Cold Shoulder

Chapter 17

They lay naked side by side, the sheet loosely covering their bodies. She was face downwards, her eyes closed. Brad drew the sheet back and brushed his hand gently over her body. ‘How did you get these marks?’ He leaned up on his elbow, to trace the scar on her face. ‘And this?’

She pulled away from him, and suddenly swished the entire sheet from the bed and wrapped it around herself. ‘I’d better get dressed.’

He remained lying naked on the bed as she crossed the room. Trailing the sheet, she started to pick up her clothes. Skirt in one hand, she looked around. ‘Where are my shoes?’

Brad got up and opened a wardrobe. He took out a white kaftan and dragged it on over his head. ‘They must be downstairs. I’ll get them.’ He stood behind her and wrapped his arms round her, kissing the nape of her neck. Then he frowned and brushed the short hair at the nape of her neck upwards. ‘Jesus Christ, how did you get this one?’

The scar, still pink and raised, zig-zagged across her hair line. She tried to move away but he gripped her tightly. ‘Why don’t you answer me? Who did this to you?’

She tried to release herself but he held her tighter. ‘I need to get dressed.’

He let go of her shoulders. ‘I’ll be downstairs.’

‘Don’t go, not yet, we have to talk, the reason I came here.’

Brad sighed. ‘You want to talk but if I ask you a question you refuse to answer. So you go ahead, you talk.’ His face was tight with anger because he had thought she had come to see him, be with him. She continued to gather her clothes as he sat waiting.

‘Look, if it makes it any easier I know you’re a whore, you told me that yourself. Is it money you want?’

She moved so fast and it was so unexpected that he did nothing to defend himself. The slap was hard and it hurt. He rubbed his cheek and laughed.

‘I didn’t come here for what we just did.’ She stepped back and her fists were clenched. He reached out his hand to her but she wouldn’t take it. She began to pace up and down, the sheet trailing on the floor. She looked astonishingly beautiful. There was a mannish quality to her as she tightened the sheet round her body. ‘The scars I got from times when I was on the streets. I used to get drunk, I don’t know what I did, who I went with. I’m not proud of the hideous things or the cigarette burns, but I never felt them. I didn’t care enough about myself to care.’

‘And now?’ he asked.

‘Now I just want you to listen — don’t interrupt me, just listen.’

‘Fine.’ He leaned back against the pillows. He was not disgusted by anything she had said — in some ways he didn’t really believe it.

‘The scar on my cheek was a bar-room fight over a bottle of vodka, that’s about as much as I can remember, nothing dramatic, nothing romantic. I got it, I live with it, and I was, so I was told, lucky not to lose the sight of my eye. I was a hooker but who I was with and when I don’t know. I don’t have AIDS, or any venereal disease, just in case you’re freaking out. I had myself checked. There’s a lot of my life I don’t remember. But I do know about this scar, this one at the back of my head, because this is one of the reasons I’m here.’

She was very still, standing like a statue in front of him. She seemed to be watching him for a reaction, some kind of revulsion that would help her continue, but he gave none. Instead he patted the bed, indicating for her to lie beside him, but she shook her head.

‘I used to be a police officer. I was a lieutenant with the LAPD Homicide Unit.’

He half smiled and she glared at him. He lifted his hands in an apologetic gesture. She continued: she was now acting as a paid street informer for Captain Rooney. He had hired her because she knew the girls on the streets and he needed information about the hammer killer. She looked directly at him as he sat up, no longer smiling, but staring at her. Without any emotion she told him about the night she had been attacked, half turning to reveal the scar again. She then told him how she had made an anonymous call to the police describing the man who had attacked her. As she gave Brad the description, she didn’t take her eyes off him. If she had described his brother, he showed not the slightest sign of recognition. She explained how she had taken Hastings’s wallet. She watched him all the time as she told him about Art Mathews, Didi and Nula. He listened in silence. He only became tense when she described the cufflinks, the S and A logo, the cufflinks worn by the man who had attacked her. Brad got off the bed and crossed to a pine dresser. He opened the drawer and took out a small leather case. He threw it onto the bed. ‘Like those?’

Lorraine opened the box and took out the cufflinks. She looked at them and nodded. He stood with his hands on his hips and after a moment he asked her to go on. She told him how she had gone to his garage, checked out the workers, checked out the cars in the hangar and had discovered that Norman Hastings had parked his car there the day before he was murdered. That no one could recall what time he had removed it or if he took it away himself Perhaps it had been taken by someone working at the company.

Brad returned to the bed. Seeing a muscle working at the side of his neck, she knew he was on edge. His eyes also betrayed him, but he never mentioned his brother, just indicated for her to continue. The more she talked, the more he realized that, just as she had said, Lorraine Page had not come to his home for any sexual or romantic reason, but for information. He had misjudged her, misjudged his own prowess, he didn’t know this woman at all; he was becoming more and more wary of her.

Lorraine detected his anxiety but continued, keeping her eyes on him constantly. She noticed that it was almost five thirty on the bedside clock, and she started to hurry, telling Brad how she and her friend had photographed each of the workers and had eliminated them one by one. The reason she was outside his house was to continue the elimination process. ‘You mean me?’ he asked.

