Cold Heart

Chapter 18

Lorraine returned to the motel, her head aching. She called Feinstein and told him that she was beginning to find leads, and asked if her expenses could run to another trip, this time to visit Nathan’s mother.

‘Christ, she’s in Chicago,’ he demurred.

‘I know, but it might tie up some loose ends.’

‘Go ahead, then,’ he said, and gave her Abigail Nathan’s address and phone number.

Lorraine called Rosie to say she would not be coming home that afternoon, but would try for the following morning. Rosie agreed to keep Tiger for another night, and Lorraine heard Rooney in the background asking to speak to her.

‘Lorraine,’ he said, ‘I’ve stopped by the office a couple of times and there’s someone calling you all the time.’

‘Well,’ Lorraine said, ‘if they’re looking for my professional services you can tell them I’m about to retire.’

‘It’s not that,’ Rooney said. ‘Whoever it is hangs up the whole time — no message. Rosie and I thought it might be Jake, but you’ve spoken to him, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, I have. He’s too busy for that kind of thing, anyway,’ Lorraine said.

‘That’s what I thought. There’s so many calls it’s like someone’s doing it deliberately, to make you realize someone’s trying to get to you — it’s like they think you must know who it is. I was just wondering if you’ve trodden on someone’s tail.’

‘Well, that’s a possibility,’ Lorraine said thoughtfully. ‘How long has this been going on?’

‘A few days,’ Bill said.

That meant it could hardly be anything to do with Nick Nathan, which left only Sonja and Arthur, Lorraine thought, but said nothing to Rooney.

‘Is there anything I can do from this end?’ he asked.

‘There is, Bill. In my office there are two plastic bags. They’ve got a lot of catalogues from art galleries, with notes from Decker. Can you go through them and find out about a painting by Julian Schnabel? It would have been in the Nathan gallery about four years ago. It’s not on my list, but see if there’s any record of it, and I’ll call you from Chicago.’

‘Okay, will do... and you look after yourself.’

She caught Burton at the station, and once she heard his voice she wondered what the hell she was doing planning yet another detour.

‘So,’ he said, ‘I get three guesses, right? You’re coming home late, you’re coming home late, or you’re coming home late?’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I did say it might be tomorrow.’

‘I know you did,’ he said, easily. ‘I bought you an extra-specially non-perishable present.’

‘I bought you one too,’ she said. A timeless work of art by Nick Nathan.’

‘Mine’s pretty timeless too,’ he said, and something in this voice told her immediately what it was.

‘Oh,’ she said softly. ‘Do I get three guesses?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to spoil the surprise. Just get your ass back here fast.’

‘Will do,’ Lorraine said. ‘I swear I’ll see you tomorrow even if I pass all of Feinstein’s paintings at a garage sale on the way to the airport.’

‘If that happens,’ he said, with a deep laugh, ‘you can miss the plane. Otherwise, see you then.’

She was about to hang up when she remembered what Rooney had said about the messages left at the office. ‘Just one thing,’ she said. ‘You haven’t been calling my answerphone at the office for any reason? Rooney says there’ve been some weird calls.’

He laughed again. ‘I’m flattered I’m the first person you thought of but, much as I miss you, the answer is no.’

After they hung up, she had another fifteen minutes of considerably less cordial conversation with an irate agent at the airline before she succeeded in rearranging her flight, but she was en route to Chicago by late afternoon.

Sonja and Arthur waited for their luggage in the terminal at Tegel, the airport at Berlin, having already enlisted the services of a porter with a trolley. They had arranged for a car to pick them up outside. Sonja got in and leaned back, closing her eyes. ‘God, I feel nervous, now that we’re actually here. I kept thinking someone was going to challenge us when we went through customs.’

‘Why would they? The paintings are at the gallery now.’ He took her hand and squeezed it. ‘We’re here, and the paintings are here, it’s nearly over. Just stay calm. We’ve already got over the most difficult part.’

‘Yes, but you’ve still got to do the deal.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Arthur said. ‘The buyers are lined up and waiting and they’ll eat right out of my hand.’

Lorraine booked into the Chicago Hyatt, where the room was pleasant and well-furnished, and called Abigail Nathan at once. Her voice sounded young, and when Lorraine explained that she was working for Mr Feinstein in connection with her son’s estate, she immediately said she was free that evening or Lorraine could call the following morning. It was already after ten and Lorraine asked if she could come at nine the next day.

She planned an early night to be refreshed and ready for Mrs Nathan, so she showered, booked an alarm call for six and went straight to bed.

Rooney let himself into Lorraine’s office and crossed to check the answerphone: the light was flashing, and the new message indicator was displaying the figure twenty-two. He replayed the messages to discover that only one was legitimate, from Feinstein. On the remainder the phone had been put down. The caller’s attempts to alarm Lorraine had, however, intensified, and there were ominous silences, sometimes heavy breathing, and, on the last, what sounded like six blasts of gunfire. This was clearly intended as a threat, and Rooney was certain that the caller believed their identity was known to Lorraine.

