Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [76]
The detective was holding the mobile to his ear and held up his hand. ‘It’s me,’ he said after a moment. ‘Park your car further up and wait till I call you. Annabelle’s on her way.’
‘That the girlfriend?’ asked Jack.
Peterson put the phone back in his pocket. ‘Fiancée.’ He went out of the room and came back with a copper-coloured bedspread. He threw it over the bodies of Celia and Durst.
‘Almost there, Jack,’ he said, looking down at the bodies. ‘We’re almost there.’
23
DETECTIVE GEOFF PETERSON did not appear outwardly nervous but he paced the room, smoked, looked through the window a couple of times. He went into the kitchen and made himself a cup of instant coffee, found a tin full of biscuits. He grabbed one and dunked it into his cup, holding the buttery goodness close to his chin. It occurred to Jack that Peterson had been a kid — once.
Think. Jack tried to wade through the swamp in his head. All he could focus on was how stupid he was. Was he any different from Durst? Suckered by a beautiful woman, completely out of his league. He was like a rabbit that had stumbled into an elephant shoot. And the whole slide into the mess had begun with a handful of goddamn poetry books.
‘So whose big idea was all this in the first place?’
Peterson wiped crumbs from the corners of his mouth. ‘What’s the difference?’ He sipped his coffee, then smiled as he swallowed, nodding his head. ‘Oh, I get it. You’re hoping Annabelle had nothing to do with it. She was forced to join in, had no choice, blah blah blah, mitigating circumstances. Sorry, Jackie boy. She’s up to her tits in it, and she’s standing on a box.’ He put the coffee cup down on the kitchen bench and lit a cigarette. ‘I told you already. Love fucks you up.’
Some time later, the sound of another car. ‘Here we go,’ said Peterson. He grinned and sat on the couch beside Jack. When they heard the knock on the door he called out: ‘Come in.’
Annabelle strode into the room and took off her sunglasses. Her hair was tied back, accentuating the fine bones of her face, the harmony of her lips, nose and eyes. Hardly any make-up. She was wearing a black V-neck jumper, tight-fitting denim jeans and black suede trainers with white lightning flashes emblazoned on the sides.
Jack sat up a little. ‘I’ve got the handcuffs ready,’ he said. ‘Just how you like it.’
Annabelle pushed the sunglasses into her red canvas shoulder bag and lifted her chin slightly. She looked down at Jack. She took in a slow breath through her nostrils and eased it out again — a sigh almost, but not quite. Her eyes dismissed him: pity mixed with contempt.
To Peterson, she said: ‘Well?’
The detective nodded at the bedspread on the floor. Annabelle turned, stared at it, expressionless but for the faintest contraction in the corners of her eyes.
‘Both of them?’
‘Take a look.’
‘I’ll be fine.’ Annabelle reached into her bag and pulled out a white envelope that looked like it contained a small paving brick. She tossed it to Peterson. He glanced at the contents then slipped the envelope into his inside pocket.
‘What about him?’
‘Ziggy’s boys should be here any minute.’
‘Then I’ll be off, Detective.’
Peterson stretched, reaching above his head with his long, monkey arms. ‘No you won’t,’ he said through a long exhale. ‘You’re staying right here.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I want you to meet my fiancée before you go.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Somebody walked into the room behind her.
‘Me.’
Annabelle swung around.
‘Hey Mum.’
Peterson had his gun out, pointed at Annabelle. Louisa walked across the room and sat down next to him on the arm of the couch. She took the gun from him, keeping it aimed at her mother. The detective beamed.
‘I borrowed your jacket,’ she said to Annabelle. ‘I hope that’s okay.’
Peterson reached out and rubbed her thigh. ‘It’s your jacket now, baby.’
Louisa leaned over and put her arm around his shoulders. She kissed him on the side of the head, smiled