that that is any concern of yours, Mrs Page. Do I have to repeat myself about client confidentiality?’

Lorraine persisted, ‘Does she get anything now that might have gone to Cindy — like the art or anything?’

Feinstein wagged his finger. ‘Listen, honey, you just lost one client, so this, I presume, is a fishing trip for another. You wanna work for Kendall Nathan, go talk to her. Now, please, I’d like you to leave.’

Lorraine got up and picked up her briefcase, smoothing down her skirt. ‘Is that one of the Nathan gallery paintings?’ She indicated a massive canvas on the wall, and Feinstein moved round his desk, impatient to show her out. ‘I notice you had one similar in Reception.’

The lawyer was now opening the office door. ‘Mrs Page,’ he said curtly, sweeping one hand in a mock-gallant gesture towards the door, but Lorraine had moved closer to the painting, a huge composition of brightly coloured, but somehow warlike shapes, and saw a small gold plaque on the wall underneath that named Frank Stella as the artist.

‘Very impressive,’ Lorraine murmured, then walked towards him. ‘Are you a collector?’

Feinstein turned away from her as Pamela appeared outside the open door. ‘Kendall Nathan has called again — she’s on the phone now,’ she said in a low voice. ‘She says it’s very urgent, Mr Feinstein.’

‘Get rid of her, and show Mrs Page out.’

Lorraine was now close to the attorney, who reached to just below her shoulder. What little hair he had left was dyed black and slicked backwards, making his weasel’s eyes, under arched — and, if Lorraine was not mistaken, plucked — brows, seem even smaller and beadier. With his silk suit and Gucci shoes, Feinstein smelt of money as strongly as of his overpowering cologne, but no amount of polish could disguise the coarseness of the personality underneath.

‘Is it an original?’ she asked sweetly.

‘What?’ He blinked.

‘The painting. Did you buy it from Nathan’s gallery? It’s just that the real reason I came to see you was that I had a conversation with Cindy, shortly before she died, and she seemed to think that her husband, and probably his ex-wife, Kendall Nathan, were involved in some sort of art fraud.’ Feinstein frowned, and looked past her to the painting as Lorraine continued in the same saccharine tone. ‘But, then, as you’re a collector, I’m sure you would have had any work you purchased properly authenticated.’ The false sweetness of her smile matched her voice as she walked past him out into Reception.

Feinstein followed. ‘Cindy Nathan told you about a fraud. What fraud?’

Lorraine paused at a canvas that covered most of one wall, and tapped the frame. ‘Well, it appears that a lot of the paintings, not only in Nathan’s house but also sold through the gallery, were probably only copies. This must have cost a fortune, it’s a...’ She leaned to read another small gold plaque. ‘Ah, a de Kooning. I mean, I’m no connoisseur, but I know his work is sought after and commands a high price — if it’s an original, that is.’

Feinstein continued to follow in Lorraine’s wake, glancing at the painting as he passed it. ‘What else did Mrs Nathan tell you?’ he asked nervously.

Lorraine had her hand on the door to the lobby, and tilted her head to one side. ‘Well, Mr Feinstein, my client Mrs Nathan may, sadly, no longer be with us, but nevertheless she is still my client, and as you have pointed out, I must continue to respect the confidentiality of her affairs. Thank you for your time, and if you should wish to see me again, please call.’ She proffered one of her cards, then breezed out of the door, which swung closed behind her.

Feinstein glanced at her card, then hurried into the boardroom. There were two canvases at either end of the twenty-five-foot room, and he almost ran to the one further away, then stopped in his tracks and turned to look at the other. He had nothing like the expertise necessary to tell whether his so-called investments were genuine or not, and panic began to rise like bile in his gullet. Then he yelled at the top of his voice. ‘PAMELA! PAMELA!’

The girl hurried into the room, notebook at the ready, to find Feinstein sitting at the centre of the boardroom table. ‘Your next appointment is here, Mr Feinstein. Mr... are you all right?’

He was pulling at his collar, loosening his tie. ‘I need a glass of water, an’ get that guy, the art historian, the one who went with me to Harry Nathan’s gallery.’

‘Yes, Mr Feinstein. Do you want him to meet you there, as usual?’

‘No.’ His voice was harsh. ‘Get him here. I want him fucking here.’

Pamela scuttled out. As Harry Nathan’s lawyer, Feinstein knew not only what a mess the Nathan estate was in, but that the outstanding claims against it far exceeded its worth. The only thing Feinstein had been sure about was Nathan’s private art collection, whose value had yet to be assessed, but he had been depending on it to cover the majority of the debts and, most importantly, his own fees. He was sure Harry wouldn’t have pulled a fast one on him. He was his lawyer, for Chrissakes. He’d been his friend, hadn’t he? But as he calculated how much he had paid for the canvases, a sinking feeling engulfed him. He had always known that Harry Nathan was a thieving, conniving, two-faced bastard. It took one to know one.

