The Doll's House

77

Lloyd knew something was seriously wrong the moment she opened the door to him. Ceri Harwood was always so well presented, so terrifyingly in control of herself and her situation, that he was momentarily lost for words. He had never seen her look rattled and he had certainly never seen her drunk before. She blamed her slurred speech on pills she was taking for a head cold, but Lloyd could smell the wine on her breath.

She had obviously forgotten they were supposed to be meeting tonight, which angered him – how could she be so bloody cavalier? She looked at him blankly at first, as if trying to place him, then without saying a word turned and headed back inside. Lloyd felt a fool standing there, clutching his small Jiffy bag, like an unwanted postman. What was he supposed to do? Enter or wait here? Had he been dismissed? Or welcomed?

Lloyd stepped inside quickly. He was here to do a job and leave – no point lingering where people might see him. A black face in this part of town would excite more interest than usual and he wanted to be as anonymous as possible.

‘Hello?’ His voice seemed to echo in the spacious and well-appointed home.

‘Downstairs’ was the listless reply from within.

He walked down a precipitous spiral staircase to the large basement kitchen. He chided himself for it, but he felt deeply uncomfortable here. He had no problem with rich people, with folk enjoying the fruits of their labour, but it was so alien to him. He had never known luxury or privilege. He wouldn’t know what to do with a house this size even if he had one.

‘Drink?’

Harwood smiled grimly at him, as she filled a glass to the brim.

‘I’m ok – I need to get back.’

‘Nonsense,’ Harwood replied, pushing the glass into his hand. ‘So what’s the news from the front?’

Lloyd looked down at the glass in his hand and anger flared through him. She had no right to play games with him.

‘The bodies have both been exhumed now and are with Jim Grieves. We haven’t officially ID’d them yet, but we’re ninety-nine per cent sure they are Roisin Murphy and Isobel Lansley.’

Harwood drained her glass.

‘Press?’

‘Nothing yet, but we’ve closed off the beach again, so it won’t be long before we’re fielding questions. Have we discussed a media strategy with liaison?’

‘Just give the hacks signed copies of Helen’s mugshot. That should do the job.’

Lloyd realized she was attempting humour, which only made this whole situation more surreal. Suddenly he wanted to be out of this place. He had no idea what had occasioned this burst of uncharacteristic behaviour, but he didn’t like it. For the first time he realized that perhaps Harwood wasn’t quite as in control of the situation as she had claimed to be.

‘Here.’

He held out the Jiffy package to her.

‘Put it on the side,’ she said, gesturing towards the obscenely large marble-topped island, before wandering off to the fridge once more.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’

Finally, Lloyd’s anger had erupted.

‘Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? For me? For us? If you’re so bloody uninterested, why did you start all this?’

Harwood paused and turned. She looked surprised, rather than offended, by his words. She shot a look at the package and her face softened. Slowly she made her way back over to him.

‘Forgive me, Lloyd,’ she said softly. ‘It’s been the worst of all days.’

She seemed uncertain whether to go on. For his part, Lloyd wasn’t sure what to say.

‘I know how this must look. But I am grateful for everything you’ve done. I know I can always rely on you.’

She looked at him warmly.

‘So let’s forget my bad behaviour, have a drink and talk about something else shall we?’

‘I don’t want to intrude. Especially if Tim’s at home and -’

‘I kicked him out.’

Lloyd was speechless once more. She didn’t seem keen to elaborate further. Harwood took a step closer to him, her nose now only a couple of inches from his.

‘So why don’t you sit down on the sofa, have a drink and relax?’

As she said it she ran her finger down his face, brushing his lips and chin before coming to rest on his chest. Her eyes sparkled fiercely at him, but he felt no desire for her, just a mixture of horror and pity.

Gently taking her hand from him, he placed his still full glass in hers and said:

‘I really must be getting home.’