Cold Heart

Chapter 16

Sonja was sitting quietly, looking out over the bay, the telephone still on her lap, when she heard a car draw up outside. Arthur, she thought, with a pang of conscience. She would have to apologize to him for the scenes of the night before. He did his best, but he only irritated her with his childish insistence that the world was really good and beautiful, that things could change. It was like talking to a six-year-old, she thought, and, anyway, it was pointless for anyone to talk to her when she got into a dark state. She was the only one who could deliver herself from it. But it was gone now, she had acted to discharge it: she would teach Vallance a lesson he would never forget. She felt as peaceful as the sheet of blue water in front of her, if a little tired...

To her surprise she heard someone knock loudly on the front door. Arthur must have forgotten his keys — it was possible, in view of the frame of mind in which he had left the house. Glancing out of the window on her way to the door, however, she saw not the jeep but a police car. Her limbs weakened and trembled and her throat constricted.

Outside was Officer Vern Muller, an old friend: she had known him since she moved to the Hamptons, seven years ago.

‘Mrs Nathan,’ he said, ‘I have some bad news for you, I’m afraid.’ His expression was grim. Oh, God, she thought, not Arthur... ‘Can I come in?’ Muller asked.

‘Certainly,’ she said, standing back to let the thick-set policeman walk past her into the hall. She followed him, her stomach turning over. Arthur, oh, Arthur, she cried silently, images of his lifeless, mangled body, mingling with those of Nathan’s dead body. Everything she touched she killed, she thought.

‘Do you want a drink?’ she said to the policeman as they reached the kitchen, wanting to put off the moment when he told her and a new phase of her life really had begun.

‘No — but maybe have one yourself,’ Muller said. He waited, saying nothing, while she poured herself out a measure of whisky and sat down.

‘Mrs Nathan, I have something to tell you which I didn’t want you to hear on the news,’ he began. ‘I just heard it myself from the station and I came right up. Raymond Vallance is dead. He shot himself in town. I know you were friends for many years.’

‘Vallance is dead?’ Sonja repeated.

She knew she sounded stupid and the police officer gave her a strange look.

‘Yes, Raymond Vallance. He was staying at the Maidstone Arms with some woman, and... they’re not exactly sure what happened. He just walked outside and shot himself.’

Relief raced through Sonja like a rip-tide: she felt giddy with happiness and had to fight to keep it from blossoming in her face.

‘When was this?’ she managed to ask, a second realization dawning, hard on the heels of the first.

‘Just minutes ago. I heard it as I was driving past the gate and I thought I’d turn in.’

God, she thought. When she had called Vallance to tell him that, if he was so keen on reliving old times, he should be delighted to hear that she intended releasing the real record of those old times — Harry Nathan’s videotapes — to the press, she had not anticipated what he would do. Had he killed himself out of shame at the prospect of his own humiliation being made public, or of Harry Nathan being seen at last for what he was? She would not have been surprised if it was the latter, and it gave her a certain, almost aesthetic, pleasure to think that the sick hero-worship that had dominated Vallance’s life had finally killed him.

‘You’re sure you don’t want a drink?’ she said. She didn’t feel a flicker of remorse at Vallance’s death but she did her best to seem saddened and shaken by what Muller had just told her. He detected, though, that the news was less of a blow to her than he had thought it would be.

Well,’ he said, ‘perhaps just a small one.’

The whole thing was perfect, Sonja thought, as she got out a glass for him. She knew that both Arthur, and possibly Lorraine Page, might suspect that she had had something to do with Vallance’s death — and she had a perfect alibi, a large, solid, unimpeachable policeman sitting right here in her kitchen within minutes of it.

‘He was more my ex-husband’s friend than mine,’ Sonja said — she needed to offer some explanation for her lack of distress at Vallance’s death. ‘I hadn’t seen him since my divorce.’

‘Yeah, I was sorry to hear about... your ex-husband.’ Muller took the glass, looking at her, Sonja thought, just a touch too intently. Surely he could not connect her with a murder on the other side of the country. ‘It was all over the papers and everything. I guess Vallance will be too — he was a pretty big star at one time.’

