Take Two

CHAPTER 59

Richards spent most of Sunday morning nursing a wicked hangover. He got up just after eleven and made himself tea and toast and sprawled on the sofa in front of the television watching Italian football. He didn’t remember getting home, so assumed he must have taken a taxi which meant he’d left his car in the club’s car park. At just before two he phoned Alistair Cumming, the genial Scot who managed the club.

‘Bet you’re feeling rough, boss,’ said Cumming.

‘What time did I leave?’

‘Three o’clock. You were away with the fairies so I had one of the staff drive you back in the Porsche. I didn’t want anyone taking advantage of you.’

‘I woke up in bed naked,’ said Richards. ‘Please don’t say it was the gay Russian who put me to bed.’

Cumming laughed. ‘Anita took you. And she said she got you to the bedroom, gave you a bottle of water and left you to it. Apparently getting the burglar alarm code from you took some doing but she managed.’

‘Tell her thanks,’ said Richards.

‘Will do. The car’s in the car park, she said. What’s happened to the Bentley, by the way?’

‘Got rid of it,’ said Richards. ‘It was always giving me problems.’

‘The Cayenne’s a cool car,’ said Cumming. ‘Are you in tonight?’

‘Probably not,’ said Richards. He ended the call and went to shave and shower.

As he stood in the shower with water from six high-powered jets spraying every inch of his body, he suddenly flashed to Carolyn in the trunk and he shuddered. The drug he’d given her would have kept her comatose for at least six hours so he was sure she would have been unconscious when she went into the water. Death would have been quick and painless and her last few moments of consciousness were spent drinking claret on his boat. He arched his back and let the hot water play over his face. He’d killed before and never felt like this. He’d smashed Cohen’s skull with the crystal dolphin and hadn’t regretted it. Cohen was a thieving bastard who’d stolen two million pounds from him. And Richards had told Halpin to kill Maxwell Dunbar without a second thought. Dunbar was a nasty piece of work who had been more than happy to betray Carolyn. There had been others who had died, some at Richards’ hand and some because he’d ordered it, but he had never regretted it afterwards. Until today. He took a deep breath and shook his head under the torrent of water. He really, truly, hadn’t wanted to kill Carolyn. If there had been any alternative, he would have taken it. Grabbed at it, even. She was one of the sexiest women he’d ever met, she was smart, she was fun, she was stylish, she was pretty much everything he’d ever wanted in a woman. The only downside was that she had seen him commit a murder and, for that and that alone, she had died.

He closed his eyes and tried to think about something else but the same images kept coming back. Carolyn, bent over in the chest, gasping and choking as it filled with sea water. He knew that’s not what had happened, that she’d been unconscious when the chest went into the sea, but knowing that didn’t change the images that flashed through his mind. He slammed his hand hard against the tiles, relishing the pain, and then he bunched his hands into fists and punched the wall, left and right, until his knuckles were bloody and bruised.