Hanging Hill - Mo Hayder [82]
‘Oh, he’s mega. Mega-mega.’ She waved a hand in the air as if they were talking about a different universe. ‘Private jet, probably, servants. The works. He’s up there, now, sweetie, and there’s no taking him down.’
‘Which country?’
‘Here. In the UK.’
In the UK. Zoë cleared her throat. She’d just changed her mind about having a week off. ‘You mean, in this area?’
‘I think so, yes. And, believe me, if he set his eyes on a girl like that one on your photos he’d get dollar signs lighting up in his eyes. Why? What’s happened to her? Is she hurt?’
‘You don’t know his real name? Do you? London Tarn?’
Jacqui gave a low, guttural laugh. ‘No. If I knew his real name I’d be after him. For that tenner he borrowed off me in the nineties.’ She tapped another column of ash off her cigarette. ‘I mean, fifteen years. The interest he owes me, I could fly round the world. Go and say hi to my customers in South America, eh?’
38
The sun had already left the north-facing slopes outside Bath. The garden at Peppercorn Cottage would be in darkness. But the fields up at Lightpil House were slightly angled towards the sun and got more daytime. Another two or three minutes. The sun melted down over the hill, spread itself out, and then it was gone, leaving just a few flecks of grey cloud in the amber sky.
Sally couldn’t move David Goldrab’s body so she’d reversed her car to block the entrance to the parking area so it couldn’t be seen. Not that anyone ever came up here. Then she found a cardigan in the Ka, pulled it on and sat on the bonnet with her knees drawn up. She wondered what on earth to do. The muscles in David’s face had tightened, drawing his eyes wider and wider open, as if he was amazed by a rock that lay a few feet from his face. It was cold. She could hear everything around her, as if her ears were on stalks – the hedgerows, the fields, the faint shift of breeze in the grass, the dry rustle of a bird moving in the branches.
After a while she saw that the blood on her hands had dried. She did her best to flake some of it off with her nails. She cleaned off the phone, too, on the sleeves of her cardigan and dialled Isabelle’s number. ‘It’s me.’
‘Hey.’ A pause. ‘Sally? You OK?’
‘Yes. I mean – I’m …’ She used her fingers to press her lips together for a moment. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You don’t sound it.’
‘I’m a bit … Issie, did you pick up Millie from school like you said?’
‘Yes – she’s fine.’
‘They haven’t gone out?’
‘No – they’re all watching TV. Why?’
‘Can she stay with you tonight?’
‘Of course. Sally? Is there anything I can do? You sound terrible.’
‘No. I’m fine. I’ll come and get her in the morning. And … Issie?’
‘Yes?’
‘Thank you, Issie. For everything you are. And everything you do.’
‘Sally? Are you sure everything’s all right?’
‘I’m fine. I promise. Absolutely fine.’
She hung up. Her hands were trembling so much she had to put the phone down on the car bonnet to jab the next number into it. Steve answered after three rings and she snatched it up.
‘It’s me.’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘Something’s happened. We need to speak. You need to come to me.’
‘OK …’ he said cautiously. ‘Where are you?’
‘No. I can’t – I mean, I suppose I shouldn’t say on the phone.’
There was a pause while Steve seemed to think about this. Then he said, ‘OK. Don’t. Think carefully about every word. Are you near your place?’
‘Further.’
‘Further south? Further north?’
‘North. But not far.’
‘Then you’re …’ He trailed off. ‘Oh,’ he said dully. ‘Do you mean you’re at the house of someone we’ve spoken about recently?’
‘Yes. There’s a car-parking place. Take a right fork as you come to the house. Don’t go past the front, there are cameras. Steve, can you – can you hurry?’
She hung up. A sound – very distant in the evening air – of a car revving on the road to the racecourse. Then headlights coming through the tree-line. She lowered her head, cowering, even though it would come nowhere near Lightpil. It changed gear and continued up the hill. But she pressed her forehead against the cold windscreen, trying to disappear,