‘At one time,’ Sonja repeated. ‘Poor Raymond, he hadn’t worked in anything you could take seriously for years.’

‘The boys are wondering whether that might have been why he shot himself — he’d been bragging all over the hotel that he had some big movie or something coming up, and apparently he got some call or other while he was eating, got up to take it, then walked out back and... Goodbye, cruel world.’

‘He must have lost the deal, I imagine,’ Sonja said, lying effortlessly, a skill she was not proud of but had had all her life.

‘You can’t think of anyone around here could have called him?’ Muller asked.

‘I’m sorry,’ Sonja said, ‘I can’t help you. I haven’t had any contact with that whole world in years.’

‘Well,’ Muller said, draining his glass, ‘I’d better not keep you.’

‘I’m sorry if I seemed a little... strange when you came in,’ Sonja said with a charming smile. ‘It’s just that Arthur and I had a slight disagreement last night and I just got the idea that something might have happened to him.’

‘Arthur!’ the officer said, with a laugh. ‘He’s asleep in the jeep a mile up the road. I drove past him, but I didn’t have the heart to wake him up.’

The hotel was full of a mixture of shock and excitement, as people sat at tables or in the bar, discussing Raymond Vallance’s career as though they had known him, waiting for the press to arrive and, Lorraine thought, secretly as thrilled as children to be caught up in events that would make news. The East Hampton Star had already sent a reporter, and people were talking eagerly to him. Police officers were interviewing staff in one of the conference rooms, and Reception was presently unattended. It was the manager himself who appeared and signalled to Lorraine as she stood at the door of the bar. ‘Mrs Page, there’s a call for you.’ Lorraine was surprised, and followed him to the desk. ‘You can take it here if you like. I almost said you’d checked out, but then I saw you.’

‘Thank you.’ She took the phone, and he backed away politely, leaving her alone. ‘Lorraine Page,’ she said into the receiver.

‘Feinstein here.’ Her heart sank. ‘I got your messages,’ he continued. ‘You know I tried to call you earlier?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I’ve located three passports — we’ve sent copies to your office. The brother’s a bit of a fruitcake, so I’ve put in a call to Abigail Nathan, the mother, and she’ll be calling me back. Now, about this other thing, if you get any information about missing funds or the paintings themselves, by all means agree to some payment, but discuss it with me first. Any further developments?’ he demanded.

Lorraine held the phone cupped to her shoulder, as she sat on the edge of the desk and took out her cigarettes. ‘Yes, Raymond Vallance showed up here, then shot himself.’

‘Good God, not at Sonja’s?’ Feinstein said, stunned.

‘No, in the car park of this hotel.’

‘I can’t say I’m sorry — I never liked the man.’ Feinstein was silent for a moment, then asked if Lorraine had seen Sonja. She said she had.

‘How is she?’ the lawyer asked.

Lorraine drew an ashtray across the desk. ‘Weird. On the edge.’

‘Well, she made it to the finishing tape at least. She’s got the estate in her pocket now. Did you talk to her about the paintings?’

‘She says she doesn’t know anything about them. I don’t think she gives much of a damn about the whole thing — it’s her money missing as much as yours, but she just doesn’t seem to care.’

‘Yeah, well, if she doesn’t, I do. Haven’t you come up with anything else?’ Feinstein pressed.

‘Well, there’s one other thing you might check out — the accounts of the film studio, in case that soaked the money up.’

‘Jesus Christ, don’t mention them. I’ve never seen anything like it. The company wasn’t really my department — I handled Harry’s personal affairs — but there was a corporate accountant, total fucking crook,’ Feinstein said loftily, as though his own integrity was beyond question. ‘Plus a show-business lawyer that Nathan used sometimes. We’ve got an auditor in. It’s a mess, but I’ll look into it. Did Sonja tip you off to this other movie scenario?’

‘No, the guy she lives with suggested it.’

‘You don’t think the two of them are covering their own tracks?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Lorraine thoughtfully. ‘I just don’t know.’

‘How long are you planning on staying out there?’ Feinstein asked, in the-meter’s-running fashion.