Kendall hung up the telephone, shaking with impotent rage, as Feinstein’s secretary informed her yet again that her boss was in conference. She had been calling him every half an hour since she had spoken to the insurance company and discovered that Cindy had indeed been telling the truth — Nathan hadn’t paid the premiums on the art collection for two years.

In an effort to calm her nerves, she’d had three brandies, but they hadn’t helped. If anything they had made her feel worse. Part of her was still refusing to believe what had happened, sure there was some mistake — but it was pretty clear what the explanation was: Harry had not bothered to insure the paintings because they were worthless. As soon as she had got a closer look at them she had known that they were fakes. She and Harry had had the brilliant idea of selling valuable original paintings to various ditzy members of the film community, arranging for copies to be painted, and then, after the buyers had had their purchases authenticated, delivering the fakes. No one had noticed; no one had bothered to get the paintings checked a second time.

Now, however, it seemed that Harry had pulled the same scam on her, and switched the originals hanging at the house for a second set of copies. The reason, too, was obvious: he was cutting her out of the proceeds of the fraud and intended to keep the approximately twenty million dollars they had reckoned on netting. Harry wouldn’t have done that to her, would he?

She was almost panting with hysteria, and her outrage rose the more she thought about it: her role in the whole thing had required months of preparation, negotiation and unremitting stress.

Kendall poured herself more brandy, forced herself to try to think logically: what if Harry Nathan hadn’t been shot? It had happened only weeks before they had intended to move all the paintings. What if he had carried into effect what they had so carefully arranged, that the paintings would be moved one by one to private buyers in Europe? Harry had even been in Germany arranging the deals. Kendall’s head throbbed with trying to think straight. She had paid good money for two false passports for him, covered his periods away from LA by saying he was filming, and made calls on his behalf to ensure that no one, not even Feinstein, knew where he was. Maybe Feinstein didn’t know about their scam. But what had happened to the original paintings and sculptures:

She had yet another drink, calmer now, her thin face pinched as she tried to piece together the events of the last weeks, thinking about what Cindy had told her. There was no other explanation, other than that Harry had been concealing the treasures somewhere outside the house for two years. She started to shake: he had been lying to her for two years and had intended to cut her out.

‘You shit,’ she screamed, crying with anger now. He had known she couldn’t report him to the police because she would have been charged for her part in it. He had screwed her into the ground. The fact that he was dead made no difference — he had betrayed her, as he had betrayed Sonja before her, and what a fool she had been, trusting him, a blind, trusting fool... just like Sonja.

As soon as she had seen Harry, she had wanted him and she had told herself at the time that it was love. But it had been something darker and more complex. All her life she had wanted to get out from under, to belong, to be on the inside, and she had known that she had the potential to do that, to lead a life that her parents in Kansas had never dreamed of. Harry Nathan was the most attractive and dynamic man Kendall had ever met: when Sonja had hired her he had been making movies that did reasonable business, still had some respectable friends in the industry. He was charm itself when Sonja brought Kendall out to the house to introduce her, talked to her easily, naturally, as though she was his equal, and over the coming weeks she felt that he took a special interest in her — used to chat to her for a few minutes on the phone if he called the gallery to speak to his wife.

Kendall had soon come to feel that she was like Sonja — her clothes became more elegant, her movements more graceful, the inflections of her voice smoother — but also that, as she herself became more attractive, Sonja was deteriorating. She had never been as beautiful as Sonja, about that she had no illusions, but she was twelve years younger, and she was prepared to make Harry the project of her life in a way that Sonja could not. It was not difficult to get him into bed, though the whole business felt rather perfunctory, almost tawdry, the first time a quick fuck at her apartment, after which he had immediately said he had a meeting and had to go. Kendall had wondered whether perhaps there was some truth in a few remarks Sonja had made, hinting that her husband was selfish and unaccomplished in bed.

Harry had been reluctant either to tell Sonja about their affair or to contemplate leaving her. Some deep, sick, neurotic bond held them to one another, Kendall decided, particularly since Sonja said she had almost finished some major project which she planned on exhibiting. Harry seemed to have bought into all that garbage about disturbing her creativity. That was fine, Kendall reckoned, as she visited her gynecologist for shots to enhance her fertility — she gets her baby, I get mine.

Sonja produced a remarkable piece of work: a huge construction of a series of storefronts, not unlike the block where the gallery was on Beverly Drive, in which the stones in the sidewalk, the trash cans, the merchandise in the stores seemed to be living, watching the parade of humanity with strange, childlike faces.

At the opening Kendall was quiet. She was wondering whether the quick fuck Harry had given her on just the right day two weekends ago, while Sonja was working at the studio, had done the trick.