‘Yes, we even took some photographs of your brother, but none were of much use, so I returned to the Hastings murder, to his wife, and to the man who had taken photographs of Hastings. His name is Craig Lyall.’ She waited a beat but he didn’t react so she continued.

‘Norman Hastings was a transvestite.’

Brad’s eyebrows lifted slightly. It was an open reaction without guilt.

‘I think the killer was being blackmailed,’ Lorraine went on, ‘and probably for some considerable time. I think Hastings was too, but he was only able to pay small sums that wouldn’t alert his wife and family. He was very protective towards them, terrified his private life would be disclosed. I believe the blackmailers were Art Mathews and Didi, one of the victims, transsexual. She made up the men for photographs taken by Lyall. She was then able to tip off Mathews and he, I think, instigated the blackmail.’

She had seen it, just a flicker in his eyes, on the word blackmail but he covered it well, nodding as if he wanted her to continue. She was combing her hair, watching him in the mirror. ‘I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee,’ she said, and smiled, then remembered the housekeeper would have left.

He stood up immediately. ‘I’ll make it.’

‘And I still can’t find my shoes.’

Brad opened the bedroom door. The shoes were neatly placed outside. He picked them up, held them by the straps and tossed them to her. Lorraine slipped her feet into them before she remembered they had fallen off as he carried her up the stairs. Who had placed them outside the door? The housekeeper? Or someone else? Down in the kitchen, Brad sweated. Had Steven come home? He couldn’t recollect the alarm being triggered, and the security system worked on a timer device so would have automatically switched on. By now the gardener would also have left. He looked out of the window and couldn’t see the Mercedes. He was sure he hadn’t heard Steven return. Maybe he was still out. But if he was, who had put Lorraine’s shoes outside the bedroom door?

Brad jumped when he heard her footsteps on the marble hall. She went into the drawing room and collected her purse and then he heard her walking towards the kitchen.

‘Did you say the housekeeper left at four?’ she asked nonchalantly, as he ground the coffee beans. She was trying to remember what time they had gone up to the bedroom. ‘I wondered who left my shoes outside your door.’

‘Probably Maria, she’s obsessively tidy. Am I one of your suspects?’ he asked, smiling.

‘No, of course not.’

He sat on the stool next to her. ‘Do you need me to call you a cab?’

She touched his face. ‘No, I have a car. Now, can we stop playing games?’ She withdrew her hand. ‘Tfell me about Steven.’

‘What about him? Oh, you wanted to see him. Well, he’s out but if you leave me your number I can get him to call you tomorrow.’

‘Don’t protect him, Brad. You’d better be honest with me. That’s what I meant about stopping playing games. I want to talk about him, I want to see him to eliminate him. It was your brother I came to see — see him face to face.’

Brad pointed at her. ‘Why don’t you stop? You eliminate him? You? There’s a warrant out for your arrest, as we both know.’ Brad smiled as he poured the coffee. ‘You know, I’ve been fascinated by this monologue you’ve just delivered. The rogue cop, is that how you see yourself? Maybe the booze did something to your head, Lorraine. I know why you’re here.’

She was off the stool, heading towards him. ‘Who told you about the warrant out for me? — was it Rooney? Did he speak to your brother?’ Brad put his cup down. She’d changed suddenly. He thought she was just scared but she said, steadily, ‘You’d better tell me, Brad. This man has killed nine times. He knows I’m alive and he’s looking for me. I’ll be the next. Who was here and what did he tell you? Was it Captain Rooney?’

‘No, it wasn’t him, whoever he is.’

She pushed at him. ‘Who was it? Did he speak to Steven? For God’s sake, stop playing around and tell me who was here?

Brad gripped her wrist. ‘It doesn’t matter. What matters to me is you have to stop this right now — whatever you’ve dug up on Steven, whatever filth you want to make up about him, about this family.’

She jerked free. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘How much do you fucking want? You’re very clever at what you do, Lorraine. I’ve had it before, I just didn’t think I could be so wrong about someone. So how much and what have you got on Steven? Is that why you took such pains to explain the blackmail by those two whatever-their-names-were?’

‘You think I want to blackmail you?’

‘Isn’t that what you came here for? This family has always been an easy mark, so name your price.’

She snatched up her purse. ‘Nothing you could pay, Brad Thorburn. You just think what you want, I didn’t come here for any other reason than to—’

‘What?’ he interrupted. He was angry but controlled.

‘I think your brother is a killer. You won’t be able to protect him or buy him out of this. You know why? Because I’ll prove it.’

Brad sneered, ‘You expect me to believe a word you’ve told me? I’ve had threats from a lot better than you, sweetheart.’

‘What about your brother? Has he had threats?’

‘My brother is no concern of yours. Now get the hell out of my house! Now! Get out!’ Lorraine turned on her heel. He could hear her walking across the marble hallway, the front door slamming behind her. He waited a moment before he called his lawyer, asking him to come to the house immediately.

She was almost at the gates when she saw a reflected blue light and knew a patrol car was near or heading close by. She pushed the gate closed and ran to the shrubbery. She only just made it out of sight as Rooney appeared.