‘I’m coming back tonight,’ Lorraine said, hoping that would make him happy, and thinking again of Jake. ‘I just think this Vallance thing’s suspicious. Everyone connected to Harry Nathan seems to drop dead. I thought I might just call Sonja again.’

‘Well, quit thinking and fucking do it,’ Feinstein said. ‘I’ve got to go.’

When Arthur returned to the house there was no sign of Sonja. His head ached as the hangover kicked in. He felt tired and disoriented, and had woken in a panic, full of the compulsion to rush back to Sonja’s side, make sure she was still there, still okay. Things couldn’t go on this way, he thought. Either there had to be more to their relationship than this babysitting, as she called it, or it would have to end.

Both kitchen and sitting room were empty, though he noticed that the videos had vanished.

‘Sonja?’ he called, as he walked upstairs.

Her voice floated back. ‘I’m in the bath.’ That was odd, he thought. She didn’t normally bathe during the day, but then, last night had hardly been a normal night.

‘May I come in?’ he said. The atmosphere was warm and fragrant with the citrus scent of one of Sonja’s bath essences. He could tell, even before he looked at her, that her mood had lifted. She lay in the pale green water, her long limbs floating, her hair, face and neck all smothered in a layer of some rich turquoise treatment cream. She looked wonderful, he thought, like some richly decorated Egyptian idol.

She smiled at him. ‘I’m sorry about last night.’ Her eyes were more cat-like than ever, heavy with an expression of deep contentment. God, he thought, she didn’t need him: she had positively restored herself in his absence, seemed happier than she had in weeks. ‘Where did you go?’ she said.

‘Into town. I met Mrs Page. She kind of sobered me up. She’s leaving this afternoon.’

Sonja disappeared under the water for a moment, then sat up and began to rinse the blue cream from her hair and skin. ‘I hope you didn’t say too much to her.’

‘No more than you did yesterday, I think,’ Arthur said, with a touch of irritation.

‘Oh, Arthur, let’s not start again,’ she said, standing up in the bath to squeeze the water out of her hair. ‘She has no idea that she and I’ve ever met before.’ She swathed herself in a thick white towel and walked into the bedroom. There was some part of Sonja that he could not reach. He had no idea why one day she would be energetic and warm, the next cold and inert. Certainly he had no idea what was responsible for this sunniness, but he decided to postpone the conversation he had meant to have with her about Nathan. How many times had he decided that? he thought wryly.

The phone rang, and Sonja pulled a face, so Arthur crossed the room and picked it up.

‘I’m not in,’ she said, selected a comb and headed back to the bathroom.

‘Speaking. Who is this?’ Arthur said, gesturing to Sonja to stay in the room. ‘Ah, you didn’t catch the bus then... She’s in the bath — do you want me to pass on a message?’ Sonja tucked the towel more tightly around herself. ‘I’m all ears.’ He sat on the bed, then stood bolt upright. ‘What?’ Sonja moved closer, but Arthur’s attention was focused on the call. ‘My God, I can’t believe it.’ He listened for quite a while, then thanked Lorraine for calling, and replaced the phone.

‘Raymond Vallance shot himself. He’s dead.’ He turned to face her. ‘Did you hear what I said?’

Sonja started to comb her hair. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I know. Vern Muller stopped by earlier and told me.’

‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘I was going to but you started in on me so quickly about talking to Mrs Page. Is that why she’s still here? Vallance, I mean.’

‘I dunno, I suppose so. I think she wanted to speak to you, but she didn’t push it.’

Well,’ Sonja said, ‘she’s not the police. She has no power to make anybody answer questions.’ That seemed an odd thing to say, Arthur thought, almost as though Sonja were hiding something... He rubbed his head, which was throbbing.

Sonja knelt on the bed close behind him and ran her arms around him, her skin still damp from the bath. ‘Does your head hurt?’ Her voice was gentle, almost seductive.

‘Yes.’

Sonja kissed his neck, then rolled off the bed. ‘I’ll get you some aspirin.’

He tried to catch her arm, but missed. ‘Vallance didn’t come out here, did he?’ he called after her. She was halfway out of the room and, again, he had the impression that she was avoiding any discussion of Vallance’s death.

