Cold Shoulder

Chapter 16

Jake listened without interrupting. When Rosie had called him before he’d even had his breakfast, his first thought was it was she who needed him ‘urgently’. He was relieved to find her waiting at her front door stone cold sober. As she drew him into the apartment, she put her finger to her lips, indicating the bedroom. She didn’t want Lorraine to hear what she was saying but she knew she had to make it fast. ‘They arrest her, Jake, and everything she’s accomplished so far will be over. She’ll go back on the booze — she as good as said it.’

It was hard for him to take in everything Rosie said. Just the pertinent facts were enough to make him break out in a sweat. Lorraine had been attacked by the so-called hammer killer; she was the witness the police were searching for; she was also investigating or assisting the police in their inquiries. It was hard to believe, and even more so when Rosie slipped in that Lorraine’s ‘partner’ was also helping the investigation.

They couldn’t carry on the conversation as Lorraine walked in. She was surprised to see Jake.

‘You come for breakfast?’

‘Nope. I was wondering if you wanted to come to a meeting.’

‘What? Are you nuts? It’s not even nine o’clock. Besides, I can’t. I got to stay in the apartment.’

‘I’m gonna get dressed,’ Rosie said, eyeing Jake and jerking her head towards Lorraine, who watched her go out and then started to wash the cups.

She ran water into the sink. ‘So, what has she told you?’

Jake fiddled with his collar.

‘Is it about me admitting I wanted a drink?’

Jake shrugged. ‘You may not know it, Lorraine, but you just broke through, and you’ll make it even if it doesn’t look or feel like it right now. But I want you to come to a meeting with me this morning. According to Rosie you might need a morale boost.’

Lorraine put her head on one side. ‘She tell you I might be arrested?’

‘Is it true?’

She put down the dishcloth. ‘It’s true, and I think I’m gonna need a lot more than just a morale boost.’

‘Then you’ll come to the early-morning meeting?’

Bean strode into Rooney’s office, hands in his pockets. ‘Ambulance just taken his body away.’

Rooney pulled at his nose. ‘How the hell did he do it?’

‘Broke his glasses and slit his wrists.’

‘FBI must be shitting themselves.’ Rooney snorted with a half-derisive laugh and sneer.

‘Yep, all in there blaming each other and patting each other on the back at the same time.’

Rooney gaped. ‘What you mean?’

‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? I mean, why kill yourself if you’re innocent? They reckon he must be the one.’

Rooney snorted again. ‘That’s bullshit. We know he couldn’t have done two of them because he was inside. They got the report of his criminal record, didn’t they?’

Bean said that they might have found some discrepancies over the dates. Whatever, they were not digging too deep as the Chief was putting out a press release that the suspect in custody had admitted his guilt.

‘Had he?’ Rooney asked, astonished, because when he’d last seen Mathews he hadn’t — far from it.

‘They reckon so, but they still want to question his accomplice.’

‘His what?’

‘Lorraine Page. I was told you were bringing her in. They’ve been waiting for you.’

Rooney could feel the warrant in his pocket. He took it out and passed it to Bean, his heart pounding. He felt sick, needed time to plan what he was going to do with the information Lorraine had passed him. He had already decided not to mention the theft of Norman Hastings’s wallet, and would maybe tell her to leave out the cufflinks. He was even toying with trying to keep the attack on her out of his statements; now it looked as if it was out of his hands. He asked himself why he’d go out on a limb for her like this, but all he came up with was that he liked her, but if it got out that he’d used her, paid her, and had been privy to the information, he’d not only be out in the cold but his hoped-for bonus was shrinking by the minute.

The squad car drew up outside Rosie’s apartment just moments after they’d left for the AA meeting. All vehicles were instructed to be on the look-out for the prostitute Lorraine Page, described as five feet nine, short blonde hair, last seen wearing a cream suit and silk shirt. She was to be arrested on sight.

Lorraine was still uncertain as to why she had let Jake and Rosie talk her into coming to the meeting. Maybe, if the truth was to be admitted, it was because she was at a loss and she was also scared.

The woman was neatly dressed in printed cotton, her hair well cut, parted in the centre and constantly falling forwards to hide her face. She spoke quietly, nervously. ‘My name is Carol. Nine months ago I was sleeping rough, I felt there was no hope for me. I felt no shame, I felt nothing. I had lost my husband, my children, my home and my job. I had turned to prostitution to feed my drinking. I was a prostitute, a thief. I owned only what I stood up in, I had nothing, and no respect for anyone, least of all myself’ Carol continued to talk and Lorraine held tightly to Rosie’s hand, understanding for the first time what she felt, what she had been through and that she was not alone. Everyone at the meeting, she now began to realize, had felt shame and rejection, knew loss and humiliation.

When they stood and warmly applauded Carol, when they embraced her and congratulated her, Lorraine was one of the first to leave her seat. She was shy, at first proffering her hand, but then she put her arms around her. ‘I’ve been there too. I know how you feel,’ she said simply.

Carol hugged Lorraine back. ‘We’ve all been there, that’s why we’re here.’

‘What was the hardest thing for you?’ Lorraine asked.

‘Facing myself, not being angry or ashamed. It wasn’t me but the drink. I hid behind it, I know that now, and I’m determined to stay sober, I got a job today. I was scared but I told them I’m an alcoholic and now that I know that’s what I am, I feel free. For the first time in years I’m not hiding.’

‘You said you hid behind drink. What did you mean?’

‘I was afraid of failing. I’m a nurse and I had a patient, a child, who died. I gave the wrong medication and I was never able to face the guilt or come to terms with it. I have now. It will always be with me but I can deal with it, I’m taking responsibility for myself and I want to stay sober. I have to stay sober or I’ll go down again.’

Jake was watching Lorraine. He winked at Rosie. ‘It was good we came. You were right, Rosie, it was important for her.’

‘And for me too. If Lorraine had started drinking I’d have probably joined her,’ Rosie replied, and Jake smiled.

Lorraine joined them. ‘Thanks for bringing me. Now we should get back in case Rooney needs me.’

Rooney watched the FBI agents talking to his chief. He sat in a hard-backed chair at the rear of the room; when anyone looked to him for an opinion he made no comment. The press had been given statements and the suits felt that, by the arrest of Art Mathews, they had been able at least to gain time. Even if they couldn’t provide evidence that Mathews had murdered all the victims, they were satisfied that by his own admittance and subsequent suicide he had been guilty of at least three.