He picked up the plastic bags he had come to collect, turned off the lights and left the building.

Back home, Rosie was cooking up a storm, trying out a new recipe for pork tenderloin with a complicated pink sauce, and was red-faced and flustered. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done with this sauce — I put enough cornstarch in it to hang wallpaper, but it’s not thickening like it should,’ she said, waving a wooden spoon.

‘Whatever you serve up, honey, will be fine by me.’

He went to get a beer, and they jostled each other for space in the small, but well-equipped kitchen. ‘Go on, go sit down. Table’s already set,’ Rosie said, pushing Rooney away gently.

He plodded out with his beer, then turned back to her. ‘Usual creepy messages on her answerphone,’ he said.

‘Probably Jake.’ She laughed.

‘Yeah, probably,’ he said. He was on the point of telling her about the gunshots, but decided to wait until after dinner, not wanting to spoil the meal she had taken such trouble with: Rosie worried enough about Lorraine as it was. Almost as soon as they had finished eating, however, Rosie’s former AA sponsor called and asked if she would help him out at a meeting where he needed someone to sponsor a young girl.

‘Do you mind, Bill?’ she said. ‘I know I said I’d stay home this evening, but if someone had been too busy to sponsor me, I never would have quit drinking.’

‘And you would never have been working for Lorraine and I would never have met you.’ Bill smiled. He knew that Rosie had a genuine desire to put something back into the organization that had changed her life. ‘Go on out — I’ll go through this stuff of Lorraine’s.’ She dropped a kiss on top of his head, got her coat and hurried off, with a promise not to be too late.

Left alone, Rooney spread out the catalogues and thumbed through them, looking for the painting Lorraine had mentioned. He found no record of it. He flicked through Decker’s notes of dates and times for each gallery he had visited, saddened by the task — the boy had been so organized, such a good find for the agency, and it was dreadful that he had died in such a terrible way, so young and, as his voluminous notes testified, so eager to prove himself. Rooney kept on flicking backwards and forwards, matching catalogues to Decker’s notes on the galleries, then saw something that made his blood run cold.

In Decker’s neat handwriting was a name and address — Eric Lee Judd, employee at Nathan’s art gallery. Rooney sat back and drank some beer. He couldn’t be mistaken. He knew it had been a long time, but it was a name he would never forget. When she had been drunk on duty, Lorraine Page had shot a teenager. The boy’s name had been Tommy Lee Judd.

Rooney put in a call to Jim Sharkey’s home, but he was out on a case so he left a message asking him to call. It was after nine and he wondered if it was too late — bad district to go calling on anyone late in the daytime, never mind at night, but he mulled it over, and drained his beer. To hell with it, he thought, why not? His adrenalin buzzed like old times — it was too much of a coincidence, and he wondered if he had just solved the mystery of Lorraine’s unidentified caller.

Half an hour later, Rooney was heading towards the eastern suburbs of LA, having packed a shooter — he wasn’t taking any chances. Like Decker before him, he had a hard time making out the numbers of the houses on the side-street near Adams and, like Decker too, he passed the Lee Judd bungalow and had to reverse back to it down the street. Lights blazed, so he knew someone was at home. He got out, took a good look around, locked the car and walked up the drive to the front door. He rapped hard and waited several minutes before knocking again. This time he saw the outline of a figure shuffling towards the door through the dirty glass.

‘Who is it?’

‘Bill Rooney. Mrs Lee Judd? Is that you? I’m Bill Rooney — used to be Captain Rooney, you remember me?’

The front-door chain was eased off, and she peered through, fear on her big moon face.

‘It ain’t bad news? Please, God, you ain’t come with bad news?’

‘No, Mrs Lee Judd, no bad news, not this time, but I need to talk to you.’

The door opened, and the woman looked up with frightened hazel eyes. Her dyed blonde hair showed two inches of dark root growth, and mulberry lipstick ran in rivulets round her flaccid lips. She was grotesquely overweight and her body gave off the distinctive stale smell of sweat. ‘You ain’t lying to me, are you?’

‘No, ma’am, I’m not lying, but I need to talk to you.’

Rooney stared at the photograph. The boy was wearing the jacket with the yellow stripe down the back, his face half turned towards the camera. Unlike the other children in the photograph, Tommy took after his mother and was pale-skinned, while all his brothers and sisters had the dark colouring of their father, Joshua Lee Judd.

‘Tommy’s been gone a long time now,’ she said sadly.

‘Yes, a long time, Mrs Lee Judd, but never forgotten.’

She shook her head. ‘You don’t forget a boy you’ve given birth to, no matter what he done, or what they say he done. He was my youngest, you know?’

‘I know. Can I sit down?’ he asked.

‘Sure, you want something to drink?’

‘No, nothing.’

She eased her bulk into a worn armchair, and Rooney sat opposite her.

‘So, how have you been keeping?’

‘My legs give out on me — knees all swelled up — and they say my heart’s beatin’ too hard or something, but I’m near sixty.’

There was a terrible tiredness about her, which made her seem much older.

‘How’s your family?’ Rooney asked kindly.