‘No,’ she said, over her shoulder.

Arthur got up and followed her out of the door. ‘Sonja,’ he said, ‘stop a minute.’

‘Arthur, I’m soaking wet. I’ll just get this and come right back.’

‘Sonja, were you here all morning?’

‘Of course I was,’ she said, looking him full in the eye. Arthur said nothing. ‘You can ask Muller,’ Sonja continued. ‘He was here within five minutes of Vallance’s death. He called to tell me personally.’

‘Sonja,’ Arthur said, ‘Mrs Page said something about Vallance getting some call at the dining table in the Maidstone Arms, just before he died. I don’t suppose he called here, did he?’

He could see her hesitate between a lie and the truth.

‘Well, yes, he did, but I wouldn’t speak to him.’

‘What did he say?’

Sonja shrugged. ‘Just that he wanted to see me, said he wanted to talk about old times.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes,’ Sonja said, her eyes flashing. ‘That’s all. Now stop the investigation, Sherlock. I’ll go and put some coffee on and if your head still aches...’

‘Yeah, aspirin urgently required.’ He leaned back across the bed, feeling almost sick with the pain. Raymond Vallance was dead: he still couldn’t believe it — he’d seen the man only that morning. The news shocked him, and he had hardly known Vallance — but Sonja had hardly reacted at all and she had known him for years. He sat up, with a sense of foreboding: what if she had called Vallance? What could she have said that would have made him shoot himself?

Lorraine hung up and eased out from behind the desk. She glanced quickly round the reception area, and could see the manager deep in conversation with the journalist. Shielding with her body what she was doing, she began to flick through the accounts, looking for Vallance’s name, noting that all outgoing calls appeared on the bills. She leaned closer to turn over the pages, but there was nothing under the name Vallance. Lorraine straightened up and was about to go when a computer screen caught her eye. She walked over to it. The cursor was blinking on account ledgers. She entered her own name, and her check-out time, outgoing phone calls and other items on her bill came up on room 5. She moved to room 6, and saw that it had been booked, not in Vallance’s name but in that of Margaretta Forwood. The date of arrival and an intended length of stay of two days had been entered, but a cancellation typed in subsequently, with the booking fee, luncheon, wine and phone calls in a column opposite. There were four calls to LA, one to Chicago, and two local numbers, one of which she recognized immediately. Sonja Nathan’s.

She heard footsteps behind her, and turned, reaching for her cigarette pack from the desk. ‘Thank you so much, Mr Fischer,’ she said, glancing at his name-badge. ‘I’m sorry to leave my bags for so long and if it’s inconvenient I’ll...’

‘Not at all. Do you know how long you’ll be here, just in case anyone else should call for you?’

Lorraine said that she was now intending to take the six o’clock bus into New York.

‘I hope you enjoyed your stay with us.’

‘I did, very much. It’s been a pretty terrible day for you, though, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes, dreadful. It’s tragic, just terrible.’

‘How is his companion?’ Lorraine asked, assuming a look of sincere concern.

The man sucked in his breath. ‘Well, the poor woman is distraught — he didn’t leave a note. They had just decided not to stay over. Mrs Forwood had gone to the bar and their cases were being brought down. Mr Vallance walked past me, and I think he smiled — I know I acknowledged him, because I recall seeing him coming down the stairs. He didn’t appear to be in a hurry, very casual, and he left the hotel.’

‘How long after that was the body found?’

He blinked rapidly. ‘I can’t be too sure, not long. Mrs Forwood was just leaving, and next minute we heard this screaming.’

‘You didn’t hear any gunshot?’

‘No, nothing. Everything’s pretty confused — the shock, I suppose — but I ran out to the car park. She was hysterical, couldn’t speak, just screamed and screamed, and then I saw him. The gun was in his hand, but he was sitting upright.’

He was interrupted by the telephone and excused himself to take the call. Lorraine waited, but another phone rang, and then another, lights blinking on the board. She walked out, hearing him refuse to comment on the day’s events.