She received confirmation of her pregnancy a week later, and served this information on Harry like a writ. She intimated, too, suitably indirectly, that if he didn’t leave Sonja and marry her he would indeed receive a writ in the form of a paternity suit. Harry had no option now but to tell Sonja, as Kendall would soon start to swell, and she could see, too, that the idea of a child had worked its old magic, primitive but effective, on his vanity as a man. So that was settled. Sonja received the news as silently as a dagger slid expertly under her ribs, packed her bags and went.

While Kendall was pregnant things hadn’t been too bad — the prospect of the child had interested Harry more than its mother — but after she had her daughter the marriage went downhill fast. Now that Kendall was preoccupied with the baby, clucking endlessly about the contents of bottles and diapers, she bored Harry and got on his nerves.

She was baffled by the deterioration of their relationship, as though they had fast-forwarded, somehow, through what was meant to be the honeymoon period and had settled down into the stress, irritation and distance that longer-term marriages seemed to wallow in.

Then their little girl died suddenly, inexplicably, at seventeen months old, and neither of them was ever the same again. Kendall never forgave Harry for his insensitivity to her at the funeral, spending more time with that low-life closet case Vallance than with her, and he became embittered, his humour blacker and sicker, his lifestyle tackier and more decadent by the hour. Kendall knew they were in trouble now, but when she tried to talk to her husband on the odd occasions that she saw him, he said his actions were fuelled by anger at the child’s death.

It was in the weeks following the funeral that Harry had developed his interest in adult parlour games. Kendall hung on grimly, no matter what she had to go along with and how much of a blind eye she had to turn to his other playmates. She refused to become a member of the army of divorced and discarded women the city was thronged with. Vallance’s revenge for Kendall’s hostility had been to introduce Harry to Cindy and — after they had been married a little less than four years — Kendall knew she had lost him.

As her divorce settlement, he gave her a half share in the gallery and although she thought maybe she could have got more, she was glad to have the link of a business partnership with him, just to retain some contact. Devoid of sexuality herself, she had never been able to understand its power over others, and she was certain that the Harry-Cindy alliance would last no longer than her own marriage.

On the other hand, Kendall had always had a keen business mind, and unencumbered by the tasks of parenthood, she soon put her mind to making money again. The gallery did well enough, but she figured that to make serious money, you had to bend the rules a little. Harry had jumped at the idea of the forgeries, and if it was his money that financed the scam, it had been her brains that set it up.

Everything had gone sweetly up until now, and as Harry grew predictably disenchanted with Cindy and stories of the couple’s rows and public slanging matches circulated around the city, Kendall permitted herself to fantasize that he would realize what an asset she had been to him — how transitory the delights of the flesh, how enduring the joys of bank accounts containing seven-, even eight-figure sums. Kendall had convinced herself that when the fraud came to fruition and the paintings were sold on elsewhere, Cindy would be kicked out in the cold and she would be reinstalled as Harry Nathan’s wife.

All those dreams were now in ruins around her. She had nothing: he’d cleaned her out, just as he had Sonja, and he had dumped her for good, just as he had Sonja.

Kendall took another swig from the bottle, but she didn’t feel drunk. Harry had used her and lied to her, but she knew him well enough to be sure he wouldn’t have been able to arrange this latest deal alone — hadn’t had the intelligence. He must have had someone assisting him. Vallance? Cindy was out of the question, and she wondered if Sonja could have played any part in it. She began to pace up and down the room, drinking and stumbling around over the floral parterre rugs, which were meant to make the green carpet look like a garden, a witty allusion to the black Astroturf beyond. Sonja was the obvious person: she knew more about art than either Kendall or Harry. Was it possible that she had come back into Harry’s life?

Kendall wouldn’t allow herself to believe it. What about Harry’s brother Nick? He was an artist, he could have been behind it, and there was Harry’s mother — she had a considerable interest in art and antiques.

Abigail Nathan had been so friendly when Harry and Kendall were married, so pleased that Harry had got rid of Sonja, and overjoyed about her first grandchild. But Kendall had known in her heart that Abigail cared only about her sons. In her eyes they could do no wrong, and Kendall wondered if the whole Nathan family had ganged up against her. She remembered Cindy saying that someone had broken into the house and Abigail had keys, so the family could have taken the paintings, but how could she prove it without implicating herself?

Kendall began to search her desk drawers: Harry might not have kept up the house insurance premiums, but she had always paid the insurance of the gallery personally. Now it was all she had, and she knew what she would do: torch it, and claim the insurance. At least she would come out with something, and the more she thought about it, the better she felt. It could be done easily enough — the workshop was full of inflammable spirits, canvases and wooden frames and would catch fire quickly. As it was attached to the gallery, the whole site would go up.

She hurled everything out of the desk drawers, until she found the documents: the gallery was well insured, and the stock valued at two million dollars. She checked the insurance papers, just to make sure that, in the event of fire, she was fully covered, then crammed the rest of the documents, including the mass of crazy notes she had received from Cindy Nathan, back into the drawer. Those were certainly best out of circulation — she didn’t want anyone thinking she had had anything to do with that fucked-up bimbo’s death.