Andrew Fellows had come in and they had been in deep discussion with him for two hours. He did not disagree with their conclusions but raised doubts that Mathews was the killer. Not until they seemed to have grown tired of their own voices did Rooney ease his bulk from the chair. ‘You mind if I put my two cents in?’

They had forgotten he was even in the room. The Chief looked pointedly at his watch. Is it about the Lorraine Page woman?’

Andrew Fellows frowned. ‘Lorraine Page?’

‘We’re still looking for her but it shouldn’t be long.’

Rooney squeezed between a row of chairs.

‘Lorraine Page?’ Fellows asked again, but no one answered him and she was forgotten as Rooney prodded the photograph of Didi, the last victim.

‘What if our killer — and I’m excluding Mathews just for a moment — was looking for this particular woman or man — the transsexual? Looking for her because she and Mathews were blackmailing him.’ There was a low murmur and Rooney held up his hand. ‘Let me finish. Take a look at them. Tough, hard-faced women, all bleached blondes, all prostitutes, as was this victim.’ Again he tapped Didi’s picture. ‘It’s a possible motive because I think Hastings was also being blackmailed and possibly by Mathews...’

The men listened, giving each other sidelong looks. The Chief loosened his tie. Mathews had admitted at no time to blackmailing anyone. Rooney continued to repeat almost verbatim what Lorraine had said to him. He did not mention her part in piecing it together, or that she was the witness who had been attacked by the killer. Just before he gave the name of her suspect, he felt a hot flush spread through his body. The Thorburn family were powerful and all Rooney had was Lorraine’s theory. They did not have enough evidence: her own admission that Janklow had been her attacker would, as she rightly surmised, be tough to prove. As she had said, it would be her word against his. And as yet no incriminating evidence linked him to the murders. Until he had more on Janklow, Rooney decided he would keep his identity to himself.

The room was silent. The Chief stared at Rooney — they all did — and Andrew Fellows’s face wore a half smile. It was hard to determine whether it was through disbelief or because he was impressed.

Rooney decided he might as well go for the big prize. He nodded to Hastings’s picture. ‘He used a garage to park his car, the S and A company. I’ve not gone into this in any depth but a number of the company’s employees were checked out against the description we had from the anonymous witness. The S and A garage is owned by a Brad Thorburn.’ Fellows gasped at this but no one paid him any attention. Rooney continued, ‘I’m not suggesting anything without further evidence. Obviously considering the family’s connections, I have not, until tonight, even voiced my suspicions.’

‘Just what are you implying?’ Fellows asked, his face pink with agitation. Rooney looked at him then, and at the Chief who became aware that Fellows should not have been privy to this statement and suggested that he might wish to leave.

Fellows had not disclosed that he knew Brad Thorburn. He was unsure as to why not but, then, he hadn’t been asked. He intended to drive straight home but changed his mind and headed for Thorburn’s house.

Jake saw the patrol car even before he turned into the road. Lorraine was in the back seat.

‘You want me to drive past the cops?’ Jake asked.

‘Yeah, but not for the reason you think. I’ll go in but in my own time. There’s somebody I want to talk to first. I misjudged Rooney. He must have told them about me.’

She ducked out of sight as Jake passed the police car, turning left at the top of the road before he stopped.

‘Where we going?’ Rosie asked.

‘I need to talk to Andrew Fellows. I won’t do anything crazy, believe me. I just want to run a few things past him.’

‘I’ll drive you,’ said Rosie.

Lorraine hesitated before she agreed. Jake got out and Rosie moved into the driving seat. He watched them drawing away from the pavement but not until they were almost out of sight did he walk off.

The car backfired. Jake whipped round. It had sounded like a gun blast. It made him uneasy and he wished he’d stayed with the two women. He also wished he’d asked a lot more questions, but as he walked on he also realized that he had been part of Lorraine’s cover-up story about the attack. He shook his head. He had known as soon as he saw the injury that it hadn’t been caused by a fall, as she’d said. With all her lies, Lorraine had not only used Rosie but himself. The more he thought about it, the more angry he became, and now he started to wonder where Lorraine got all that money from. He remembered the way she clutched it when he’d stitched up her wound. She was one hell of a liar, he told himself. Maybe there was more to the cops hanging around than either he or Rosie knew.

Rooney had now told the agents about Craig Lyall, again using Lorraine’s evidence. When the Chief got back, Rooney was in the hot seat. Berillo wanted to know why he had been withholding so much evidence, and neither discussed it with him nor provided the agents with the information on Mathews’s blackmailing activities.

‘I only pieced it together tonight. Like I said, it’s just supposition. I’ve been up all night on this. I hadn’t finished interviewing Mathews when the FBI took over. You tell me how such an important suspect with all this high-tech surveillance on his cell was able to slit his wrists. Don’t lay that on me, I wasn’t even in the station. It’s down to the FBI.’

The agents took his gibes and accusations without expression. One of them, a blond, square-jawed man, was making copious notes as Rooney spoke.

‘You’re seriously saying that Brad Thorburn is a suspect?’ demanded his chief. The atmosphere in the room was uneasy. Bean remained silent throughout: he was wondering why Rooney had never mentioned any of his findings to him.

‘I never said Thorburn was a suspect. I believe it’s his brother, Steven Janklow.’

The blond agent, tight-lipped with anger, asked if Janklow fitted the description of the killer given to Rooney’s department after Hastings’s body had been found. Rooney shifted uneasily. As he had never seen Janklow or interviewed him, he was hesitant.

‘I’ve not interviewed him. All I know is he knew Hastings and—’

‘And?’ snapped the Chief. Rooney felt as if they were all against him, closing in on him. He pulled at his bulbous nose, half wishing he’d kept his big mouth shut. He took a flyer, lying through his teeth. ‘I held back giving you this information until I’d checked in the files for a possible vice charge against Janklow in the past. So far I’ve not been able to trace it and it was just told to me by one of the workers at the garage. I didn’t want to act on hearsay — well, not until I’d run it past you. I could be wrong on all counts.’

The Chief glanced at his watch and then said, ‘You go through those vice records, Bill, immediately — but until you have more evidence we make no contact with the Thorburn family for two reasons. If our man is Janklow, we need hard facts to arrest him, and the Thorburn family is high society and powerful.’ The Chief said the last sentence directly to the blond FBI man: ‘In other words, back off the Thorburns until I say so.’

The agents departed, with a show of obvious irritation towards Rooney, and the Chief called him into his office. He turned on him in a fury, demanding to know what the fuck he’d been playing at.