She sucked her teeth. ‘Joshua upped and left with some little girlfriend of his daughter’s — may the good Lord forgive him, for I sure don’t. I had six mouths to feed, and all he could think of was having his way with an eighteen-year-old. Some husband, some father.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Saved me from gettin’ beat on regular, and good riddance, but sometimes he could be a real sweet-hearted man — it was just the liquor turned him mean. I’ve heard he’s straightened out, got himself a regular job — not that he sends me no money — and got himself another couple of kids too, so I don’t press for payments. I know it’s takin’ from the mouths of his new family, and you always got to put them first.’

‘You’re a good mother.’

‘Yes, sir, when the good Lord takes me, he’ll know that. It’s all I was put on this earth for, ‘cos God knows I ain’t been good for much of anything but rearing kids. Losing my little Tommy hurt me bad. When they die young, they stay young.’

‘How’s all his brothers doing?’

She took a wheezy breath. ‘I got one working for a real estate outfit, suit an’ all, another in a bakery, another in prison, and I got one... He was going bad, but he straightened out real good. He had a job uptown.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Odd jobs. For an art gallery — hanging paintings, sweeping up, cleaning. It was permanent, but the pay wasn’t good, so he’s looking elsewhere right now.’

‘Was it the Nathan gallery?’

‘Yes, sir, but a lot of bad things happened. There was a fire and she — the lady that owned it — was killed in it, so he was out of a job. Since then he’s been looking hard.’

‘That’d be Eric?’

‘Yes, Eric, my oldest. I know he was in trouble a few times, but I swear to you, he’s a good boy now.’

‘He live at home with you?’

‘Sometimes. He got his old room, but he comes and goes. He sees I don’t go short, though. Why you come here? On account of my Eric?’ She leaned forward. ‘What you want here in my house?’

‘I’m not sure — just an answer to a few things. Did you ever meet with a guy, maybe asking questions about the gallery?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You sure about that? Only I have some notes he made and, according to them, he paid a visit to you. It’d be a while back now.’

‘No, sir, I had no one visit me.’

‘How about someone calling to see Eric?’

‘No, sir, no one has been here, I’d swear to that on the Holy Bible.’

‘Is Eric around now? Could I see him?’

‘No, he’s out right now.’

Rooney was sweating — the cluttered room was stifling hot, even though only the screen door was closed. There was no breeze from the yard, and no air-conditioning.

‘Does Eric drive?’

‘Sure he drives. He needed a clean licence for his work at the gallery, and Mrs Nathan, she provided a van for him to deliver an’ collect. He was workin’ there quite a while.’

‘Did you ever go to the gallery?’

‘Who me? No, sir, I don’t get to go no place, not with my condition.’

‘Did you ever meet Mrs Nathan?’

‘No, Lord have mercy on her, I never did. I’m praying my boy gets work soon — see, with her gone, who’s gonna give him a reference? An’ he worked a long time for that gallery.’

Rooney turned to the bank of family photographs, dominated by the large one of the dead Tommy.

‘Which is Eric?’

She smiled and pointed. ‘The sharp-lookin’ one. He always was a fancy dresser.’

Rooney stared at the picture of Eric, gold chains round his neck, leaning against a wall and smiling to reveal a gold-capped tooth. Rooney had seen a few other photographs of Eric — in police files. ‘So he’s been straight since he got out?’

The big woman pursed her lips, then took a folded cloth from her pocket and dabbed her face and neck. She was sweating profusely. ‘That is all behind him, mister. He swore on his brother’s grave he would get out of that bad crowd he was mixin’ with. It wasn’t easy, believe me. You get into one o’ those gangs round here and they don’t let you out.’

‘No drugs any more?’ Rooney asked quietly.

‘No, sir. Like I said, he swore on his brother’s grave, day he came out of the pen. He went straight to the graveside and he got down on his knees, in front of me and his brothers and sisters, and he said he would stay clean. That was more’n seven years ago.’

‘You sure now, Mrs Lee Judd? I mean he’s unemployed right now, and, like you said, he comes and goes, so how can you be sure?’

She banged the side of her chair. ‘One brother, one son dead is enough. He wouldn’t do that to me.’

‘Does he blame himself for Tommy?’

She dabbed her neck, then looked at him directly. ‘There was one person to blame. We knew it, and you cops knew it too, but she never come to justice. She never come to court, she got away with murder, an’ no, no, my boy don’t blame himself. It was that bitch cop.’

‘You recall her name?’ Rooney asked.

‘No, sir, I do not.’

‘Does Eric know who she was?’

‘I can’t answer for what Eric knows.’

‘So he blames her too, does he?’

She clenched the arms of her chair. ‘You tellin’ me he ain’t got the right to blame her? She fired into that boy, kept on shooting. He was nothin’ to do with what was going on, he was just an innocent boy, and she shot him down like a dog.’

‘But he was there, wasn’t he? Looked like he was being used by Eric as a runner.’

‘Eric says it was a lie to get that woman off.’

‘But there were traces of cocaine found.’