Kendall hurried out of her apartment to her Mitsubishi jeep. She loaded the cans of white spirit she kept in her garage into the back of it, muttering drunkenly that nobody was ever going to treat her like a doormat again. She would show that bastard and his family, and she was laughing as she drove out past Lorraine Page, who had parked a few yards from her front door, and whom she did not see. She was too intent on planning her revenge. Kendall wouldn’t be left penniless like Sonja, wouldn’t walk away without a fight.

Lorraine adjusted her driving mirror and watched the two-toned Mitsubishi jeep career down the road. She had hoped to challenge Kendall about Jose’s statement that he had seen her car on the morning of Harry Nathan’s death as well as Cindy’s suggestion of some fraud to do with the paintings, and her subsequent mysterious death. She tried to follow the jeep, but lost it after a few minutes. Kendall was going somewhere and fast: Lorraine wondered if Feinstein had already called her.

Lorraine returned to her office and tossed the car keys to the valet parking attendant, who gave her a wide grin. ‘Hi there. Nice day. You having one?’

‘Yep. How about you?’

‘Could be better,’ he said, getting into the Mercedes.

She rode the elevator up to her floor, headed for her office, and was about to enter when she heard voices.

Decker was serving coffee and chocolate madeleines, which he must have rushed out and bought, to Lieutenant Jake Burton. Lorraine hesitated, then smiled. ‘Hello.’

Burton stood up with a smile. ‘Off duty. Wondered if I could have a few moments?’

‘Sure, go into my office. I’ll just get rid of my coat.’

Decker ushered Burton into Lorraine’s office and closed the door behind him. ‘He just called in. Been here a few minutes,’ he whispered. ‘Single white male his age — don’t pass him up. I’d pull him.’

Lorraine made a face and walked into her office. She went behind her desk and sat down. After what Decker had just said she found it hard to look at Burton.

‘Off the record, Mrs Page, I called to say thank you for sending over the videos and for your... other assistance, and to tell you that as yet we’ve had no news from the county morgue on the Cindy Nathan autopsy.’

He kept staring at her, then added, ‘That’s all really. Thank you.’

He walked to the door. ‘Is your dog a cross between a German shepherd and...’

‘I’m not sure — I kind of inherited him, but he’s got malamute or maybe wolfhound somewhere.’

‘I used to have a Dobermann,’ he said. ‘Miss them when they go — especially the walks. Kind of clears your head, or it did with me. Anyway, thank you again.’

He was about to open the door when Lorraine said, ‘Whenever you feel like walking, just call me — he’s always available.’

He gave a shy smile. ‘I will. I’d like it even better if there was some company too. Anyway, I’d better make tracks. Thank you again.’

‘Let me give you my home number,’ she said suddenly. She wrote on one of her cards, and passed it to him.

‘I’ll take you up on that.’

She followed him out, and he asked where she usually walked. ‘Oh, sometimes the park, but on nice evenings I drive to the promenade. He loves the beach.’

Decker was listening, but pretending to be busy. Tiger raised his head as they passed and Burton patted him, then nodded to Lorraine, and grinned at Decker. ‘Nice meeting you again — goodbye.’

Lorraine watched him leave, and Decker rolled his eyes. ‘My God, you are so slow. He was begging yon for a date — when a guy talks about taking your dog for a walk, you know, sweetheart, it’s you he wants to go walkies with.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ she said, returning to her office.

‘So what did he want?’

Lorraine shrugged. ‘Nothing, really, just to thank me for sending the videos over.’

‘Oh, really?’ Decker said, raising his eyebrows. ‘He had to come and see you to do that? So he is after your ass.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Lorraine said dismissively.

He laughed. ‘Sweetie, trust me, you’ll have to make the running. He’s all male, all testosterone and incapable of coming out with the line “I suppose a fuck is out of the question”, but he has major hot pants for you, trust me.’

‘Not in a blue moon, Decker. I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you.’

‘If you could see your face — ’ he giggled ‘ — go take a look!’

She slammed her office door, and scurried to look at herself in the make-up mirror she kept in a filing cabinet. She was flushed, and she did have the hots for Burton. Decker was just a sex-obsessed fag — but intuitive.

Kendall turned into the alley that ran along the back of the gallery, overlooked by barred windows and full of huge commercial garbage bins. Most businesses left their back yards open to use as a parking area, but Kendall had enclosed all the space that belonged to her to construct a workroom, and she pulled up now in front of the high iron gates she had installed. On the other side of the alley were the backs of the shops and other properties that fronted Canon Drive. One was a men’s accessories shop, run by a guy called Greg Jordan. Now she saw him standing at the back door of his shop. She waved across to him, making sure he saw her, not wanting to appear furtive. ‘Hi, how’s business?’ she called loudly.

He walked out into the alley. ‘Slow. How is it with you?’

‘Not so bad. Got a client coming in — ‘bye now.’ She waved again, and pushed open the big double gates.