‘Just trying to do my job.’

‘Come on, Bill, who are you kiddin’? You’re just pissed off because the FBI have been brought in. If you’d even had half of what you blurted out tonight we could have held them off. What else are you holding back? You’d better come clean with me, Bill.’ He stared hard at Rooney and then asked about Lorraine Page.

Rooney covered like an old trooper. ‘She’s my informant but I didn’t know until tonight that she knew Mathews or that she was with him the night Holly was murdered.’

‘I want her brought in because I want to talk to her. I want to know just what the hell Mathews was up to.’

‘It’s in his file. He’s been in for blackmail and extortion, along with his porno rap.’

‘Is that it?’

‘That’s it. Like I said, let me dig into Janklow’s past a bit more and then I’ll get straight back to you.’

The Chief agreed but told Rooney to call him, no matter what the time was, if he discovered anything else.

Rooney returned to his office where Bean was waiting. He couldn’t stop smiling; he felt he’d shown the bastards. He kicked the door closed. ‘You and me got work to do.’

Bean took off his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. Rooney was rummaging through his desk drawers. ‘What about Lorraine Page?’ Bean asked. ‘According to officers Hully and Maynard you were at her place. They said you were bringing her in.’

‘I left when she didn’t show — that all right with you?’

Bean’s face was quizzical. ‘You just done a hell of a lot of legwork since you left here last night, but you’ve not mentioned any of this to me — Janklow, the Thorburn family. If you’d seen those agents’ faces, talk about jaws dropping open. I was impressed. They were really pissed. They were patting each other on the back ten minutes earlier about Art Mathews. They really upped the pressure on him, you know, he was crying his eyes out. She tip you off about him?’

Rooney raised his eyebrow in mock surprise. ‘God no, that was supreme detective work on my part, lieutenant.’ Then he scowled. ‘If Mathews said he killed them, I reckon he’d have said he’d shot his mother just to get those suits off him. He was scared — I reckon he was scared shitless about being done for blackmail again. He’d have done eighteen years this time and the little prick knew it. They just wanted to make an arrest, period. I reckon they were lucky he did kill himself because if I’d got my hands on him, I might have got a different result, like negative.’

Bean sighed. ‘So why did he kill himself, then?’

‘Because maybe he knew he was in very deep and we’d have dug up something. Christ almighty, I gave them his fucking file, he was serving time when two of the victims were done. I don’t care what any of that FBI crowd want to say about copy-cat killings, those victims were all done by the same man.’

Bean sucked in his breath. ‘Or woman. That’s what Fellows threw in tonight.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘No. He said that all the crap that’s written about male or female strength is hyped up out of all proportion. If a woman wanted to kill, she could have done it. He even said that was why the victims took a blow to the back of the head first — incapacitated them.’

‘Well, Fellows is looking up his own tight-assed backside. We got that witness, the one that gave us the description, right?’ He almost disclosed who she was but stopped himself Instead he leaned over the desk. ‘She described her attacker as a man, right?’

Bean jangled the change in his pocket. ‘Lorraine Page. Where does she figure in it all, then? What if they were doing it together? She was with Mathews the night Holly was murdered, he said so.’

‘I know, I know...’ He felt his stomach turn over. What if Bean was right? Could she be that much involved?

Bean sank into a chair. ‘Well, you put the cat among the pigeons. It sounded like hot shit to me.’ Rooney looked puzzled. ‘It was nice to watch you in action, Captain.’

Rooney smiled. ‘I was always one of the best. Now, why don’t you go get some sandwiches and coffee?’

Bean picked up his jacket again. ‘Gonna be a long night, is it?’

As the door closed behind him Rooney slumped in his chair. He wasn’t one of the best — he doubted if he ever had been — but she was. It was she who was hot shit and she’d proved it. He just hoped to God she was right, that she hadn’t done a runner. Did he want to crack this so badly he was going to let her risk her neck? He knew he still had the trump card that she was the witness. If he was forced into a corner he’d bring it out. He wondered how long it would be before they brought her in, then suddenly felt cold. What if Bean was right? What if she had been ducking and diving all along? What if she’d never been a witness but a killer, and the description was just to put them all off the scent? He picked up the phone and punched out her number. No answer. Where the hell was she? If she wasn’t brought in within the hour, he’d go out looking for her personally. She wasn’t the killer — that was dumb, that was crazy — but he felt a horrible nag at his gut. She was connected to Didi and Mathews; he’d told the FBI that she had been with Mathews the night Holly was murdered. He should have brought her in with him, he shouldn’t have trusted her. She might even now be in some bar drinking herself into a stupor — she’d threatened as much...

Bean came in. He’d called for a takeout to be brought in rather than schlepp out for it himself.

‘What else did Fellows say about it maybe being a woman?’

‘None of the victims had been sexually abused, there’d been no trace of semen, not even on Holly. Victims all struck from behind, just their faces mangled.’

Rooney swallowed and tapped the edge of his desk. ‘Is Lorraine Page being brought in?’

‘Changing your theory, are you?’

Rooney sniffed and waved to Bean to get out, but he hovered at the door. ‘She was an ex-cop, right? She’s capable of taking care of herself, she’s tough, I’ve heard you say it, and she’s been out hooking. She’s got a record. Maybe, just maybe, she’s also got a lot of venom in her, a hatred of women that look like her.’

Rooney hit the desk hard. ‘No. No way.’

He watched Bean walk away down the corridor. He couldn’t have lost his touch to that extent. He shut his eyes and recalled Lorraine’s face, the way her pale eyes bored into him, the scar making her face switch between vulnerable and street tough. He read through her file again: the arrests, the charges, the no-shows at court, the attacks on arresting officers, even that she had been held in a strait-jacket. Drunk and disorderly was recorded time and again. Drunk in charge of a vehicle, drunk when arrested for breaking into a liquor store — she had fought the arresting officer, bitten him, kicked him and punched him in the face. It had taken four of them to get her into the wagon. She’d been held in the cells for three days, charged with assault and spent two months in the women’s jail. If he hadn’t known her, he would have described her without hesitation as dangerous. Could she be capable of murder? His feet ached as he walked up and down, swearing alternately at Fellows — for throwing this ‘woman killer’ angle into the investigation — at Lorraine, and lastly at himself.