‘No, sir, don’t you tell me lies. They’d have had that poor child shooting up to serve their purposes, but he was innocent, and Eric swore on the Bible he was not using him. An’ if you come here today to try an’ rake up dirt for some reason, then you get out of my house, you hearin’ me?’

Rooney stood up. Mrs Lee Judd was panting with anger, and he patted her shoulder. ‘Now, don’t you go gettin’ all upset.’

‘Why you come here? What do you want?’

Rooney hesitated, then looked at the big framed photograph of Tommy Lee Judd. ‘Just making enquiries, Mrs Lee Judd, an’ if you tell me Eric’s a reformed character, then...’

She dragged herself up to stand in front of him, shoving her face forward. ‘Like I said to you, Eric stood over that grave, an’ I won’t hear no bad things about him — he’s a good son.’

Well, I sincerely hope so, and more than that I hope he’s not runnin’ with the gangs again, because if he is I’ll be right on his neck an’ fast. I think your boy is looking for trouble, big trouble, so you warn him to stay in line. Warn him to back off — and quit making nuisance phone calls.’

Rooney got up. He had wanted to unnerve the woman, even though he wasn’t sure that it had been Eric Lee Judd calling Lorraine. It was just that old second sense, plus the fact that Eric might have seen her visit the gallery.

‘I’ll see myself out. Just tell that boy of yours I was round, okay?’

She wouldn’t let him go by himself, but shuffled after him, down the dark, dingy hallway. She wasn’t going to let him wander around her house like those snooping cops were inclined to do — she wanted this fat man out, and the door bolted behind him.

Rooney heard the bolts being slammed across the front door, then the chain, and he knew she was watching him through the broken stained-glass window. He went straight to his car, and drove out of her drive.

He parked about a hundred yards away down the street and made sure all his doors were locked. He wondered how long it would be before Mrs Lee Judd contacted her son and told him about the visit — his old cop’s nose knew she’d be trying, because one look around that cramped, dilapidated house had revealed a new TV set and video, fridge-freezer and washing-machine. They stuck out like a sore thumb beside the rest of the furniture, and were obvious signs of ready cash, signs of a kid handing over fistfuls of dollars to his mama.

Rooney sighed, and lit a cigarette: Lorraine had got off lightly from the Lee Judd episode. She was never called to court, as by the time of Eric Lee Judd’s trial she was long out of the force, hell-bent on drinking herself to death. There had been a major cover-up — he knew that better than anyone, as he’d been responsible for most of it — but the boy was not the innocent his mother had tried to make out. They had found traces of cocaine on his hands and inside his jacket pockets, that black jacket with the yellow stripe down the back that little Tommy had coveted because it had belonged to his brother Eric. They had also taken statements from two other kids they’d picked up, who had said that Tommy was running for his big brother, who was dealing to some of the clubs, mostly cocaine and ecstasy. Six months after the trial, Eric Lee Judd had been arrested in another bust, and this time he had served three years.

Rooney smoked the cigarette down to the butt, and lit up another. Maybe he was putting two and two together and making five, but the whole thing was just too much of a coincidence. Maybe Eric had sworn to go straight on his kid brother’s grave, but he might also have sworn some kind of revenge.

As soon as Rooney had gone, Mrs Lee Judd heaved her bulk up the worn stairs, one step at a time. She had a bed made up for herself downstairs, and hardly ever went up to the bedrooms — when any of the family stayed her daughters cleaned up there, and Eric changed his own sheets. She was frightened, not wanting to believe what Rooney had hinted at, just like she didn’t want to believe that Eric had been up to no good since he lost his job at the gallery. She’d confronted him with it when he brought home the new TV set for her birthday, and he’d flown into a rage, saying that he’d spent all his hard-earned savings to make her happy, but he could never make up to her for Tommy. She always put Tommy first, just like she’d done when they were kids, and now he was dead he still got more love and attention than she ever gave to her surviving son. She had wept, and then he had put his arms around her, crying too, saying that all he ever wanted was to make up to her for what happened to Tommy.

She was crying now, as she heaved herself up stair after stair, because deep down in her weary heart, she knew that Tommy would have done anything for Eric. Little Tommy always followed Eric around like he was some kind of hero, had started to strut about the streets in his bomber jacket, and she had been worried he was getting into trouble, with his big brother leading him by the hand.

The bedroom was untidy, dirty, with old beer cans and bottles lying everywhere, and ashtrays piled high with cigarette butts. The wardrobe door was open, revealing rows of suits and shoes, and she rifled through the dresser drawers. They were full of shirts and T-shirts, some stuffed back dirty, likewise a drawer full of underwear. On the top of the dresser was a picture of Tommy, held in his brother’s arms when he was no more than four or five, and she picked it up, kissed it, said a silent prayer for forgiveness for searching her son’s room like a thief. As she put the photograph back on the dresser, she saw a smaller top drawer, open just a fraction, and slid it open. Inside was a tangle of jewellery — watches, bracelets, rings and heavy gold pendants with thick twisted-gold chains. There were also rolls of dollars, secured with rubber bands. She eased the top drawer closed then searched the others, finding two guns, knives and more rolls of banknotes. Her bosom heaved as she drew a deep breath, standing in the untidy room with her swollen feet planted wide apart to maintain her balance. Then, helping herself along the wall, she moved out and down the stairs, one by one.