Lorraine made her way into the bar. The crowd had thinned, and a stool was vacant at the far side. She ordered a Coke and lit another cigarette, discreetly eavesdropping on conversations which all centred on the suicide of Raymond Vallance.

Carina, the pretty blonde, now came on duty. She no longer seemed upset, if anything rather enjoying the notoriety of having served Vallance and his lady-friend their luncheon. ‘He was so charming. I was asking for an autograph for my mother — she had been such a fan of his — and he was so obliging.’ Lorraine stubbed out her cigarette, unable to repress a small smile: poor Vallance — the last thing he would have wanted to hear from an attractive young girl was that she wanted an autograph for her mother. The girl went on, ‘They’d finished eating and were just having a Madeira when he left the table and said he had to call his agent. He was here for a big movie — that’s what he told us, wasn’t it?’ The barman nodded, polishing a champagne flute. ‘It was going to be shot here, that’s what he said.’

‘Well, he certainly got shot,’ said a man with bushy eyebrows, and there were a few guffaws, but even more murmurs of disapproval at the joke, and he apologized. Lorraine wished he would be quiet, as she was trying to hear the rest of what Carina had to say, but the girl was called out into Reception.

Lorraine followed and saw her go into the office. The phone was ringing constantly and the manager was clearly at his wit’s end. He covered the receiver and told Carina to get someone to help him. Carina nodded, and turned back, almost bumping into Lorraine.

‘Are you all right?’ Lorraine asked, with a show of concern. ‘It must have been dreadful for you. You found him, didn’t you?’

The girl was clearly happy to talk. ‘No, I didn’t, but I served him lunch.’

Lorraine waited while she was told the entire story about how Carina had asked for his autograph for her mother. ‘Did he have any calls?’

‘Yes. He got up from the table either to go and call someone, or I think there was a call for him.’ She sighed, and tears welled up in her wide blue eyes.

Lorraine gave a brittle smile. ‘But at least your mother has his autograph, and it’ll be of considerable interest now — the last one he ever gave!’

Carina blinked, aware of the sarcasm, then hurried into the bar.

Lorraine decided to screw subtlety, and went into the manager’s office. ‘Sorry to bother you again.’

Fischer looked up, one phone in his hand, a second off the hook in front of him. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Page, but I really am very busy. If you need—’

She interrupted, ‘I do need something — I want to know who called Mr Vallance. If you don’t have the name, then I would like to see the number.’

He gaped, then flushed. ‘I’m sorry, that’s private information.’

‘I know, and I’m a private investigator.’ She took out her wallet, and showed her ID.

‘I’m sorry, but I’ve been instructed by the police not to divulge any information or discuss the incident with anyone.’ Lorraine took out her wallet, and the man stood up, flushing a still deeper pink. ‘Please don’t even consider offering me money.’

She slipped her wallet back into her purse. Since the direct approach hadn’t worked, she tried another. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m conducting an investigation into the murder of Harry Nathan. Raymond Vallance was his closest friend. I have to report back to LA this evening, and until I have the coroner’s report, I have to consider the possibility that Mr Vallance was also murdered.’

The manager’s flush drained, leaving his face chalk white.

‘I don’t want anyone to know what I’m investigating. I have full co-operation from the East Hampton police, and I’m sure you will assist me.’

He opened a drawer and took out a sheet of computer printout.

He looked down at Mrs Forwood’s account, and said that some local calls had been made when Mr Vallance arrived and some to Los Angeles during the early part of the morning. The last call, though, had been on Vallance’s mobile, and the hotel had no way of knowing who or where it came from.

‘So, Mr Vallance left the dining room because a call came through?’

‘Yes, on the mobile. We don’t allow them in the dining room so he had checked it at the desk. He was speaking to someone on the phone when he went upstairs to his room.’ Lorraine watched while the man went to the computer, and typed the commands for a printout of the Forwood account.

‘Has Mrs Forwood left?’ Lorraine asked, as the machine printed.

Fischer turned back to her, folding the sheet. ‘Yes, she ordered a helicopter to take her to New York. We’re arranging for her car to be returned, after the police get through with it.’

‘Did they also remove Mr Vallance’s luggage? You said you were arranging to take it to the car, so it wasn’t in the car already?’