When Bean returned with the food, Rooney seemed distracted and had taken a bottle from one of the drawers. He took the top off his coffee, gulped a few mouthfuls and topped it up with bourbon. ‘Check that vice charge, the Janklow thing, get on that first.’ Bean didn’t say he was already working on it, he just left Rooney alone. He’d seen these dark moods often and didn’t want to be at the receiving end of one today.

Rooney closed Lorraine’s file. She had sunk lower than he could ever have imagined and he felt a certain remorse. The question uppermost in his mind was, had she sunk so low then forced herself back up just to take revenge? Should he warn all officers that she might be dangerous? He knew if he gave that out, and she resisted arrest, she might be shot.

Rooney opened the lowest drawer in his desk, took out his gun and searched for his holster. He rarely, if ever, wore it, even though he knew he should. Now he strapped it on, checked the weapon, and slipped it into place. He shrugged back into his jacket and was just about to walk out when Bean returned. ‘We got no record in any Vice section regarding Steven Janklow. This is the second time I’ve checked, so now I’ve requested they go back in Records to the time of the first murder. There’s nothing on him or the Thorburns. Nothing. Even if there had been a possible charge, we’d at least have a record or it would have been on file — that includes if charges were dropped for any reason, like string-pulling.’

Rooney passed Bean, reeking of bourbon. ‘You got your peppermints handy?’ he asked him, as if he knew what he was thinking.

‘You going home?’ Bean asked.

‘Nope, I’ll call in. I need some fresh air.’

‘What about the extra cars out looking for Lorraine Page? They still haven’t picked her up.’

‘I’ll bring her. Just hang out here until I find her.’

‘Don’t you want me to drive?’

Rooney turned on him. ‘No, I fucking don’t. Just stay put — I’ll call in soon as I find her!’

He slammed the door so hard the blinds rattled.

Lorraine asked Rosie to wait and she walked up the drive to Andrew Fellows’s home. She rang a couple of times before Dilly answered. She was wearing a nightgown with a shawl wrapped round her shoulders.

‘I’m sorry, did I get you out of bed?’

‘No, didn’t feel like getting up today, I was just watching TV. Sit down, I’ll get us some tea. He shouldn’t be too long — he called in to say he was on his way home hours ago.’

Lorraine sat down within sight of Brad’s portrait. Dilly came to sit on the sofa, curling her feet up beneath her. ‘He went to meet the FBI agents at the station. He gets talking and then he forgets the time.’

‘Dilly, tell me about Brad.’

She giggled. ‘Oh, another conquest, is it? Well, just let me warn you, he’s some hunk but don’t get too interested. He’s got a terrible reputation — screws them, sometimes marries them, but then he gets icy, ditches them. He’s ditched more than I can count.’

The kettle boiled and she went to make the tea. Lorraine looked at the portrait again.

‘He had it all, you see, given on a plate. Loaded and handsome, always a fatal combination.’ Dilly’s head appeared above the kitchen counter. ‘He’s so glamorous, motor racing — God, he looks so sexy in those white jumpsuits. Now he’s writing thrillers, or whatever he calls them, but he’ll never finish a book, I know him... Do you take sugar?’

‘What about his family?’ Lorraine asked.

‘Oh, you are hooked — or are you seeing cash registers?’

‘Just interested.’

‘I bet. His family are mega-rich. I’ll tell you something weird. His brother — he’s got an older brother, did I tell you?’

‘Go on...’

Dilly snuggled down and sipped her tea. She loved to gossip. ‘Well I only met him once. They’re like chalk and cheese. He’s quite small whereas Brad is tall and well-built, dark. Steven’s fairish, short-sighted, sort of prissy. I only saw him for a few minutes when I was up at their house. They have Christ knows how many homes — well, Brad does, he was left everything. They have different fathers — obvious, I suppose, they got different names, right? Janklow was her first husband, wealthy, I think, but it was Thorburn who had the big bucks. She was a great socialite, beautiful, pampered and I think she was in movies at one time, very early on. She’s ancient.’

‘And she’s still alive?’

‘Oh, yeah, in some expensive home. I’ve never met her but I think Andrew has. But he’s useless, I ask him all these questions about his patients and he won’t gossip but I love it.’

‘She was a patient?’

‘Oh no... well, I don’t think so. I just knew he met her once and she sometimes stays with Brad. She has this bedroom, very Greta-Garbo-style, different from Brad’s taste. His is all macho wood and the bare essentials.’

Lorraine was getting impatient.

‘How long will Andrew be, do you think?’

Dilly shrugged. ‘You asking me? All I know is he phoned to say he was on his way. Do you want another cup of tea?’

Brad offered Fellows a glass of wine, which he refused. They walked into the living room.

‘What did you want to talk to me about?’

Fellows sat down, unsure how to begin. ‘Is Steven home?’

Brad looked perplexed. ‘He may be. He keeps to his part of the house. Why do you ask?’

Fellows fiddled with the fringe on the sofa. ‘Just something I overheard tonight. I was at the cop shop — FBI agents, they’ve been brought in to oversee these murders. Have you read about them?’

Brad sipped his wine. ‘Be hard not to. Are you working on them?’

Fellows tugged frantically at his ear. ‘They brought up this guy Norman Hastings, one of the victims. Did we talk about him?’

Brad leaned back. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘Well, I suggested they dig deep — may be they’d missed something. As it turned out, I was right.’ He smiled. ‘He was a cross-dresser, you know, a transvestite.’

‘And?’ Brad said softly. His voice was deep, attractive, and he sank down lower on the sofa.

Fellows looked away. ‘I don’t think I was supposed to hear it, about this Hastings guy. Did you know he parked his car at your garage?’

Brad frowned. ‘Somebody mentioned it to me but I have no idea who parks there half the time. It’s supposed to be just for the employees.’

‘Have you been questioned?’

‘No, but the police have been talking to all the employees — in fact I was meaning to talk to you about it... because I think I might write something, and I know you sometimes assist the homicide squad. I just thought maybe you could help me.’

Fellows stood up. ‘Maybe I’ll have a glass of wine, after all.’

‘Sure,’ Brad said easily. He uncoiled his perfect body, picked up his glass and walked out towards the kitchen. Fellows followed. As he passed the stairs he looked upwards, instinctively, as if he knew someone was looking down at him, but there was no one in sight. ‘Is Steven home?’ Fellows asked again. Brad poured two glasses of Chablis and offered one to him. ‘Just I thought I saw someone on the landing.’

‘You asked that already, Andrew! You tired or something? You never did say why you came. Are you cancelling our squash game?’