The front doorbell rang and rang. Brad stared out of the window and could see a figure standing outside the gates. For a moment he thought Lorraine had returned. He went out onto the porch, and Rooney announced himself. Brad stood at the door as Rooney walked up the path and stopped on the bottom step. ‘Is Steven Janklow home?’

Brad shook his head and introduced himself. Rooney showed his ID, badge and repeated his name as they entered the house, Brad ushering him ahead. As he closed the door, he saw a police patrol car draw up outside the gates.

Lorraine watched the interaction from the shrubbery. She felt safer now that Rooney was here. She wanted to get back inside the house and remembered the door at the rear opening onto the small corridor leading up to Brad’s bedroom. She crossed her fingers that it would be open and that the alarms had not been switched on.

Rooney looked around the impressive drawing room. Brad offered a drink but he refused. ‘Do you know where your brother is, Mr Thorburn?’

‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t. What is this about?’

‘I think you know. Andrew Fellows called by earlier, didn’t he? So let’s cut the bullshit. Is Lorraine Page here?’

‘She was but she left.’

‘Do you know where she went?’

‘No, I don’t. I’m surprised you didn’t see her, she was here about ten minutes ago.’

‘Mr Thorburn, I won’t keep you, I’d just like a recent picture of your brother, Steven Janklow.’

Rooney wandered over to a grand piano and looked at the silver-framed photographs. He picked one up and held it out. ‘This him?’

Brad said no, it was his father. He suggested that the following morning, when he had had time to speak to his brother, he would ask him to let Rooney have a photograph.

‘I’d like to take a look at one now,’ Rooney said stubbornly.

‘Is it really necessary?’

‘Yes, sir. This is a murder investigation.’

Brad disappeared and Rooney stood with his feet planted apart. He was on dangerous ground, he knew, standing in the Thorburn household demanding a photograph without any warrant or back-up evidence except Lorraine’s theory. He waited, then crossed to the telephone and punched out Lorraine’s number. Rosie answered.

‘Ifs Rooney. Is she back yet?’

‘No.’

‘Call me as soon as she gets in.’

He put in another call to Bean. Still no sign of Lorraine. Suddenly, Rooney heard a car driving up the gravel path. He wondered if it was Janklow. His heart sank as he heard voices, Brad saying something about a police officer, a long, whispered conversation. Then Brad walked into the drawing room, with a small balding man wearing rimless glasses and carrying a briefcase.

‘This is Alfred Kophch, Captain Rooney.’

Rooney shook the pallid little man’s damp hand and remained standing. He didn’t need to be told that the balding man was one of the most high-powered criminal lawyers in LA. Kophch sat down and opened his case. ‘You want a photograph of my client Steven Janklow, is that correct? Do you have a warrant to be on the premises?’

Rooney huffed and said that at this stage of his inquiries he did not require a warrant. It was an informal visit and Brad Thorburn had invited him in.

‘Why do you want a photograph of my client?’

Rooney went a deep red. ‘Elimination purposes.’

‘I would like to know why no one has contacted Mr Janklow before, and why you have made an informal house call at six thirty p.m.’

Rooney sat on the edge of the plush sofa. He was beginning to sweat, not with nerves but with contained agitation. This grilling made him feel as if he was the guilty party. He reached into his pocket and took out a dog-eared envelope with scrawled dates on the back.

‘I would also like to ask — informally — Steven Janklow to tell me where he was on these dates. As he is not here, you can bring him with you in the morning, with a photograph.’

Why do you need this photograph if Mr Janklow is prepared to come in to see you in person?’

‘An attack took place in a multi-level garage. We believe the man that attacked the woman, our witness, is involved in the murders.’

Kophch sighed. ‘So now you’re saying that Mr Janklow is also a suspect for this attack?’

‘Possibly.’

‘And the name of the witness?’

Brad leaned forward. ‘It’s a prostitute called Lorraine Page. There’s a warrant out for her arrest and she’s involved in a blackmail case.’

‘Is this correct?’ snapped Kophch.

Rooney shuffled uneasily. ‘I am not prepared to disclose the identity of the witness.’

Kophch gave Rooney a warning look. ‘Blackmail? This is all getting out of hand, isn’t it? I suggest that when you have charges you wish to relate to my client, you contact my office. Until then you should leave these premises immediately and I will forward a complaint to your superiors.’

Rooney stood up slowly. ‘Fine. All I’m trying to do is track down a killer.’

Kophch faced Rooney. ‘And I am protecting my client. As you must be aware, the Thorburns are an influential family and have in the past been subjected to various blackmail threats and—’

Rooney interrupted, taking a flyer, ‘Then there was the vice charge against Mr Janklow that was dismissed. I am aware of certain activities in the past concerning this family, which is why I chose to make this an informal visit.’ Suddenly, he was on a roll. He could see the hooded looks passing between the lawyer and Brad, and pushed it further. ‘However, this is not just a homosexual cruising or pick-up, but a murder and one that has been the focus of huge media attention.’

Kophch was good. He didn’t back off as Rooney had expected but came straight back at him. ‘And in the late edition of the papers today there was an announcement that a man arrested for these murders had subsequently committed suicide. Are you now saying this man was not the perpetrator of these crimes?’

Rooney sniffed and pulled at his nose. ‘Possibly not.’