Her breath rattled in her chest as she returned to the living room, picked up the phone and dialled a telephone number written on a pad beside the phone — Kelly, Eric’s current girlfriend, whose number he had left in case of emergencies. There had been a lot of numbers over the years, always thoughtfully tucked by the phone. ‘Kelly, honey, this is Eric’s mama — he with you?’

She could hear loud music thudding in the background, heard Kelly shouting for Eric, who came quickly to the phone, his voice full of concern. ‘Mama? You sick?’

‘Yes, boy, I am. You come right home now.’ She put the phone down before he could say any more, then eased her bulk into the sagging armchair. She picked up her walking stick from the side of the chair, raised it high, and brought it down on the new TV set, smashing it repeatedly against the casing, then thrusting it with all her might into the screen. The glass cracked, and still she kept on thrashing, as if she was thrashing Eric, the way she had when they told her about Tommy. She had beaten the hell out of him then, and now she attacked the fruit of his crimes with the same violence.

The pain shot down her left arm like a red-hot iron passing through her veins, piercing her again and again. The stick dropped from her hand as her body jerked in spasms of excruciating agony, and the last thing her frightened eyes saw was the picture of her dead son, Tommy Lee Judd, shot six times by a woman detective she’d heard was a drunk.

Rooney lit a third cigarette, inhaling deeply. He’d been outside in the car a good fifteen minutes. He could be wrong, he knew, she’d said the other kids were all in good jobs, and maybe they’d bought all the fancy new domestic appliances. He leaned forward to turn on the ignition, deciding he’d call it quits for the night, and check it out in the morning.

Not five minutes after Rooney had driven off a new black-on-black Cherokee jeep with black-tinted windows screeched to a halt in Mrs Lee Judd’s drive. Eric, high on crack cocaine, ran from it and tried his keys, knocking when he found the bolts still fastened inside. He raced round to the back door, and kicked the screen door aside to see his mama lying face down, close to the fireplace, with her right hand outstretched. Just a few inches from her fingers was the framed picture of Tommy, the glass smashed to smithereens. In the last moments of her life she had tried to hold him — a last-born child is often the favourite, and Tommy had been hers.

Eric stood rooted to the spot, his head feeling as though it was on fire. He knew she was dead, that her big heart had burst in her chest, as blood oozed from her nose and mouth, and he didn’t need to feel for a pulse. Slowly he stepped over her, and bent to retrieve the broken picture. He removed the jagged pieces of glass, and set it back on the shelf, his hand shaking. He felt it was some kind of omen, a message from the grave, and one that he would obey. The bitch cop would pay for what she had done. He’d make her pay.

Rooney let himself in, and was attacked by Tiger, though the dog was clearly more motivated by affection than any desire to guard the household. Rosie had already gone to bed, and Rooney undressed, cleaned his teeth, and got into bed beside her. She turned over and propped her head on her elbow.

‘You know, you were making the floor shake. You men are all alike, creeping round the bed, then sitting on it to take off your shoes.’

‘I was trying not to wake you,’ he grumbled.

‘Well, you didn’t succeed — first bang on the front door did it. You were gone a long time.’ She stared at him, but his eyes were closed. ‘Want to talk about it?’ she asked.

He lifted one big arm up to let her snuggle in beside him, then drew her closer. ‘I may be wrong, and I hope to God I am, but I think Lorraine may have a problem. You know the kid she shot? In a drug raid?’

‘Yeah, I know about him.’

Rooney sighed. ‘Well, he’s got a brother, and this brother worked for the Nathan gallery, sort of handy-man-cum-driver-cum-delivery. Kid’s been out of work since the gallery went up in smoke — and I just feel uneasy about it. Could be him making the phone calls. I kind of gave his mother a bit of a warning to back off just in case I’m right, that he’s gonna try and take some kind of revenge on Lorraine.’

‘You really think so?’

‘Yep. There were another twenty-odd calls on her answerphone and one had what sounded like gunfire, six shots. She pumped the same amount into Tommy Lee Judd.’

‘What you going to do?’

He sighed again. ‘I’ll talk to Burton, maybe see if he can sort it out, or run a check on the guy.’

Rosie lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. ‘How did you find all this out?’

Rooney yawned. ‘From the catalogues and stuff in that fag Decker’s bag. His notes gave the Lee Judd address so I called round, talked to his mother.’

Suddenly Rooney sat up, and tossed the bedclothes aside. ‘That accident, the crash that guy was in — it was on the intersection just a mile up La Brea from the Lee Judds’ place.’ He stomped out of the room, and Rosie grabbed a robe and followed him. He was banging around the kitchen looking for tea bags. Rosie reached up and took them out of a tin.