‘Oh, no, that’s fine, it was—’

Brad walked ahead of him. ‘Remember the last time we played? That woman was waiting to see you — Lorraine Page? Maybe I should have told you, she came here.’ Brad was sprawled on the sofa again. ‘She was looking for someone up the road.’

Fellows sipped his wine, wondering if he should tell his friend what he had come to say. He couldn’t make up his mind.

Brad balanced his glass on the sofa arm, twisting the stem. ‘Actually, she’s rather attractive, has an odd way of looking at you, sort of sly but not—’

Fellows drained his glass and stood up. ‘Stay away from her, she’s bad news. She’s not what she seems.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean! I thought she was a friend of yours. She was at your place for dinner, wasn’t she?’

Fellows decided he’d tell Brad, whether it was ethical or not. ‘She’s a hooker and a police informer. She’s also wanted in connection with these murders. But there’s something else... The cops were discussing your garage and the fact that Hastings parked his car there.’

‘They don’t suspect anyone at the garage, do they?’

‘They were discussing your brother. Apparently he knew Hastings. He was found dead in his own car so maybe someone at your place had access to it. Look, I’m just repeating what I overheard. Maybe you can tip Steven off, have a chat to him.’

Brad walked Fellows to the front door. ‘He’s not mentioned any of this to me but we’re not exactly best of friends. But thanks, I’ll have a word with him.’

Fellows stood on the porch. ‘This is advice, Brad. I’d stay clear of Lorraine Page if she should make contact. The lady could be desirable but her past life isn’t.’

Brad watched Fellows drive away. He would have liked his friend to explain himself, but then he saw Steven standing on the first-floor balcony. Brad banged the gate with his fist and walked back into the house. He ran up the stairs two and three at a time until he reached his brother’s quarters. He tried the door, but it was locked. ‘Steven, open the door — I know you’re in there so open the fucking door. I want to talk to you.’ He waited, hit the door again, but there was silence. ‘Steven, open the door or I’ll get the master keys. Steven?’

He pressed his ear to the door. He could hear water running. He fetched the spare keys. He returned to his brother’s bedroom and slipped in the key. He walked inside, bare-foot, leaving the door wide open behind him.

Brad looked round the immaculate room. He could still hear the sound of the bathwater running as he crept across the room. He’d wait, Steven would have to come out at some time. The room was different from his own, but similar to his mother’s — floral drapes at the window, a canopied bed with swathes of silk caught in a coronet and tied with large satin bows. The carpet was oyster pink, as were the silk-covered walls. The stereo equipment was built into banks of mirrors; the television section was mirror-fronted to match the rows of wardrobes. Steven’s tapes and videos were neatly stacked and listed in alphabetical order, hundreds of CDs, old records and tapes. Brad caught his own reflection over and over again. There was no corner of the room in which you couldn’t see yourself. It was all elegant, expensive, even tasteful, if you liked that kind of décor. Brad hated it.

He looked over the dressing table — more fitting for a woman than a man, with jars of creams and perfumes in neat symmetrical rows, silver-backed mirrors and hairbrushes, and rows of silver-framed photographs. Brad had only ever entered this room two or three times and now he looked around slowly, taking everything in. He opened one wardrobe door after another to reveal rows of linen jackets and a vast array of shirts, each one covered in plastic. The shoes were packed in boxes with colour coordinations marked. There were racks of ties, silk handkerchiefs, even straw hats, a few he recognized as having belonged to his father.

He could hear the bathwater draining away. He knocked, waited a moment, then knocked again. The softly playing classical music was turned off.

‘Come on, Steven, I have to talk to you. It’s important.’ He punched the bathroom door. ‘Okay, fucking stay in there. You can come to me, I’m not waiting any longer. But you’d better come and see me, you hear? That was Andrew Fellows, my friend from the college, the professor. He’s working with the police. He had something to tell me about you, about that Norman Hastings friend of yours. If you want to know what he told me, then... screw you, Steven!’

Brad waited another few moments, then spotted the briefcase, placed neatly at the side of the dressing table. He picked it up and tried to open it, but it was locked. He looked over the dressing table and found a thin paper-knife. He prised open the lock, removed a file of papers, and then replaced the briefcase. His brother had still not made a sound so he left.

Two minutes later the bathroom door opened and Janklow walked out, draped in a silk dressing gown, naked beneath it. He bolted the bedroom door, to ensure his privacy, then walked casually towards the dressing table and sat on the small frilled stool. He opened a bottle of lotion and began carefully to cream his hands. Every move was studied, each finger massaged, each perfectly manicured nail scrutinized. He used pointed cotton-wool sticks to wipe around the cuticles and then looked along his row of clear varnishes, choosing one and carefully painting each nail. His hands were steady; he was calm. He slipped off the robe and stood naked, surveying himself in the mirrors. His slim body was still pinkish from the bath, a pale, white-skinned body, but muscular. He never went in the sun, unlike Brad — he never did any of the things Brad did, not as a child or as a man.

He began to do his yoga exercises, studying every posture in his mirrors. His testicles were small, like marbles, and his penis flaccid. He knelt forwards, squeezing his thighs together, pushing his penis out of sight until he knelt upwards, seemingly devoid of any sex organ. His nipples were erect, pink, and he slowly massaged his breasts, breathing deeply. The only blemish on his hairless skin was the mark at the side of his neck. He had used oil of arnica, even make-up to disguise the toothmarks of the bitch who had bitten him. He had been desperate to find her again. She could hurt him much more than the bite had. He breathed deeply, not wanting to become agitated.

It was almost over, he was almost free. It had been a terrible long nightmare. He had even thought of suffocating his mother just so that she would never find out; he had done it all for her because he loved her with an all-consuming passion. But they were not like mother and son, they were one. That was why he couldn’t kill her. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing her, just as he could not tolerate her knowing about him.

Brad stood in his mother’s room. He wasn’t sure why he had come here, possibly because it reminded him of Steven’s. He stood at her dressing table looking at the photographs and then slipped his finger into the small drawer in the centre. Everything here had a place and not one perfume bottle was out of line. He sniffed a cut-glass stopper and recognized the same smell from his brother’s room. As he was about to replace the stopper, he accidentally knocked over the bottle, which tipped into the open drawer, perfume splashing over the leather jewel boxes. He swore, snatched a tissue from the white-embroidered box and dabbed at the leather, then took out the large, fan-styled box to make sure it was not stained. He clicked it open. The velvet-lined case that had once contained four fabulous ropes of perfectly matched pearls was empty. He closed it and then opened the other boxes. All were empty.