His mouth opened a fraction, and he frowned. ‘Well, it must be still here, unless...’ He walked across the room to a large double-doored cupboard, opened it and looked inside. ‘It’s still here.’

He took out an old-fashioned pigskin case and matching briefcase. ‘I’d better contact the police. I think the confusion may have been caused by Mrs Forwood because she took hers with her.’

‘Could I see it?’ Lorraine asked, stepping forward. Fischer tried to open the case, but it was locked. He set it down and took the briefcase to his desk: Lorraine saw that it fastened with a zipper, had flat, beaten metal handles and two outside pockets — in one of which was a mobile telephone.

‘Could I see that?’ She already had her hand out. The manager hesitated, then passed her the phone. She pressed the green power button, then Recall. The telephone bleeped, and Lorraine began to scroll through the digits logged in the memory.

‘Should you be doing that?’ Fischer asked nervously.

‘It’s all right, I’m not using it to make a call, just checking something.’

She took out her notebook and jotted down number after number — none she recognized — then tried to bring up the last number dialled, but got a blank screen and a bleep. She noted the make and serial number of the phone, then turned it off. ‘Thank you.’ She handed it back, and the man put it back where he had taken it from.

‘Perhaps there’s a note inside the briefcase,’ he said.

He was now very uneasy, but Lorraine moved quickly to unzip the case. Like the locked suitcase, the briefcase was old and worn, but had been expensive. It opened into two halves and Vallance’s name had been monogrammed on one corner. The compartments on one side contained writing paper and envelopes, some letters held together with a rubber band, a paperback novel, a manicure set, some hotel toiletries, and a Cartier pen. On the other side were three scripts, some flattering publicity photographs of Vallance, some postcards of India and, tucked deep inside, a worn manilla envelope.

Lorraine removed the old movie stills, and another photograph of Harry Nathan and Vallance together, arms around one another, smiling into the camera. A third person had been crudely cut out of the photo, but Lorraine could see the edge of a woman’s dress and a picture hat: he had been unable to cut the section off completely because the woman’s arm was resting on Nathan’s shoulder. Lorraine recognized the strong hand and close-trimmed nails as Sonja Nathan’s.

There was another larger, plain envelope, and Lorraine opened it to reveal several sheets of expensive, flimsy paper in a feminine pink, which she recognized at once. Her pulse speeded up as she took them out and unfolded them carefully. The bottom of the first sheet of paper was missing — it had been cut in two after the words ‘Dear Raymond’ and the date, some six months previously, scrawled in ink in Cindy Nathan’s childish script. Lorraine flipped open the manicure set, knowing what she would find: a small pair of round-tipped scissors, the blades less than an inch long, with which Vallance had cut one of the desperate letters in half to fake a suicide note.

Poor Cindy, Lorraine thought. Her hunch had been right. The girl hadn’t committed suicide: the last of the parade of men who had entered her life, first to desire, then to abuse her, had destroyed her. Not that it mattered now: there could be no doubt as to Vallance’s guilt, and now he was dead himself. That he had murdered Cindy made it more likely that he had killed Harry Nathan too. Perhaps she had the solution to the Nathan case right there in her hands, and she could leave the affair now with a clear conscience, do her best to find Feinstein’s art, and go back to her own life.

But why had Vallance killed Cindy? Lorraine thought back to the morning he had come to her office, the night after Cindy died, with a wafer-thin veneer of normality concealing a state of considerable emotional turmoil. He had talked compulsively about Nathan and the past and, as she replayed the conversation in her mind, virtually the first words out of his mouth had been hatred and condemnation of the women around Nathan. He had raved about how they had cheapened and damaged his idol, and how he believed Cindy had been responsible for her husband’s death, though she would never have been convicted of his murder. The motive that seemed most likely was a desire on Vallance’s part to exact vengeance for Nathan on the woman who killed him, which made it most unlikely that Vallance had shot Nathan himself, unless he had completely lost his mind. But having spoken to him shortly before his death, Lorraine knew that that wasn’t so. So who had killed Nathan? Would Kendall have killed him to prevent the porn tapes becoming public? Or could it somehow have been Sonja? Lorraine found it hard to believe that it was pure coincidence that Vallance shot himself in the Hamptons, within a few miles of Sonja Nathan’s house, shortly after calling her...