His face tight with contained anger, Brad snapped, ‘It appears that everything and everyone concerned in this investigation is only “possibly” attached. I suggest that my lawyer should contact your superior and discuss it with him. Now I’d like you to leave my house.’

Rooney was shown the door. The gates opened and he stepped out, hearing them clang shut behind him. As he crossed to his car, he looked down the road, walked a few yards and then squinted in the semi-darkness at the registration number of the parked vehicle. It was Lorraine’s. Two uniformed officers were already peering inside. Rooney called his office again to check if Lorraine had been traced. When he heard that she had not, his heart sank. He walked back to the Thorburn house as the alarm floodlights went out. The house seemed ominously dark and quiet apart from the ground floor, where he suspected Thorburn and Kophch were still talking. The officers asked what he wanted done about Lorraine’s car. ‘Open it up and search it,’ he snarled. In truth, he wasn’t sure about his next move. He felt a dull panic. Where the hell was she?

Lorraine had found the hidden door open and, in darkness, had made her way back up the narrow staircase into Brad’s bedroom. The sheet she had used was on the floor where it had dropped, the pillows on the bed where she and Brad had made love were still dented from his body.

Lorraine crept along the landing. She had seen Rooney enter, and the lawyer, though she didn’t know who he was, but was glad of the diversion as she went silently towards the bedrooms, trying to determine which was Janklow’s. Below she could hear Brad talking and the low tones of another male voice she wrongly presumed was Rooney’s.

She tried two or three rooms before she entered what she thought must be Janklow’s and quietly closed the door. She looked around, checked the bathroom and wardrobes, half hoping to find female clothes or wigs but there was nothing. She was disappointed. All she wanted was a photograph, something she could take with her, but while there were many of his mother, and of him and Brad as boys, there were none of Janklow as a man. She was about to leave the room when she saw the briefcase.

She picked it up and froze when the locks clicked open loudly but all she could hear was the low murmur from downstairs. She sifted through the papers as Brad had done, searching for a diary, anything that would give her an insight into Janklow. She found the receipts, all the recorded sales of jewellery, but replaced them and then studied Janklow’s bank statements. Again, like Brad, she noted that none of the sums paid to him for the jewels had been put into his accounts. And there was the neat methodical list of jewellery items — maybe these were to be sold? She gave up and went out of the room.

Then she found the mother’s bedroom. She went over to the dressing table and glanced at one silver-framed picture after another. Still none of Janklow as an adult. Lorraine picked up a photo of the glamorous Mrs Thorburn — so like the woman driving the Mercedes as photographed by Rosie. It looked posed, well lit and touched up. She turned the frame over, about to replace it, when she decided to see if the photographer was identified on the back of the picture.

As she opened the frame she almost dropped the glass but caught it in time. A second photograph had been placed inside. At first glance it looked like another photograph of Mrs Thorburn, but on closer inspection it obviously wasn’t. The blonde wig was identical, even the diamond necklace, the way the gloved hand rested beneath the sitter’s chin. But this sitter was not Mrs Thorburn. It was someone attempting to look like her, but no amount of airbrushing and touching up could disguise the fact that the sitter was a man.

Lorraine took the photograph and replaced the frame. She checked three more before she found another hidden photograph of the same man. She could not be sure it was Janklow, or even the man who had attacked her, only that it was some man impersonating Mrs Thorburn. She then heard an ominous creaking sound from above: footsteps pacing up and down.

Quickly, she peered at the back of the photograph and made out a pale imprint of the photographer’s name and contact number. It was so blurred that she needed more light, but she suspected it would be either Art Mathews or Craig Lyall. As she eased open the door, she jumped back as she heard voices, louder now. She hurried to the landing to look down to the hall. Should she confront Brad and Rooney together? Or get out, drive herself to the station, and show them the photographs? She crept further along the landing; they were still talking. Then she heard the same pacing coming from above. Was it Janklow? She dithered a moment and then moved silently down one stair at a time. She was within yards of the drawing room and she could hear clearly now.

‘How serious is this?’ she heard Brad ask.

‘I have no idea but I will tomorrow, I’ll go there personally. It’s best not to worry about it. Just leave it with me.’

Lorraine was at the foot of the stairs, her heart pounding. She could easily have walked in, admitted being there — but why couldn’t she hear Rooney’s voice? She turned suddenly, certain someone was watching her. She pressed against the wall, trying to look up the stairs.

‘You don’t think there’s any possibility of there being any truth in all this, do you?’ Brad sounded tired. The clipped tone of the other man replied that he doubted there was anything to be worried about, he was fully aware of Steven’s sexual preference and he would make sure it was never disclosed. But he would like to talk to him at the first opportunity. Where was he? Brad had no idea, but knew that he had been home earlier.

Why couldn’t she hear Rooney’s voice? Was he there? She looked to the open kitchen doorway, then back to the drawing room, and stepped out of her shoes. She made it to the kitchen and then stopped. She looked again to the first landing, again sure she had seen someone.

‘I’ll show you out.’ It was Brad, and they were walking towards the hall. She dodged into the kitchen, seconds before the two men emerged from the drawing room. Lorraine could see them through a narrow chink between the door and its frame but she still couldn’t see Rooney. He must have already left.

‘One thing’s bothering me, Alfred. Do you know if Mother instructed Steven to sell off her jewellery?’