He whistled softly as he shut the drawers. He checked that the perfume bottle was once more in line with the others and walked out.

Just as Brad left his mother’s room, he heard the front door close. ‘Steven? Steven?

He ran down the stairs just in time to see his brother drive out in the Mercedes.

Lorraine hadn’t seen it coming. She was totally taken aback when Dilly Fellows, midway through talking about Brad Thorburn, burst into tears. She sobbed loudly, hands over her face. ‘This is so stupid, but just talking about him hurts me so much because I love him. I don’t know what to do about it sometimes. I can usually control it but sometimes it just bursts out of me.’

Lorraine stood up. ‘Look, I’d better go. My friend’s waiting outside.’

Dilly sniffed. ‘You should have brought her in. I don’t know what’s happened to Andrew and I’m so sorry about this, I don’t know what you must think of me. Andrew doesn’t know. Oh, God, you won’t tell him, will you?’ Lorraine shook her head. ‘He’s got no idea. He knows I had a passion for Brad — well, it was obvious to begin with — but he doesn’t know just how much I care. I think about him all the time, I make up excuses to call him. I’m like a teenager — but I like it. I like this feeling. It’s like a pain, it’s almost sexual it gets so intense, and then when he comes here with Andrew, I have an orgasm just looking at him. I do, I honestly do, and it’s an incredible feeling. I put it back into my work when he’s been around, I can paint for hours. Did he touch you?’

Lorraine felt more and more uneasy. Dilly was over-bright, over-excited and her voice was verging on hysterical. ‘Why did you ask me all those questions about him? Did you fuck him?’

Lorraine picked up her purse. ‘No, I didn’t, and I have to go. Thank you for the tea.’ She couldn’t wait to get into the car.

‘Jesus, you took your time, I was just about to come in and get you. A few minutes, you said,’ Rosie growled. She was hungry and it was way past lunchtime.

Lorraine apologized. ‘That woman is freaky. I really liked her at first — she seemed so warm and friendly, so bloody normal.’

They drove off. ‘Where to next, home or what?’ Rosie asked.

Lorraine hesitated. ‘Look, we drive home,’ then ‘I’ve got to go some place else. I’ll take the car on alone because I don’t want to keep you hanging around any longer.’

‘Great, some fucking partner I am, I’m not in on anything. I don’t know what you’re talking about half the time.’

Lorraine jerked her thumb back at the house. ‘That was the wife of the guy the cops brought in to help solve the case. He’s a professor of psychology, working for Rooney. If you ask me, he should do some work on his wife. She just blurted out she was infatuated with Brad Thorburn, I couldn’t believe it.’

Lorraine knew she would go and see him, as soon as she got rid of Rosie, and it was strange, she had a dull, low ache in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to see him but it wasn’t just about the case. She wouldn’t admit that to herself, or that she was feeling sexually aroused. She refused even to contemplate that.

Rosie was still pissed off about being dumped back home when Lorraine dropped her off a little way from the apartment. Just as she turned the corner past the grocery store, Rooney screeched to a halt alongside her.

‘Where’s Lorraine? This is important, Rosie, there’s a warrant out for her arrest. If you know where she is you’ll be doing her a favour because they got every available officer out looking for her and if she resists arrest, she could get hurt.’ Rosie said nothing and Rooney got out of the car. ‘Come on, sweetheart, where is she? If you care anything about her you’ll tell me.’

Rosie looked down the road. ‘She’s gone off in the car.’

Rooney asked her for the registration number. Rosie was in a quandary but then she blurted it out. She’d said enough now and started off down the road.

‘Where you going?’

‘I got to go home, feed my cat.’

Rooney told her to stay in the apartment. If Lorraine came back she was to call him immediately. ‘You sure you don’t know where she is or where she was heading? When did you last see her?’

Rosie shouted that she’d told him all she knew and she hadn’t seen Lorraine since early morning. She hurried to her apartment and went up the stairs. She looked down at Rooney as he parked opposite the house watching her. ‘I don’t know where she is!’ she yelled as she let herself in and slammed the screen door behind her. She looked out of the window. Rooney was still there. She was about to call Jake when she heard Rooney’s car move off. She decided to wait for half an hour or so. If Lorraine hadn’t returned, if she hadn’t heard anything, she’d call Jake and ask him what she should do.

Andrew Fellows let himself in and called his wife. She gave no answer. In the kitchen, he noticed the two cups and saucers left on the draining board. He found her in the bedroom, huddled beneath the duvet, the TV on. ‘You had a visitor?’ She looked at him, eyes red-rimmed. ‘You okay?’

‘I’m fine. It’s a sad movie.’

‘Who was here?’

Dilly sat up. ‘Your friend Lorraine Page. She wanted to speak to you — waited ages.’ She swallowed and her eyes filled with tears. ‘She asked me questions about Brad and then she left. She had a friend waiting, she said.’

Fellows sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Just tell me exactly what she said, what questions she asked.’

Dilly switched off the TV by remote control. She repeated everything Lorraine had said but deleted any reference to her own outburst. Fellows went into his den. He called the police station.

Bean listened as Fellows reported that Lorraine Page had been at his home and had talked to his wife. He was very agitated and angry. Bean said he would send someone over straight away.

‘She’s not here now, she’s left.’

Bean called Rooney to let him know that Lorraine had been with Fellows’s wife. Rooney took the address; he was on his way. He’d just left Lorraine’s place, and had already put out the registration number of her vehicle. It would only be a matter of time before they brought her in.

Brad sifted through the file he had taken from Steven’s room, bank statements and other private papers. He knew it had been going on for some considerable time — it was obvious from the receipts. Steven, meticulous as ever, had carefully recorded each sale of every item he had removed from his mother’s jewel drawer. The four strands of pearls had been sold for five thousand dollars, although they were insured for three times that amount. The diamond rings, necklaces, the ruby and sapphire bracelets, the topaz ring, all had been listed but with a dash at the side of each item. Brad calculated that his brother had accrued over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, yet he had not paid it into his own bank accounts — unless he had another one somewhere.

Brad was aware that on his mother’s death she would leave the jewels to Steven. But that was no reason for him to have been selling them off without her permission — unless she knew of it. It was just after three. He decided against calling the nursing home: better to face Steven first when he came home.