Eric was in the yard, stacking a delivery of old frames they would repair in the shop. She tossed him the keys of the jeep, a little irritated that he was there: she had forgotten about him. ‘Eric, there’s a delivery of white spirits in the jeep — bring them in for me, will you? ‘

‘Sure, Mrs Nathan, but we’ve got plenty in stock,’ he said, heaving an old gilded plaster frame up to lean against the wall of the workshop.

‘I know, but I don’t want it cluttering up the garage.’

Eric wandered out to the alley, unobserved by Greg Jordan, now busy with a customer. ‘Where do you want them?’ he asked Kendall, as he carried the crate of spirit into the workshop.

‘Just leave them by the door,’ she said nonchalantly, bumping into the big trestle table covered with paints and pots.

‘You all right, Mrs Nathan?’ he asked.

‘I’m fine. We do any business today?’ she asked, trying to appear casual, and he said there had been just a few customers, but no sales.

‘Well, I might close up early,’ she said, then had to hold onto the ledge of the table as the room was spinning. ‘Got a headache, actually,’ she muttered, and he looked at her but said nothing. It was obvious she had been drinking.

‘You want me in the morning?’ he asked.

‘Of course. Maybe come in a bit early as I want to shift some of these paintings into the main space.’

‘I can do it now, if you want.’

‘No, tomorrow will be fine. I’m going out to dinner, so I won’t be here long. I’ll just lock up and then I’ll be leaving.’

‘Okay.’ He stared at her again: she was dragging some wooden frames from behind a screen.

‘You sure you don’t want me to stay an’ help out?’

‘No, just go. See you tomorrow.’

Eric hovered by the door, watching her stumble against a wall. He’d never seen her like this in the two years he’d worked there. ‘You sure you’re okay, Mrs Nathan?’

She turned on him angrily. ‘I’m fine. Now just go, go on, get out.’

‘On my way,’ he said, picking up his jacket. He didn’t give a shit either way — he’d never liked her or her hawk face. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he said, as the door shut after him.

Alone, Kendall did not move until she had heard the yard gates clang shut. Then she heaved more and more wooden frames into the centre of the room, laughing softly, knowing they would catch light fast.

Lorraine was clearing her desk, getting ready to leave for home, when the phone rang. She checked the time — five thirty. Decker buzzed her office. ‘Call for you, Mrs Page, line two. Lieutenant Gorgeous. Okay if I leave?’

‘Sure. See you tomorrow.’ She hesitated, then switched to line two. ‘Lorraine Page speaking.’

‘Hi... er, I was just wondering... I’m off duty early this evening, and it’s a... well, it’s a nice night, and I was wondering... if you were going for a walk. Or if you were busy I could take your dog out for you.’

She smiled. ‘I’m just leaving the office.’

‘Oh, well, another time.’

‘No, no, I meant that I’d go home, change, and I’d like... we could walk together.’

‘Oh, yes, fine.’

She gave him her home address again — just to make sure — and they arranged to meet at seven thirty. She couldn’t stop smiling. She had a date! Well, she and Tiger had one.

Usually, when she got home, Lorraine tore off her clothes, pulled on an old track suit and sneakers, then walked to the nearest park, ran for almost two miles and went home. Tonight she washed her hair, redid her make-up, and put on a pale blue track suit with a white T-shirt that she wore only for the gym on Saturdays — it was an expensive designer label, and she knew the colour suited her. Then she tidied the apartment, arranged some fresh flowers and sprayed air freshener, while Tiger padded after her, wondering what the hell was going on. He even dragged his lead from the hook by the door and sat there waiting, afraid that she would go out without walking him.

On the dot of seven thirty, she heard Burton’s car outside. She cast a quick glance round the room and tossed a magazine onto the sofa as the entry phone buzzed.

When she let Burton in, Tiger hurled himself, barking, at the door, and Lorraine grabbed his collar and yelled at him. ‘It’s okay, Tiger, stop it. Good boy... Tiger?

Burton wore an old pair of torn jeans, sneakers and a T-shirt, and concealed his shyness by making a fuss of Tiger. ‘Hello there... Who’s a good house-dog, then, eh? Hello, good boy, good boy.’

Tiger allowed Burton to ruffle his ears, then tried to squeeze between his legs to get out of the half-open door.

‘Wait!’ Lorraine yelled, but Burton grabbed his collar.

‘It’s all right, I’ve got him. He seems pretty eager to go.’

Lorraine agreed, saying that she had only just arrived home, and he was used to his routine. ‘I just throw on a track suit and we run.’

Burton looked at her, flushing. ‘Well, you look lovely, that colour suits you.’

‘Oh, thanks. I’ll get my keys.’

He clipped Tiger’s lead on, and went ahead of her down the stairs to the street. He hadn’t had a chance to notice how she had cleaned the apartment: all he had been looking at was her, and he liked what he saw — but, then, he had thought the same when he’d first met her.