‘I don’t deal with Mrs Thorburn’s private accounts, it’s an entirely different department, but I’ll get it checked out.’

‘I’m sure there’ll be a reasonable explanation. I know the jewellery will be left to Steven on Mother’s death — it’s just that I find it strange that neither Mother nor Steven has mentioned it to me.’

Lorraine was terrified to move: they were so close. She was hoping and praying that if the front door was going to open, she could get out through the back door as the security system would be off. She was about to head for what she presumed was the back door when something Brad said made her freeze.

‘This last business, I thought there was no possible way it could get out. You told me there would never be any repercussions and yet that Rooney brought it up as if it was still on the police files.’

Kophch again said that he would look into it. Although he had made certain there was no documented evidence left on any police file, he could not guarantee the silence of any officer who had been involved.

‘Then pay them off, if necessary, whatever the cost.’

Lorraine flattened her body against the wall inching towards the back door.

‘You know, Brad, there’s only so much I can do. I cannot in any way jeopardize myself. Do you have any reason to believe that Steven could be involved in this? Because if you do, you must be honest with me. For example, this witness, do you know any more about her?’

Lorraine heard Brad discussing her visit, that he was sure she had only been trying to get money out of him. He sounded angry, his voice rising. ‘Well, I can have her taken care of if she contacts me again.’

He was interrupted. ‘No, you listen to me. If this woman shows up, you do nothing. Nothing. As I said, I was able to take care of things last time but this is bigger — this is murder, and if the press get wind that either you or your brother have any involvement, you’ll be hounded. Now do you understand? You do not do anything without first discussing it with me!’

Brad walked out onto the porch with his lawyer. They shook hands and Brad watched Kophch take out his car keys. Then he walked back to the house, his hand on the buzzer to open the gates.

Lorraine edged to the back door. She tried the handle: it was open. She said a silent prayer, only to find she was in the garage rather than the garden as she had expected. The kitchen door closed behind her, just as Brad closed the front door and switched on the alarm circuit.

She looked round the vast dark garage, which had room for at least six cars. At the side of the sliding doors was a row of numbered buttons to open them and above the buttons was an ominous unblinking red dot. She tried to go back the way she had come, but the door was now locked. She was trapped inside the garage.

Rooney was sitting in his car as the lawyer drove past. Kophch stared at him but did not stop. Lorraine’s car remained parked along the road; the two officers had found nothing inside. Rooney sat, hoping to see her and becoming more and more worried as the minutes ticked by. He wondered if she was in the house. He even wondered if he should go back in and demand to search the place, but he had no warrant.

The two officers hovered, waiting for instruction. Rooney rubbed his chin; his stubble itched. He was dog tired. ‘I think she’s maybe up at the house. I want one of you to call, ask if you can look around the grounds. I doubt if he’ll let you in but it’s worth a try. If we get no luck, take her car back to the station.’

Lorraine looked about her. A Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow, plus Brad’s sports car, two Harley Davidson motorcycles, a Porsche and, hidden from her sight at first, the Mercedes. She was sure it would be alarmed, like everything else in the house. She looked at the garage doors, could see wires threaded everywhere. It was like a fortress. No way would she be able to get out that way; she’d have to return to the house. Then she heard the ringing of a distant doorbell. The garage doors began to slide open. She ducked behind a car as they began to whir and grind, pulling back. She peered up and could see Brad standing right outside the garage with a uniformed police officer.

Take a look around in here and then wherever else you like but not in the house.’

She could see Brad’s bare feet beneath the cars, and the dark trouser legs of the police officer, his black rubber-soled shoes.

‘I’ll show you round the back way,’ Brad said. He hadn’t expected to see Steven’s car there and it had freaked him. He was sure his brother wasn’t in but he covered his initial reaction by quickly offering to show the officer the gardens.

Lorraine waited until they were out of sight before she dashed out of the garage towards the grass verge and ran flat out until she reached the open gates.

Rooney and the officer were standing by her car, Rooney leaning forward for his cigarette to be lit. She headed to his car. It was open and she threw herself inside, onto the back seat. Rooney inhaled and let the smoke drift out of his nostrils. He checked the time again; it was almost seven o’clock. His stomach grumbling for food, he plodded back to the gates as the second officer appeared, a young, fresh-faced boy, who worked out. His muscles rippled beneath his pristine cop shirt and badge and he edged his night stick aside from his leg.

‘There’s no one in the grounds, Captain, and Mr Thorburn wants to lock up for the night. What do you want me to do? This place is alarmed all over, he’s standing with his hand on the buzzer, says we can’t go into the house.’

Rooney waddled towards him. ‘You didn’t see anything?’

‘Been round the back, summer-house, tennis courts, swimming pool, checked all over. She’s not in the grounds.’

Rooney went back to his car but he couldn’t just walk away. As the two officers stood in the road waiting to know what he wanted them to do, he reached in for his radio.

‘Don’t let them take me in, Bill,’ Lorraine said quietly from the back seat. ‘Please don’t.’

Rooney turned back to the officers but they hadn’t seen her. ‘One of you take her car into the holding bays, the other follow. I’ll see you back at base.’