He replaced the papers in the briefcase, then went back into his mother’s room. One of the wardrobe doors was slightly ajar and he opened it to close it properly. He looked at the rows of her wigs. He found them distasteful, as he found everything about her obsessive drive to retain her youth. The wardrobe was crammed with flimsy gowns and négligés, not fitting for a woman in her seventies, of an era when she had been in her prime. Brad was sweating from the overheated room and the cloying smell of her perfume. He felt slightly nauseous, also guilty. She had always hated anyone touching her things. She herself had never liked to be touched. How often as a child he had run to embrace her, but she had always held up her perfectly manicured hands as if she was scared to be held by her own child. It had been different with Steven. If anything, she had encouraged him because he was so much older than Brad. She pointedly preferred his company. Brad remembered his father in one of his rages shouting up the stairs, as she stood quivering in pale lime chiffon, that if she didn’t want him, he would find other women who did. ‘Other women?’ She had leered down at his father, her perfect red lips drawn back in a snarling smile. ‘No decent woman would come within a mile of you. Whores! You can only get a whore and that’s because you pay her!’

‘You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? Janklow picked you out of the chorus line. You were a ten-cent stripper — you think I don’t know? Movie star? The closest you ever got to a real movie was paying at the ticket window.’

She would throw things, she would rant and rage at him whenever he referred to her first husband, or her chorus line days, and he would roar with laughter, enjoying her fury, her humiliation, encouraging Brad to listen, warning him never to marry someone else’s used goods. She would become so hysterical that she would smash mirrors and crockery, and lock herself into her room for days on end. The only person who was ever able to calm her was Steven.

Back in his own room, Brad lay down, looking up at his mirrored ceiling. The mirror remained, a legacy from Tom Thorburn. Brad wondered if the other legacy was his predilection for young blondes. He had certainly married enough of them. But of late, like his father, he chose to go with whores rather than get involved in yet another relationship. It was rare for women to say no to him: on the polo field, at the racetrack, they were always available, like clutches of twittering starlings.

He was a man to whom few women said no. That was why he had liked Lorraine Page. She had said no but she had almost said yes. Just thinking about her gave him an erection. He was no longer pondering on his brother or what Andrew Fellows had hinted at. He was even able to put aside the Norman Hastings query, simply because he felt sure that the reason Steven had been so secretive was because of his systematic siphoning off of his mother’s jewellery. He wished he had just come out and asked Andrew for Lorraine’s phone number.

But even his relationship with Andrew was a mess because his wife was always wanting Brad to screw her, and she wasn’t the first — a lot of his friends’ wives wanted him. Some he had obliged but it always ended badly.

His erection dispersed as he looked over his life. He had wasted it, he knew that. Even his attempt at writing a novel was futile. He had millions at his disposal, his vast charitable donations taken care of by trustees, but there never seemed any point. He hated what he had become: a dilettante, worse, a clone of his father.

Lorraine headed up Beverly Glen. She passed Brad Thorburn’s home, parking the car a few houses up, half hidden from the road. She then walked back, wishing Rosie was with her. The house looked peacefully silent, the faint sound of a lawn mower buzzing from somewhere in the grounds, and she pressed the intercom at the side of the gates. She rang again as the dog appeared. He barked and then stood looking at her through the gates. Brad answered. ‘Who is it?’

‘Lorraine Page.’ She was fazed when he laughed. He didn’t say anything else but the gates clicked open. He stepped out onto the porch and leaned against the door frame, a glass of wine in his hand. He was smiling, watching her as she walked slowly towards him. She was so tall and the sun made her hair seem more white than blonde. She wore high-heeled slingback shoes, a straight skirt with a slit to one side, revealing a fraction of her thigh. The jacket was ill-fitting, a little too large, and she had a white shirt beneath, open at the neck. She wore no jewellery and it didn’t look as if she had on any make-up. She carried only a clutch purse, in her right hand. As she reached the first white stone step on the porch, she tilted her head; even from this distance, he could see the scar on her cheek.

‘I was just thinking about you,’ he said quietly. She wasn’t expecting him to be so gentle, just as she didn’t expect him to hold out his hand to her. It felt strong, gripping hers tightly. ‘Do you know the police are looking for you?’ he said, not taking his eyes from hers, trying to see what she wanted from him, but her fine hair hid her face.

‘Yes, but I have to talk to you.’

He guided her towards the hallway, his hand now at her elbow, with a firm but not threatening hold. They walked into the drawing room. He remained at the door, finishing his wine, watching her.

Is your brother home?’

‘No.’

‘Are there any servants here?’

‘Just the housekeeper, she’ll be leaving at four.’ He ran his hand over his neck to the back of his hairline. The T-shirt moved aside and she could see part of his shoulder.

She was silent. She stared hard at him and his eyes slid away, as if embarrassed by her clear, direct gaze. She opened her purse and took out her cigarettes, flicked open the packet and placed one between her lips. ‘Do you have a light?’

He came in and put down his empty glass. She thought he was going to pick up a table lighter but instead he came close, took the cigarette out of her mouth and tossed it aside. He then slipped his hand to the small of her back and pressed her to him. In her high heels she was almost as tall as he was. He kissed her and let his hand fall to her buttocks, pulling her even closer to him. He kissed her again and she responded, her tongue traced his mouth and she moved back just a fraction, taking his free hand to place on her heart. She was trembling. He scooped her up into his arms — she was so incredibly light — and carried her with ease out of the drawing room and up the stairs. One of her shoes fell off, then the other, as she rested against him. She was crying, her head buried in his shoulder. He had never known such sweetness, and by the time he laid her down on his bed, she was sobbing. He just held her, rocking her, soothing her, kissing her hair, kissing the tears that poured down her cheeks. He looked up and saw himself cradling her as if she was a child. He was scared of his own tenderness towards this woman, who both excited him sexually and aroused emotions he had not thought himself still capable of having. His arms tightened around her, until the weeping subsided and she lifted her lips to him. This time his kiss was not gentle but passionate, hard and crushing, and she responded.

Steven Janklow walked into the house. He looked into the spotless empty kitchen. The housekeeper had already left. He picked up his brother’s empty wine-glass, took it into the kitchen, and put it carefully in the dishwasher. He lifted the lids of two covered dishes left out for dinner. He was hungry but he didn’t know what he felt like eating; nothing tempted him.