They used her jeep to drive the short distance to Santa Monica beach. Burton drove, and Lorraine liked the way he asked if she’d like him to drive, not too pushy, easy and relaxed. She tossed him the car keys, and as he got in he pushed the seat back to accommodate the length of his legs. Tiger was stationed in the back seat, his head almost resting on Burton’s shoulder. She liked the way Jake had checked the gear shift and made sure he knew where everything was before they drove off. Out of his working clothes he looked younger, and she noticed he was well built, and had strong, tanned arms. He asked if she had any special route or if he should just take her the way he knew. She said she’d leave it to him, but started to direct him down the avenue anyway. He laughed, and didn’t seem to care that Tiger was drooling on his shoulder. When they stopped at lights he tilted his head to one side to run it against the big dog’s muzzle, and Tiger licked his face in reply.

He was relaxed, at ease, and as he drove, Lorraine was able to sneak glances at his profile. He was, as Decker had said, a very handsome man, and seemed even more so this evening than when she had first seen him. He was not exactly drop-dead gorgeous, but he had strong features: his nose was aquiline, and he had high cheekbones, and a deep cleft in his chin. His eyes were deep-set, and although she knew they could be cold and unfriendly, now they were teasing.

He knew she was scrutinizing him, but didn’t mind. He would have been a bit suspicious of someone who pushed their way into his life, and would have been sure, as he presumed she was, that the walk with the dog was just a pretext.

‘So, this was unexpected,’ she said.

‘Don’t you trust me? Do you think I have some ulterior motive?’

‘Possibly,’ she said lightly.

He half turned towards her, then back to concentrate on driving. ‘I used to have a dog, I told you. I like... taking walks, and I prefer some company, not all the time, but occasionally.’

Lorraine stared out of the window. It had been so long since she had had company, and not just for walking Tiger. ‘Yes, me too,’ she said softly.

Kendall arranged the frames, not obviously, but stacked at the side of a long trestle table, draped a length of muslin over them and soaked it in white spirit. She poured a trail of the liquid across the bare floorboards, which were splattered with paint and spirit spilt over a period of years. She brought more finished canvases out of their slats in the storage area, again not making an obvious bonfire but resting them against the walls, leaving space for air to circulate under them to feed the flames. She worked for almost an hour, sweating with the effort, and soaking rags from the bins in yet more spirit. Then she carried out more old canvases and laid them along the walls of the short passage between the workshop and the gallery, to encourage the fire to spread into the gallery itself. She was still drunk but so intent on what she was doing that she wasn’t aware of it.

At seven thirty she entered the gallery, turned on all the lights, and opened all the doors. She made four phone calls arranging for artists to meet her the next morning, opened her desk diary and entered the appointments, plus notes of possible sales — all to create the impression that she had no financial problems and had been planning normal business for the next day. She spread more papers and anything that would catch light quickly on the floor, and started to make her way back to the workshop. Half-way there, she crossed to the big gates to look out — then swore. Heading towards her was Greg.

‘Hi — that you, Kendall?’ he called, and she opened the gate. ‘You got any fresh coffee? It’s just that I’m stock-taking, and I’ve run out and can’t be bothered to go to the store.’

‘Sure, come on in. I’m working late myself — I’ve just got a new artist and I’m planning the show for him, so I’m moving things around to make space.’

She kept calm, walked into the little kitchen area in the warehouse with Greg, and passed him a half-used packet of coffee.

‘So, business is good, is it?’ he asked.

‘Yep, well, I hope it’ll be even better. I am always looking for new talent. You know — eye-catching stuff She smiled, wanting to get rid of him, but then realized he would make a good witness, and elaborated on her new deals, even gestured towards the warehouse. ‘You can see it’s kind of cluttered in here, so I’ve got plenty to keep me busy this evening.’

‘Well, I’ll leave you to it. Thanks for the coffee — I’ll repay you in kind tomorrow, okay?’

‘Oh, it’s on the house.’

He thanked her again. She smelt of alcohol, and he was sure she was tipsy. She didn’t offer him a drink, though, and he hadn’t really wanted the coffee — he’d wanted a chat with Eric, from whom he scored a variety of recreational chemicals.

Kendall watched him leave, and not until he was back inside his shop did she return to the warehouse.

The beach was almost deserted, and Lorraine and Burton had walked a fair distance. Tiger was having the time of his life running after sticks, chasing stray dogs, hurling backwards and forwards, and barking and diving around them.

‘He’s a great dog,’ Burton said, throwing a stick as far as he could.

‘I never thought I’d get so attached to him, but he kind of grows on you.’

They walked side by side, and then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, Burton caught her hand. The touch of his, warm and strong, made her heart pound, and she curled her fingers tightly around it, trying to calculate just how long it had been since someone, anyone, had taken her hand and walked with her the way they were walking now.