‘It’s another fucking coincidence, isn’t it? He puts in his notebook that he’s going to see Eric Lee Judd, the guy’s mother said nobody ever came, but she could be lying, so what if Decker had come up with something, and...’

‘But there was no other vehicle involved, apart from the garbage truck he drove into. It was an accident — he jumped the lights,’ Rosie said, getting the teapot and setting a tray with cups, milk and a tin of cookies. She carried the tray into the bedroom, and poured tea for them both, but Rooney seemed disinclined to discuss Lorraine any more. ‘Nothing we can do tonight,’ he said. ‘Maybe just keep this to ourselves — no need to get her all worried. Let me see if I can sort it out.’

Rosie sipped her tea, agreeing with him. She knew he was worried, as she was herself, but as he had said, there was nothing they could do that evening. By the time she put the tray on one side, turned off the bedside lamp, and settled back on the pillow, she thought Bill was asleep. But his hand reached out for hers and held it tightly. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to Lorraine, trust me.’

Lorraine went to the hotel gym for a workout, then returned to her room to dress and pack before going downstairs for breakfast and to settle her bill. At eight twenty, she took her luggage and asked the doorman to call her a cab. By ten to nine, she was drawing up outside Abigail Nathan’s house in Norwood Park, an area northwest of the city centre. She was surprised that the house didn’t match her expectations. It was in a nice white-collar area but it was small, an unattractive, square building. The lawns in the street had no fences and the properties abutted directly onto one another, divided only by garage drives and dinky, crazy-paved paths to the front doors. Mrs Nathan’s drive was covered in leaves and rubbish, which looked as if it had been there for some time.

Lorraine stepped onto the veranda, which also needed sweeping. The lamp on the porch was broken, but antique. Lorraine rang the doorbell and waited. She could hear soft music playing. She rang again and a woman’s voice called out that she was coming.

Mrs Nathan was wearing a satin floral print robe, which reached to her bare, mottled calves, and a pair of very old and worn pointed Moroccan leather slippers. She looked older than she had seemed at the funeral, but perhaps the deterioration in her appearance was due to grief. She put out a tiny hand, with thin fingers and arthritic knuckles. ‘Hello. You must be Mrs Page.’

‘Yes, thank you for seeing me, Mrs Nathan.’

Mrs Nathan ushered her straight into the drawing room, as there was no hallway. ‘Sit down.’ She indicated a satin-covered Victorian sofa, with curving sides and ugly, heavy legs. ‘I won’t be a moment.’ She disappeared into the kitchen.

Lorraine looked around the room: there was a huge chandelier of fine Italian glass, and the place was crammed with antiques, ornaments and trinkets. A collection of hundreds of tiny glass animals and Victorian children’s toys stood in several glass-fronted cabinets. Dust was thick on all the ornaments and furniture, and newspapers, empty envelopes and circulars were littered around the room — a complete contrast to her elder son’s obsessive neatness. Lorraine wondered if the house had always been so neglected, or if Mrs Nathan had simply let everything go after her son had died.

She returned with a carved wooden tray, two chipped china cups and mismatched saucers. As there was no space on any of the tables, she set the tray down on a footstool, and asked how Lorraine took her coffee. ‘Black, please, no sugar,’ Lorraine answered. ‘Have you lived here long?’

‘Forty years,’ the old lady answered. ‘I meant to move when my husband died, but I brought my boys up here and you can’t put memories like that in a packing crate.’

She carried her own cup to the big armchair, kicking aside the newspapers that covered the floor around it, and settled herself, like a small, rotund Buddha, her feet resting on an embroidered footstool in front of her. ‘Also, of course, I can’t bear the thought of having to pack up all these treasures — I’m a collector, as you see. I don’t collect anything that isn’t of intrinsic value, of course, I’ve never seen the point.’

‘You have some lovely things,’ Lorraine said.

‘It’s a sort of pastime for me, since I’ve travelled so much, all round the world so many times,’ Abigail Nathan continued, seeming to want to make sure that Lorraine realized that she had been a rich woman and accustomed to deference. ‘My boys came with me when they were young, and that’s where they got their education. Artistic talent can’t flourish, I’ve always thought, without the soil of culture,’ she concluded grandiosely. ‘I knew from the time the boys were babies that they would create.’

Lorraine made an effort to keep her face impassive as Mrs Nathan talked as though her elder son’s vulgar movies and her younger son’s daubs ranked as great art. ‘You mentioned that you were working for poor Harry’s lawyer — did you ever meet my son?’ Abigail Nathan went on.

‘No, but I met Nick — in fact, I bought one of his canvases,’ Lorraine said, hoping that she would be pleased.

‘You’ll be able to sell it for ten times what you paid in a couple of years,’ Mrs Nathan said with complete confidence. ‘I have high hopes that Nicky’s work will be recognized. Ever since he was a small boy, painting has been his life.’

‘Do you mind if I ask you some questions?’ Lorraine said.