Lorraine replaced everything as she had found it, and zipped up the case. She wanted to get out and was already planning a diversion to Santa Fe. She said to the manager, ‘Don’t let me prevent you any longer from attending to business, and thank you very much for your help. I’d pass these on to the police.’ Then she hurried out to avoid any further conversation. She had found nothing relating to paintings or secret bank accounts, and no reason why Vallance had shot himself.

Lorraine sat down at a vacant table in the sun lounge and ordered a Coke and a prosciutto sandwich. She looked over the list of phone numbers she had taken down from Vallance’s mobile, then circled one. She was sure the code was for Santa Fe. She was so immersed in her own thoughts that she jumped when Fischer slid down beside her, and told her in conspiratorial tones that the police were sending someone to collect Mr Vallance’s luggage. She felt the man’s breath on her face as he whispered that he had not mentioned that she had opened it.

‘Good, and perhaps you’d better not mention that I was asking questions either — you know, there’s always competition between the police in different counties.’

‘Oh... well, yes, if you say so.’

‘Is this a Santa Fe code?’ she asked, repeating the number.

‘I believe so, but I can check it out for you.’

‘You could go one better and call the number for me. I’d like to know who it’s registered to.’ She gave him a cool smile, and he glided away. Lorraine finished her Coke and sandwich, then walked out to Reception to collect her luggage.

A uniformed police officer was standing at the desk talking to Carina, who was handing over Vallance’s cases, and Lorraine made out the same words that had been on everyone’s lips all day — terrible, tragedy, unexpected — and Sonja Nathan’s name.

‘Of course, she’d known him more than twenty years,’ she heard the officer say. ‘She looked like she’d seen a ghost when I gave her the news.’

‘Excuse me,’ Lorraine said, glancing around quickly to make sure that Fischer was not nearby — she did not want him to see her talking to the officer and deduce that she was not, as she had said, working in association with the local police. ‘Did you say you had to break the news of Raymond Vallance’s death to Mrs Nathan?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Muller said, viewing her with interest.

‘I know Mrs Nathan, I visited with her yesterday, and I wondered if perhaps I should call her. Was she very distressed?’ Lorraine said, concern in her voice.

‘Well, she was shaken,’ Muller said. ‘I knew she would be.’

‘That’s the difference between a city like LA and a place like this,’ Lorraine gushed, trying to get him to say more. ‘There’s no way a city police department would ever have time to go and break the news of a friend’s death personally to someone.’

Well,’ Muller said, ‘it isn’t usually part of the service here either. It’s just that I was driving right past her gates when I got the news.’

‘Goodness, how awful,’ Lorraine went on, hoping he would not guess that she was fishing. ‘So you had to tell her just a few minutes after he died?’

‘Just about,’ Muller said, eyeing Lorraine closely. ‘You a friend of hers?’

‘Not a close friend,’ Lorraine said, keen now not to talk to him for too long. ‘I know some connections of hers in Los Angeles and, since I was in the area, I gave her a call. I’m leaving now, actually — I’m just waiting to pick up my bags.’

She caught sight of Fischer coming towards her from the other side of the lobby with her case, and moved off to intercept him before he reached the desk. She gave Muller a final sweet smile, which she hoped convinced him that she was just an innocent visitor.

‘The number — I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you quicker, but the phones are still going crazy. It was Santa Fe, and the subscriber is Mr Nicholas Nathan.’

‘Thank you for your help,’ she said. And despite his previous strictures, she slipped a hundred-dollar bill into his hand. He watched her leave, then turned to Vern Muller who had joined him.

‘Who is that lady?’ Muller asked him curiously.

‘Mrs Page?’ Fischer replied. ‘She’s a private investigator working on the Harry Nathan murder inquiry. She said she was working with the police in LA and had full co-operation from you.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ the officer said. ‘If she has, it’s the first I’ve heard of it. She looks more like a newspaper reporter to me.’