‘So, Mrs Page, do you want to start first, or shall I?’ he said casually.

‘Start with what?’

‘Well, I want to know about you... I want to know you.’

‘Ah, well, that might take more than a walk on the beach, Lieutenant Burton.’

‘But it’s a start,’ he said, and released her hand to pick up the stick Tiger had dropped at his feet. After he had thrown it again, he didn’t take her hand, but rested his arm loosely around her shoulders.

‘I’m forty-five years of age, and I’ve been married once, to my childhood sweetheart. I was nineteen and it lasted four years. I joined the army and she and I grew apart, she left me, and married another childhood friend — my best buddy, as a matter of fact, and they live very happily in Seattle, two kids...’

She loved his arm around her. ‘I’m thirty-eight, divorced, and my ex-husband lives not far from here with my two daughters. He’s married again to a very beautiful lady called Sissy. I don’t have any contact with my daughters because...’ She trailed off as Tiger arrived back, exhausted, with the gnarled stick. This time she picked it up and threw it, and he hurtled after it like a greyhound on the track after a mechanical hare. ‘He’ll sleep tonight,’ she said. She wanted Burton’s arm around her again.

‘You were a cop,’ he said, and slipped his arm around her again to draw her closer. ‘I pulled your report sheet.’

‘Yes, you told me,’ she said coldly.

‘I know I did. Do you mind?’

‘Why should I? It’s public knowledge.’

‘Not quite, but I wanted to know about you.’

‘Yes, well, there are some things that don’t make it into reports,’ she snapped.

‘Hey, I’m just being honest. Don’t get all uptight on me.’

‘I’m not uptight, but I’m amazed you still wanted to take a walk with me. Most men would have run a mile.’

‘Yeah, maybe, but everyone has a past — nobody’s perfect.’

She wanted to break away from him, but didn’t. She stopped walking. ‘Maybe, Lieutenant, but not everybody has a past quite as colourful as mine, or as seedy, or as dramatic or as—’

‘Sad?’ he suggested, gently.

She glared at him. ‘What is this? Yeah, I’ve had my problems, and I admit to them, but I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me. What do you want from me?’

‘I don’t want anything, or not the way you think. I wanted you to know that I knew, that’s all.’

‘So?’

‘It doesn’t bother me what the fuck you were, or whatever you did.’

‘Thank you, I’m grateful, but we are just walking my dog. I know what I did, I live with it. I know what I was and I live with that too. So take your pity and screw it.’

He grabbed hold of her. ‘What’s with you? Pity? You think I pity you? Jesus Christ, woman, I don’t pity you. I’m out of practice with these things. All I know is I wanted to see you so badly, from the first moment I set eyes on you. I wanted to be with you, so I pulled your file from records. I’m sorry — all I wanted you to know was that.’

Well, I want you to know that I’m not some charity case, and I’m not so desperate that I’d hide anything I’ve done. I killed a kid when I was drunk on duty. I was a drunk for eight years. Well, I’m sober now and I’m not prepared to be anyone’s lame duck. Thanks for the walk — you can get a cab ride back.’

She marched off down the beach, stopped and yelled for Tiger, but Burton was throwing a stick in the opposite direction. She turned and yelled again for the dog, but he was already galloping away.

Burton turned to face her. ‘Okay, that was your turn. You mind if I have mine now?’

‘What?’ she yelled back at him.

He strolled towards her, and said nothing until he was within a foot of her. ‘I said, it’s my turn now to fill in a few things about me.’

‘You think I want to know? ‘

He tilted his head to one side. ‘I sincerely hope so. Now where was I? Oh, yeah, forty-five, been married and divorced, joined the army at eighteen, educated by them, qualified as a lawyer and... of uniform, couldn’t make it out, so joined the cops. This of any interest at all?’

‘No... should it be?’

He came a fraction closer. ‘You free for dinner?’

‘No.’

‘Tomorrow?’ He reached out and drew her close to him.

‘No.’

‘I suppose a fuck is also out of the question?’

She turned away. ‘Very funny.’

He moved behind her and put his arms around her, pressing her close to him. ‘You sure?’

‘Don’t play games,’ she said quietly.

‘I’m not. I just don’t know what I should say that’ll make whatever I said before you told me to get a cab back okay. It’s a hell of a long way, and my car’s at your place.’

She turned in his arms, tried to break free from him, but he held her tightly. Her body was rigid, her face set, but he wouldn’t release her, and gradually she let her body relax against him.

She rested her head against his shoulder, loved the smell of him mixed with the sea air. He rubbed his chin against her fine, silky blonde hair. ‘You smell so good,’ he said, and she eased her face round, inch by inch until their lips met. His kiss was so sweet. Then he cupped her face in his hands. ‘I’ve wanted to do this...’

He never finished as they kissed passionately, and slowly sank to their knees. He pulled her down beside him, until they lay side by side, Lorraine caught in the crook of his arm, her body pressed against his. He moaned softly, and she nestled against him: there was no need for words, no need to know anything more about each other. Lorraine was filled with rushes of emotion and couldn’t talk.