‘Please do. I’m obviously interested — my son must have left a considerable amount of money. I haven’t been told how the estate is to be divided, and when I telephoned Mr Feinstein, he said that woman’ — clearly, as Raymond Vallance had said, there had been no love lost between Abigail and Sonja — ‘has the house at least. I feel certain that there must be some mistake. Harry would not have forgotten his brother, of course. They simply adored each other. The boys always got along so well.’

Lorraine eased the cup and cracked saucer onto a table crowded with knick-knacks. ‘It is indeed a considerable sum of money, Mrs Nathan, and there seems to be no trace of it in any of your son’s known accounts. That means that it’s likely he had banking facilities elsewhere — perhaps here in Chicago, I thought, or perhaps in other names?’

‘I don’t know anything about that. My son never discussed either money or business with me,’ Abigail Nathan said, as though mentioning subjects unfit for ladies’ ears.

‘Did he visit here frequently?’ Lorraine asked.

‘He came when he could,’ the old lady said. ‘He had a busy life in Los Angeles, though he wrote me regularly and, of course, I used to visit with him, when he was married to Kendall.’

Lorraine seized the opportunity to embark on another line of questioning. ‘Mrs Nathan, the primary assets missing from your son’s estate are some valuable modern paintings. It seems that there may have been certain... irregular dealings on the art market.’ She knew better than to accuse Harry Nathan directly of fraud to his mother. ‘Which Kendall may initially have instigated.’

‘Well, I find that simply impossible to believe,’ Mrs Nathan responded, with a haughty sniff. ‘I count myself a pretty fair judge of character, and Kendall was the only decent woman my son was ever involved with.’

‘Can you think of anyone else involved in the art market whom Harry might have been working with?’

‘I certainly can,’ Abigail Nathan said with emphasis, then hesitated as though trying to bring herself to utter an indecent word. ‘That wretched woman who wrecked my son’s life. Sonja, whatever she calls herself now. I can tell you that if there was any kind of irregularity going on, that woman was behind it. She is a person without moral sense or scruple of any kind.’

‘I have recently interviewed Sonja Nathan,’ Lorraine said, keeping her voice expressionless. ‘She denies having any sort of contact with Harry since they got divorced. The separation was not amicable, I understand.’

‘No wonder.’ Mrs Nathan snorted. ‘Sonja couldn’t stand the fact that Harry finally realized that he should have married a nice, sweet, normal, natural girl.’ God knows how he ended up with Kendall in that case, Lorraine thought privately, but the older woman was in full flow. ‘Sonja was a completely unnatural woman from the day and hour Harry met her, and she simply got worse with age. I blessed the day Harry got that woman out of his life, and it broke my heart when he started seeing her again.’

‘What makes you think he war seeing her again?’

‘He used to telephone her from here,’ Abigail Nathan said, and Lorraine felt her pulse quicken. At last: someone had stated that Harry and Sonja Nathan had indeed remained in contact, but whether it was an indulgent mother’s attempt to cover up her son’s wrongdoing and incriminate a woman she disliked remained to be seen. ‘It was the only time Harry ever lied to me. That woman had a hold over him of a kind I’ve never seen.’

‘What sort of untruth do you mean?’ Lorraine asked.

‘He said he was talking to some business associate, fixing up meetings, but I knew it was her.’

‘How did you know it was her?’ Lorraine asked.

‘Because I called the phone company and got a record of the long-distance calls made on my line,’ Mrs Nathan said, giving Lorraine an arch look.

‘I don’t suppose you still have these records anywhere in the house,’ Lorraine asked, glancing around the room — it looked as though nothing had been thrown out in a decade, and it struck her suddenly that if Nathan had been in regular correspondence with his mother, those letters, too, were in all probability nearby.

‘I might have,’ Mrs Nathan said, looking carefully at Lorraine, as though her appearance might yield some clue as to whether or not she could be trusted.

‘Mrs Nathan, if Sonja is responsible for a substantial fraud and perhaps a more serious crime,’ Lorraine said, meeting Mrs Nathan’s eyes with what she hoped was a frank, honest gaze, ‘then I will naturally be handing over the matter to the police.’

‘I told the police that I suspected that woman was mixed up in my son’s death and they pretty much told me to go home to my patty-pans. Just an old lady with a bee in her bonnet. They didn’t have to say it, but that’s what they were thinking.’

No doubt they were, Lorraine thought, and the fact that Harry Nathan had called his ex-wife a few times must have seemed innocent enough. But in the context of so many other circumstances that seemed to point to Sonja, and in particular the flat denials Lorraine had received from both Sonja and Arthur that there had been any contact between her and Harry after they divorced, it was important evidence. Though Nathan could, of course, have been calling to speak to Arthur — the two men had known one another for years, and it was possible that Arthur was helping Nathan with his forgery scam without Sonja’s knowledge. Lorraine realized she had never asked Arthur if he had had any contact with Harry Nathan. But that had seemed unlikely — Harry Nathan had to be the last person with whom Arthur would secretly have been best buddies.

‘I’m afraid that the police often take such allegations lightly when they’re made by a member of the public,’ she said, ‘but they might be more inclined to take it seriously against a background of other evidence coming from a... more professional source.’