Rooney got into his car and watched the two men split up, one going for Lorraine’s car, the other getting a set of pliers out of the patrol car. He started his engine and drew away, leaving them as they decided who should drive Lorraine’s car. The young muscular cop laughed as they reached down to fix the wires to start the engine. He said it had been a long time since he’d been caught doin’ this.

‘You go first, Rambo, I’ll follow.’

Rooney didn’t even head up Mulholland but pulled over about a mile away. She’d have felt better if he’d slammed on the brakes and yelled at her, but instead he engaged the handbrake gently and switched off the engine, then slowly swivelled around to face her.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ He hit the seat with the flat of his hand.

She unfolded the photographs. ‘These were behind pictures of Mrs Thorburn. Look at the back. Can you see who took them?’

Rooney snatched the pictures and reached into his glove compartment for a torch. He shone it onto the creased photograph.

‘Can you make it out?’

‘Can you?’ He passed the torch across to her and she shone it on the faded photographer’s stamp. ‘Professional Photo Studio,’ she said slowly, disappointed it had not said Art Mathews — yet it could have been his studio, or even Craig Lyall’s.

‘So you got photographs of a woman,’ Rooney said flatly.

‘They’re not of a woman, Bill, it’s a man dressed up. And it’s not just any woman he’s dressed up to look like, but Mrs Thorburn. I think it’s Janklow.’

‘Jesus Christ, now what you tellin’ me? That he’s a homo or a transvestite, or what? Is he or isn’t he the man who fucking attacked you, Lorraine?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know. Well, that is fucking great.’

‘I didn’t see him, Bill — that’s why I went there.’

‘I told you to stay in the apartment. You promised me. You done nothing but jerk me off, Lorraine.’

She sighed, watching her car being driven past followed by the patrol car. They tooted and waved at Rooney. As Lorraine’s car drove away, the patrol car slowed.

‘Everything okay, Captain?’ The officer stared at Lorraine in the back seat.

Rooney jerked his thumb at Lorraine. ‘Yeah, it’s all fine. I found her. Go on, I’ll see you back there.’

They watched the patrol car move off and Rooney turned back to her. ‘I got to take you in. You got no option, I got no option.’

‘I went to an AA meeting, I was going to go straight back and wait for you but...’

He fished in his pocket for his cigarettes, lighting one from the butt and tossing it out of his window. ‘But you didn’t. I’ve been running all over Pasadena, all over LA looking for you. They got half the cops on duty out looking for you. What the hell have you been doing?’

‘Getting laid,’ she said flippantly.

‘Very funny, Lorraine, you always liked a joke. Well, this time the laugh is on me. Why didn’t you tell me you were with Art Mathews the night of Holly’s murder, with him all night? You were his friggin’ alibi.’

She sighed, leaning forward to rest her arms along the seat. ‘I wasn’t with him all night. I left quite late... Rosie’ll remember, maybe after twelve.’

He passed her a cigarette without her asking for one. ‘I’m out of matches.’

She delved into her purse. What time was Holly murdered, or near as damn it?’ He took the matches, struck one, then held the flame out to her. ‘Thanks.’ She exhaled, waiting for him to answer her question.

Rooney plucked at his eyebrows. There had been so many murders, he couldn’t remember offhand what time they had verified that Holly had died.

Lorraine tapped his arm. ‘About eleven, wasn’t it? She was just starting work so it’d be around ten thirty or eleven. I was with him so he couldn’t have done it.’

Rooney lowered his window. ‘Doesn’t matter to him, he’s dead, but it matters to you because the FBI got your name from him. I can’t not take you in.’

He started the engine.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘Back to the fucking station, where do you think? I just told you. I’m handing you over, I want you out of my hair, out of my life. You and your theory will land me in a strait-jacket, never mind retiring me. You’ve been feeding me a line of bullshit from day one.’

‘Bill, I swear to you I haven’t.’

He looked at her in the driving mirror, his eyes watering from tiredness and smoke. ‘Holly was murdered after twelve. Lorraine, I was just testing you.’

She punched his shoulder. He stopped the car. Suddenly he was really angry, his jowled face set rigid. ‘What the fuck were you doing at Thorburn’s house? And from what I gathered, you weren’t there for any interview with his brother. Trying to make a few bucks for yourself — is that what you were up to? I wouldn’t put anything past you. Well, now I’m through with you.’

‘Was he in there?’ she asked.

‘You tell me. We won’t get a foot in there without more evidence than that load of shit you got. I’m gonna get it in the neck about this.’

He crashed the gears as the car shot forward. They headed up Mulholland, the road becoming steeper. His car coughed, protesting, but they picked up speed as they moved downhill. Suddenly Rooney stamped on his brakes as they came to the traffic lights at a dangerous multiple crossing. The patrol car was there plus two more cars, and rammed between them, the entire driver’s side smashed to smithereens, was Lorraine’s car. The officer was still inside, his blood spattering the broken windshield and soaking his muscular dead body.

Rooney barked at Lorraine to stay out of sight. As he got out and crossed to the wreckage, she peered out of the window. An ambulance and medic truck arrived and they began to release the driver.

When Rooney came back, he didn’t turn to speak to her but stared straight ahead. ‘He’s dead. He was just a kid.’

‘Was it an accident?’ she asked.