He started up the stairs and stopped. He saw Lorraine’s shoes, first one then the other. He held them in disgust, cheap shoes, and carried them up the stairs, turning towards his brother’s quarters. He was just about to put them outside his door — he’d done it before, not just with shoes, but brassières, skirts and, more often than not, panties — when, as he drew closer, he could hear a high-pitched moan, like a mewing. It made him cringe. They all sounded alike, all his brother’s whores — even his wives. Janklow had intended simply to leave the shoes but the door was ajar. He put out his hand to close it, averting his eyes in case he got so much as a glimpse of their writhing naked bodies. The woman moaned again, and even though he didn’t want to look, he couldn’t help himself.

Her face was tilted towards him, eyes closed, mouth half open. She was astride his brother, her body like a young boy’s rather than a woman’s — that, perhaps, was what had made him stare. As she moved, thrusting forwards, Janklow gasped, quickly covering his mouth with his hand. He didn’t shut the door; he didn’t dare make a sound as he backed away silently. Not until he was safely along the corridor did he turn and run. He clung to the toilet rim as he vomited, retching with terror, his whole body breaking out in an icy sweat. He couldn’t be mistaken, it wasn’t possible. There couldn’t be two women with that face, that scar. It was her — the woman he had picked up, the woman who had bitten his neck until he bled like a pig.

He ran cold water over his face to try to calm himself, but his hands trembled violently. His mind screamed out questions. Why was she here? How could she have got to him here, traced him here? He tried to control his breathing, stop himself panting. Brad often dragged back whores and cheap bitches but he’d never have believed he would have sunk this low, not with that woman — she was disgusting. He flopped on his bed, saying to himself it was just a coincidence, it was that and nothing more, just a terrible coincidence. He rolled over, clenching his fists, trying not to break down and weep with fear. It was then that he saw his briefcase, knew at a glance that it had been moved, and worse, that it had been opened.

A thought struck him. He got up and went to his mother’s room where he checked her jewellery drawer. He knew that the boxes had been taken out — they were all in the wrong order. Someone had been in here and into his own room, checking him out. Was it Brad? Or was it that woman? He returned to his bedroom and bolted the door. He had to get rid of her. If she was a call-girl, if Brad had done his usual, brought her back to the house, he would just have to wait. They never stayed all night. When he saw her leave, he would follow. It was simple. He would kill her as he had almost done before, only this time he would make sure. He looked at his bedside clock, it was almost five. If she was like the others, she would probably be leaving after an hour or so to start work at night. Walking the streets as she had been doing when she had picked him up. He remembered how she had rested her hand on the car door, asked if he needed her help. There hadn’t been a car in the drive, had she come by taxi? Or parked out in the street?

Janklow crept around the house. He found Lorraine’s purse, opened it and searched through. She had little money, no cards or check books. All she had in her purse was a packet of cigarettes, a used lipstick, a comb, and, he smiled to himself, car keys.

He left the house and went down the driveway. He saw Bruno look up and wag his tail, and hoped he wouldn’t start barking. He stood, frozen to the spot, until the dog lowered his head. The gardener was on the other side of the tennis courts, using some kind of spray, intent on his work. Janklow opened the gates and walked along the road, sure that no one had seen him. There was no one on the road and not even a ear passed him.

He found Lorraine’s car and checked the keys against the registration number. He was feeling better now, more in control, already working out in his mind how he would kill her, because she was going to die.

Rooney rang Andrew Fellows’s doorbell, keeping his finger on the button. Fellows opened up and sighed when he saw who it was. ‘I said everything on the phone to Lieutenant Bean. I didn’t think it was necessary for anyone to come out, especially not now. She was here before lunch.’

Rooney smiled. ‘Sorry about this. I just wanted to go over a few things, and I’d like to speak to Mrs Fellows.’

They went into the kitchen where Dilly was sitting. She looked upset, tear-stained. She repeated everything to Rooney, again without any mention of her disclosure to Lorraine about Brad Thorburn.

‘Can I speak to you alone, Professor?’ Rooney asked.

‘Of course. Dilly, this won’t take long.’

Fellows took Rooney into his den. He looked a little sheepish.

‘You know the Thorburns?’

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t mention it this morning.’

‘No one asked me if I did or didn’t know them.’

‘When you left the station, did you come straight back home?’

Fellows flushed a deep red. ‘No, I did not. I... I went to the Thorburn house.’

Rooney stared hard, in disbelief as Fellows told him what he had said to Brad. He was obviously ashamed and knew he had behaved unethically. Rooney asked for Thorburn’s address and phone number. He left shortly after, not reprimanding Fellows, not saying much at all.

Fellows found his wife in the bedroom. She was crying again. He stared at her for a moment and then walked out. In a fit of rage he dragged Brad’s portrait off the wall, smashed it against the open fireplace until the canvas ripped apart and the frame snapped. He stamped on it, then lit the log fire and watched it blaze. He had never felt so angry in his life — angry and bitter, but above all foolish. He hated that most of all. He had just jeopardized his work with the police and doubted if he would ever be called upon again.

As the flames slowly destroyed the painting, his anger subsided. Now he felt nothing but humiliation. Brad Thorburn’s nakedness had dominated his home and he had allowed it, joked about it, encouraged Brad to visit Dilly. What made it worse was that Brad had known of her instability, which made his affair with her even more of a betrayal. Fellows vowed never to speak to or see him again. He couldn’t even stay in this room, even though the painting was no longer hanging on the wall. The vast space where the life-size portrait had hung added insult to injury. He picked up a cup of cold coffee and headed into the den. As he shut the door, he could hear his wife still crying but he had no intention of discussing Brad with her again. Fellows didn’t care if he had screwed her once or twice, it was immaterial. The fact that he had fucked her at all was what mattered.

Fellows found little solace in his den. There were photographs of him and Brad together all over the walls, the two of them fishing, playing baseball, water-skiing in Miami, at squash tournaments, on tennis courts. Brad Thorburn and Andrew Fellows had known each other for many years, had always been competitive with each other as sportsmen. In the women stakes, Fellows had never moved in Brad’s social sphere, had never wanted to, could never have been any competition there. No man could, not with Brad’s looks and wealth.

Fellows sat at his desk. He drew the file on the murder investigation closer and began to go over every detail once again. He had been so sure that Brad Thorburn could have no connection with the killings but what if he had been wrong? What if he had missed something? If he had, he was determined to find it. It made him feel better. He wanted to hurt Brad Thorburn — better still, destroy him.

Rooney reached his car and picked up the radio to tell Bean he was now on his way to the Thorburns’.

‘You going to interview Janklow?’ Bean asked.

‘Nope, I think Lorraine Page is trying to though so get a squad car out there. It’s Beverly Glen, you got the address? Okay, I’ll see you.’