‘Well, she’s gone now, whoever she is,’ Fischer said. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

Sonja tucked the comforter round Arthur: he was fast asleep and snoring. Sometimes he looked like a scruffy kid, and she felt such a touching warmth towards him. He took such care of her, and she loved him for it, had not realized how much until today. She moved quietly around the room, then went to a closet to select the clothes she wanted to pack and get out her case. She heard a car drawing up in the driveway and went into the other bedroom to look out to the front of the house. Vern Muller had sweat stains under the armpits of his blue uniform shirt, and was hitching up his navy police-issue trousers over his paunch. He tossed his hat into the rear seat, then looked at the house. Sonja saw him stop to admire her beloved garden before he set off up the path. She went downstairs and had the door open before he could wake Arthur by knocking or ringing the bell. ‘Hi, Mrs Nathan. Sorry to bother you again,’ he said, walking up the steps.

‘Not at all, Vern,’ Sonja said. ‘Come on in.’

‘I won’t, Mrs Nathan, if you don’t mind,’ the police officer went on. ‘I just stopped by to ask you if you know a lady named Lorraine Page.’

‘Well, yes, I do,’ Sonja said carefully. ‘She called out here yesterday. She’s a PI working for my late husband’s lawyer in connection with the estate.’

‘That’s the story she told Fischer in the hotel, but when I spoke to her she said she was just a friend,’ Muller went on. ‘She told him and me another couple of things that weren’t true, and she seemed pretty interested in this stuff about Raymond Vallance too — asked me if you were shocked and so on.’ Sonja kept her face impassive. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me if she was some journalist come out here to dig dirt, or if you saw your name plastered with his across the papers,’ the police officer concluded.

If that was all Lorraine was interested in, that was fine, Sonja thought privately. ‘Thanks for warning me, Vern,’ Sonja said. ‘I’ll be careful what I say to her if she calls again.’

‘Something about that lady makes me think she’s looking to cause trouble for you,’ Muller said. ‘Take care now.’

‘You too, Vern,’ Sonja said, and closed the door. She leaned back against it for a moment. Upstairs Arthur lay sleeping. For the first time she had begun to believe that things were changing, that the dead hand of the past was losing its grip on her and a new life waiting to begin. There was only one person who could possibly stand in her way now — and that person was Lorraine Page.

Lorraine stared out of the window. There had been an accident, and the traffic tailed back for miles on both sides. They had been stationary for fifteen minutes, and the driver had got out to try to see what was going on. ‘Nothing anyone can do,’ he said, climbing back up. ‘They’re waiting for the recovery truck with a crane to drag two cars off the road, and there’s a third overturned. Sorry, ladies and gentlemen.’

A collective moan went up, and Lorraine swore — she had been cutting it fine anyway, and now she doubted that she would catch the plane. The frustrating thing was that all she could do was sit and wait. She had been unable to concentrate on the book she’d bought, about art fraud through the centuries, so she opened her notebook. There were a few leads she could take further, but she was really no closer to finding either the missing money or the paintings than when she had first arrived.

She turned to a clean page. What if Nathan had poured the money from the sale of the paintings back into his films? If that was the case, then there must be some record, but the investigation was cold. What if Nathan’s brother had worked the fakes scam? He was family, would have got a slice of the money, and might even know where Harry had stashed it. She had to see him.

The bus jolted, advanced a few hundred yards, Lorraine stared out of the window. One of the vehicles going in the opposite direction was a cream Rolls-Royce, which brought Raymond Vallance to her mind.

What had made him kill himself? She turned to a fresh page in her notebook. Harry Nathan — dead, shot. Cindy Nathan — dead, probably murdered by Vallance. Kendall Nathan — dead, accidental fire? Raymond Vallance — dead, suicide. Lorraine tapped her teeth with the pen. Was it all a bit coincidental? Could Sonja have threatened him with the videotapes? What if there was no coincidence, but intent? She grimaced.

The bus moved forward another hundred yards before it stopped again, but Lorraine wasn’t counting the minutes until her flight to LA. She had made up her mind that Santa Fe was her next destination.