Tiger bounded up and dropped the stick on Burton’s chest: keeping one arm around Lorraine, he picked it up with the other hand, and held it high for a moment before he threw it towards the sea.

‘You free for dinner, Mrs Page?’ he asked.

‘I guess so.’

He rolled over to lean on his elbow, looking down into her face. ‘Then let’s go eat.’

She traced his face with her hand. ‘Sounds good to me.’

He bent his head, and gave her another sweet kiss. She could feel that he was aroused, and her whole body ached — a fuck was not out of the question, not at all out of the question, but he was one guy she knew not to treat like a one-night stand. This man, Jake Burton, she knew she wanted more from, more than she had believed she would ever want again. She was falling in love, but had so little confidence in herself that she couldn’t accept that he was attracted to her, and just might want commitment from her too. It was too much to hope for, so she made herself play cool. ‘There’s a great Chinese near the apartment,’ she said huskily, not able to be quite as offhand as she would have liked.

‘I could handle that,’ he said, then sprang to his feet and whistled for Tiger, who was further down the beach where he appeared to be digging his way to Australia. Lorraine sat up, shading her eyes against the evening sun, to watch Jake bend forward as Tiger loped towards him and clip on the lead. She liked everything she saw, and it scared her.

Kendall was ready, everything was set. She struck the match and let it drop to her feet. She expected things to happen as she had seen in movies, a thin blue tongue of flame, spreading and building steadily before bursting into an inferno, and began to panic that it wasn’t catching. She didn’t want the smoke alarms to go off before the fire took hold, so she bent down, fanning it with her hands, but still only a single, pale blue flame spluttered weakly. She bent down further, and used the hem of her skirt to create a draught. The flame still seemed about to go out. She leaned even further forward, struck another match to throw towards the spirit-soaked rags she had stuffed into the trash can and padded around it.

‘Burn, you bastard, burn,’ she muttered. She hated Harry Nathan with such venom. She would beat the bastard at his own game by claiming the insurance money — she was going to be all right. Now she was leaning further towards the fire, flapping her skirt furiously, and then the flames suddenly shot upwards so fast that she stumbled backwards and fell on her side. Her skirt was alight, and she was trying frantically to beat out the flames. Next moment she screamed in terror — her hair was on fire, and she could smell it burning. No matter how much she shook her head, or hit it, it kept burning. Her hands were still covered in white spirit — they were burning too, and then she was engulfed in flames as the alarms began to scream their warning. The fire roared forwards, spreading fast now, moving in every direction, and surrounding Kendall. She turned this way and that, screaming in terror as the flames leaped higher and higher, and the thick, dense smoke burned her eyes, blinding her.

Greg heard the alarms ringing, and looked out of his shop window, to see smoke spiralling upwards across the street, from inside the Nathan gallery’s yard. He rang for the fire brigade and then took off across the alley as fast as he could, flung open the gates and burst into the yard as the fire erupted skyward, like a bomb, through the workshop roof. He could hear terrible screaming from inside, and ran to try to wrench open the workshop door, but was at first forced back by the billowing smoke. The horrific, high-pitched shrieks went on and on.

At last he got the door open, but smoke and flames obscured his vision as he shouted Kendall’s name.

Suddenly she seemed to launch herself towards him, her mouth wide in terror: she was burning alive, her clothes, hair, her entire body alight.

Greg dragged her into the yard, wrapping his coat over her head in an effort to suffocate the flames, then to the gate to get them both out of the reach of the fire. The flames were now shooting out of the workshop, spreading, as she had intended, towards the gallery itself.

She was curled up beneath his jacket, which covered her face and the top part of her body, but he could see the terrible burns to her legs. As he lifted away the coat from her, he felt a rush of hysteria — his coat was smouldering, on fire from her body, but the sight of her face made him catch his breath. Her hair was burned to the scalp, and her face was a gruesome mass of burned flesh and blisters. But she was alive, and her eyes pleaded with him. She was trying to say something, her fingers plucking at his arm. Greg didn’t know what to do: his panic made him scream for her, and once he had started screaming he couldn’t stop, his cries drowning her awful, low moans of agony. Behind them, the fire reached the main gallery and even though the sprinklers had come on automatically, nothing could hold it back.

Within minutes the fire engines and the ambulance had arrived. Greg watched, shaken and distraught, as the paramedics gently lifted Kendall onto the stretcher. He asked if she was alive and one of the men looked down at her and nodded. She was alive, but she had already inhaled so much smoke that he knew there was little hope of survival.

The gallery alarms were ringing, police and fire sirens wailing, and the sound of the plate-glass windows cracking and shattering made it impossible to hear what her last words were. Kendall died, painfully moving her burned lips and using the last breath in her smoke-filled lungs to whisper the word, ‘Bastard.’