‘What would you say? There’s one, two, three other vehicles involved. He jumped the lights, this junction’s known to be a death trap. He drove straight into it.’ He faced her. ‘This is your fault. It’s due to you, you hear me?’

‘Why?’ she snapped back. ‘I wasn’t driving the goddamned car, was I?’

Rooney walked back to the scene of the crash. A few people were gathering around to gawp, more police, and now they had the dead man free. Lorraine saw Rooney and another officer prise open the car’s buckled hood. As they peered inside with a torch, another man crawled beneath it. Rooney was there for almost fifteen minutes. When he got back he sat half in and half out of his car, his feet still on the roadside. ‘Brake cable’s smothered in grease, sliced almost in two, and the handbrake cable’s cut. Did anyone have access to the car keys?’

‘They were in my purse.’

‘They still there?’

Lorraine fumbled and took them out.

‘Did you leave it unattended while you were there?’

‘Yeah. For quite a while when I was talking to Brad Thorburn. We were in the bedroom. I left my purse downstairs.’ She flushed.

He looked at her and shook his head. ‘Christ, I thought you were joking before. Did you screw him?’

‘I wanted information, Bill.’

‘I bet you did.’

‘Why don’t we go back up there, Bill, just you and me? If Janklow’s there, it’s him you should be taking in, never mind me! If I’d been in my car, it would have been me who was dead.’

Rooney slammed the car door and started the engine. ‘No way. Not until I’ve discussed this with the Chief. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it’s got to be.’

Lorraine had been hoping againt all hope that this would never happen but now there was no alternative. She would become a witness for the prosecution and all it entailed. Any idea she had had of starting up as a private investigator would be ruined: when the press got to hear about her part in the murder investigation she and her past would make the headlines. She stared out of the window as they drove towards the precinct. She wanted a drink, could feel it sweeping over her. She wanted a drink rather than face it all.

She hardly said a word as Rooney led her into the station. The duty sergeant noted down all her particulars, she was photographed, and her prints taken. Then she was led away to Rooney’s office.

Rooney had called the Chief and was waiting for him. He had shaved and changed his shirt for what looked like an even more crumpled one from his locker. He was drinking coffee and talking to Bean when Lorraine was brought into the room. Rooney introduced Bean who shook her hand and drew out a chair. ‘When we’re ready, we’ll take your statement. We’ll also tape it and film you, okay?’

Lorraine asked if someone was preparing the movie rights but no one laughed. Bean fetched her some water and cigarettes and, as he seemed so helpful, she asked him if she could call her friend Rosie to let her know she was okay.

Lorraine waited in Rooney’s office for some time. She was told they’d be held up until the FBI agents arrived; neither Rooney nor the Chief could deny them access to her. When she was eventually taken into the large room where everyone was gathered, it was eleven thirty. She remained closeted there for a further four hours. In that time she gave a clear statement of everything that had happened since the day she had first been attacked in the car park. When asked why she had not come forward, she said it was because she had removed Norman Hastings’s wallet. She didn’t lie, she could see no point. She answered all their questions directly and truthfully. No one appeared impressed by her subsequent investigation or her attempts at piecing together the evidence she had accumulated.

‘Why are you so keen on continuing this investigation, even placing yourself at risk?’ one of the agents asked. She didn’t like the look of this one: his square jaw, which worked overtime, his clean-cut face, his blond crew-cut and neat suit, like a comic-strip man.

She looked over at Rooney who nodded quickly. ‘I needed the money, I was being paid to do it by Captain Rooney.’

Although they knew about her record since leaving the police force, they seemed loath to believe that that was the only reason she had taken such risks. Surely she had another motive?

‘I suppose I did. I hoped that if I succeeded in assisting the department, then it would stand me in good stead for the future if I ever wanted to start up as a private investigator. But if I have to be a prosecution witness, then it’ll destroy that chance. I know this case’ll get a load of publicity and like me, well, they’ll go for the jugular — that’s a joke. The ex-cop ex-hooker’ll make good copy, might even get a headline “Madame Dracula”. I doubt I’ll be able to live it down. I might be able to move away, but I’ve got contacts here and you need contacts in the investigation business, right?’

They made no answer but glanced at each other before they all left the room, leaving her with a stone-faced policewoman. They returned an hour later. It was almost dawn. But Lorraine detected another undercurrent.

The Chief gave a grimace — she supposed it was some kind of smile but because he was so tense his lips just curled over his top teeth. ‘Mrs Page, would you be willing to continue assisting this inquiry?’ Rooney wouldn’t meet her eyes and the Chief continued, ‘There could be certain risks involved.’

Lorraine looked at the Chief, then Rooney. ‘You want to make a deal with me, don’t you? Well, I guess it would depend—’

‘On what?’ the Chief asked.

‘On what exactly you want me to do. If I work with you, you’ll have a tough time bringing me into court as a prosecution witness, won’t you? I’d put any money on it that anything connected to the Thorburns you’ll have to tread on lightly. What is it you want me to do? Is Janklow going in a line-up?’

‘The situation is this. If you pick Steven Janklow out of a line-up, it will be his word against yours. You are a chronic alcoholic, ex-prostitute, drug user—’

She snapped, ‘I am also an ex-cop.’