‘You mean from you,’ Abigail Nathan said bluntly.

‘Yes, I do.’

There was silence for a few moments while the old lady weighed up the pros and cons of trusting Lorraine. ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘I could go and look upstairs, if you have time to wait.’

‘I’m in no hurry,’ Lorraine said. ‘Or I could come and help you, if you’d like.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Abigail Nathan. ‘You wait right here. You can look around my collection.’

She got up, and Lorraine heard her slow footsteps climbing the stairs. Look around the collection was exactly what she would do, and particularly the collection of papers in the ginger jar. She waited until she heard the woman’s footsteps overhead, tipped it out and flicked through the contents — Abigail Nathan had kept all sorts of junk, matchbooks, photographs, dinner menus and letters, but the most recent was from a woman friend, dated 1994.

There were papers all over the house, and Lorraine decided to investigate further. She opened the door to the next room noiselessly and found herself in a den full of trinkets and toys, bursting out of cupboards and balanced on a number of little spindle-legged tables. Looking round the room, her eye was caught by a most unusual display of carved red wooden devils, no more than a few inches high, with hideous faces and cloven hoofs, holding a pack of miniature playing cards. Lorraine bent down to look closer, genuinely interested, and saw, tucked into the corner of the cabinet, an airmail envelope with a German stamp. She eased it out, recognizing Harry Nathan’s large, untidy handwriting. The postmark was a few months old.

‘Mrs Page?’ Abigail Nathan called. ‘Are you down there?’

Scarcely thinking what she was doing, Lorraine reached under her jacket and slipped the letter into the back of the waistband of her skirt, then walked smartly out to see the old lady making her way downstairs.

‘Yes, I’m here, Mrs Nathan. I just went to the bathroom.’

‘I see. I have what you wanted here — I never throw anything away.’

She held out two sheets of paper. Lorraine’s hand almost trembled as she took them. ‘Thank you, Mrs Nathan,’ she said. ‘May I take these back to LA?’

‘You take them wherever you like,’ Abigail Nathan replied, ‘if it’ll help to get justice for my son.’

Lorraine placed the sheets of paper in her briefcase, and said, ‘I’d better be on my way now, I’m afraid. Can I call a cab?’

‘Certainly,’ Mrs Nathan said graciously, waving her hand towards the filthy kitchen as though ushering Lorraine into a palace. ‘Phone’s through there.’

Lorraine found a card for a cab company pinned next to the phone and made a quick call. ‘It’ll just be a few minutes,’ she said, hanging up. ‘One last thing, Mrs Nathan. I don’t suppose you know anything about a man named Arthur? I don’t know his last name, but Harry knew him as a young man and he’s living with Sonja now in the Hamptons.’

‘You mean Arthur Donnelly. He and Harry were in college together. He was a painter, he said, but I knew he’d never get anywhere. Masterly technique, of course, but simply nothing of his own to say. I told him he ought to count his blessings and join the family firm.’ She laughed at the recollection.

‘What was that, Mrs Nathan?’ Lorraine asked curiously.

‘Oh, an outfit in the antique trade. All reproduction.’

Another piece of the puzzle slotted into place, Lorraine thought, recalling the sticker Cindy had found inside the fake antique jar. It looked like Arthur had indeed taken Mrs Nathan’s advice.

The doorbell rang and Lorraine picked up her briefcase. She thanked Mrs Nathan profusely.

‘So glad to have been of assistance — if I have — and if you hear anything you will contact me, won’t you?’

Once the cab was clear of Abigail Nathan’s house, Lorraine reached carefully under her jacket and extracted the envelope. She took out a single sheet of folded airmail notepaper, with no address, simply the salutation ‘Dearest, sweetest Cherub-face’. The first few lines expressed hopes that she was sticking to a diet, using her exercise bike and not, underlined, eating too many cookies. He went on to say that he was abroad for just a few days, and from Germany he would be going on to Switzerland, but then underlined was, ‘No one must know, that also means do not’ underlined ‘tell even Nicky.’ He said he would explain on his return. He went on to say that within a few months he would be mega-rich, that he was on to something that would set him up for the rest of his life. The writing was slapdash, and looked as if it had been scrawled in a hurry: some was in cursive script, the rest in capital letters.

Lorraine replaced the note in the envelope and slipped it into her case. There had been no record of this trip to Germany and, most importantly, to Switzerland on Nathan’s official passport. This must be a clear lead to the secret bank accounts. She suddenly sat up. Germany! Sonja Nathan had said what? There was an exhibition of her work being shown in Berlin. Sonja was there now, and Lorraine did not doubt that it was in connection with the art fraud that she and Arthur had evidently been running with Nathan.

The net was closing, and Lorraine felt an almost ungovernable impulse to follow Sonja to Europe and run her to earth. She would have to act immediately — but the thought of telling Jake that she had to make just this one trip, follow this one lead, pushing his patience and understanding yet again was too much for her. She knew that next time he saw her, he wanted to give her a ring and make their engagement public. Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to see him, Rosie, Rooney, Tiger. She had been away too long.