The FBI agent retorted, ‘We know that, and we’d be out of our minds to put that out. With your record, it would make you sound an even worse witness than a hooker.’

The comic-strip man leaned on the desk. ‘I think we got Janklow to agree to come into the station. He’ll be accompanied by his lawyer. What we don’t want is a line-up at this stage. But you came face to face with him, you were attacked, so what I want from you is just a good look. We’ll set him up in an interview room with a one-way viewing section so you can watch him at your leisure. Because you have to be one hundred per cent sure that the man you say attacked you was Steven Janklow.’

Rooney took over. ‘You’re the only witness we have but, that said, we’ll need a lot more. If he did attack you, then he will be charged with assault. If you’re sure it’s him, we can even press charges, but you and I both know, because of who you are and his powerful back-up, he’ll walk.’

‘What about the couple that saw me in the garage?’

‘At no time were they able to describe the man in the car with you, so they can’t be brought on as witnesses — well, not yet.’

So far Lorraine couldn’t see any risk, but then she intercepted the looks between the men. As Rooney moved closer, Here it comes, she thought.

‘You know Brad Thorburn, you’ve had sexual intercourse with him. He inferred that you may have been attempting to blackmail him. We don’t know yet if he has played any part in the murders but he is Janklow’s brother, and you’ve told us he even has a pair of cufflinks, so—’

‘You want me to blackmail Brad Thorburn?’ she asked smiling.

‘No, we want you — and only if you’re sure that Steven Janklow is the man who attacked you—’

The comic-strip man was gradually taking over and Lorraine began to try to assess him and to fathom what they wanted her to do. He was steely, assured. She determined that he was trying to make her offer to assist them without them saying it for themselves; whatever it was must be either illegal or, as they had implied, risky. They were all watching her, waiting for her to take the bait...

‘I think I get what you’re after. If I do recognize him and I’m a hundred per cent sure that the man who attacked me was Steven Janklow, then you’ve still only got him on assault. You want to use me to do — what? Put pressure on him and see what it throws up, and at the same time find out if Brad Thorburn is also involved?’

They all straightened and she knew she had not only bitten their bait but was offering to reel herself in. She looked over at Rooney and smiled. ‘I’ll do it but there are certain conditions. If I can get Janklow to admit his part in the murders, maybe by confronting him at his home, if I can get him to admit it and I’m wired up, you won’t need to call me as a prosecution witness. So there will be a guilty plea? That what you’re after?’

They didn’t say a word.

‘I’ll have a try, but I want your word you won’t release my part in any of this to the press.’

‘We can’t guarantee that,’ snapped the Chief.

‘Then bring him in and charge him. Just do what you have to do.’

There was a low murmur and she looked to the only other woman present and asked if she could go to the bathroom. She took her time: she was tired out and her clothes were crumpled. She sat on the toilet, thinking about everything they had discussed. When she was led back into the room, only Rooney and his chief remained. Everyone else had gone.

The Chief motioned her to a chair. ‘We cannot agree to any deal, Lorraine, you know that, but what we will do is not press charges against you for withholding evidence, and we will endeavour to keep your name out of the proceedings. Your identity will be kept secret, but only if you’re able to ascertain that Janklow is the killer.’

She looked at Rooney and gave a half smile. ‘Okay, I’ll do it. Though it’s a very one-sided deal to your advantage. Now, I’ll need some new clothes and I need to get some rest. I also need a car so I’ll want a clean licence — just so I don’t get picked up.’

Rooney winked at her as a warning not to press too hard for anything more.

‘When is Janklow coming in?’ she asked the Chief.

‘Not sure, but we don’t want to make it seem too urgent, so you’ll have time to change and rest up.’

‘Can Bill be my back-up?’ she asked, and smiled at Rooney who looked at the ceiling. ‘He was always a good back-up man, one of the best.’

‘No, I’m afraid not. Bill’s been seen in your company and by the look of him if he doesn’t get some sleep, he’ll fall down. You’ll have his lieutenant, Josh Bean. He’s a good man, and he’s waiting to drive you home right now.’

Lorraine was confident, almost arrogant, as she said, ‘He gonna take me shopping? I want to look good.’

The Chief replied that they might not need the new clothes. First she had to view Janklow, then they’d see about the other things she’d asked for — just as they’d also have to set her up with a wire. She walked out of the room before the Chief had finished talking, saying over her shoulder, ‘I guess you’ll call me when you need me.’

‘Can we trust her?’ the Chief asked Rooney.

‘Much as any woman and she hasn’t had a drink for nine months. She wants to go straight.’

‘It never was your theory, was it?’ the Chief said quietly and Rooney grunted. He knew that by bringing her in it’d come out in the open.

‘No. She ran rings around most officers and, so help me God, I’ll never know why she blew it those years ago.’

‘Just hope she doesn’t blow it with us. If she puts a foot out of line, Bill, I’ll haul her in so fast, I’ll have her charged and put away for a long time. You should make sure she’s aware of just how serious this is. We’ve got to get this case wrapped up. And if she fucks up, it’s not just us, it’ll be the FBI who’ll make sure she never works again, not here or in any other state. Let her know that. Make sure she knows we can’t have any mistakes — there’s been too many as it is.’