“She and I cornered the woman in Lancaster,” Zed announced. “And once we had her— ”
“Hang on,” Rodney said. “‘She and I’?”
“Right. The Scotland Yard detective and I. She’s called DS Cotter. Detective sergeant. She’s the one investigating the Cresswell death. Only she got sidetracked onto Nick Fairclough and his wife and as it turned out, that was a dynamite direction. Not for her, of course, but for me.”
Rodney said nothing at his end. Zed waited for the kudos to flow. He waited in vain. For a moment he thought they’d been cut off. He said, “Rod? You there?”
Rodney finally said, “You are one fucking loser, Zedekiah. You know that, don’t you? One fucking class-A loser.”
“Sorry?”
“There is no Detective Cotter, you idiot.”
“But— ”
“Detective Inspector Lynley is up there, the bloke whose wife took a bullet from a twelve-year-old kid last winter. Sound familiar? It was front-page news for two weeks.” He didn’t wait for Zed to make a reply. Instead he went on with, “Jesus, you are pathetic, you know? Get back to town. Collect your wages. You and The Source are through.”
ARNSIDE
CUMBRIA
Alatea saw them in the driveway. Their body language told her everything. This was not a conversation between strangers who happen to come upon each other in passing at the same destination. This was an exchange between colleagues, friends, or associates. The exchange was one of information shared. She could tell this much when the woman tilted her head towards Arnside House in the manner of someone speaking about it. Or, more likely, speaking about a person within it. Or, most likely, speaking about her. About Alatea, once Santiago. About her past and what would now be her future.
Alatea didn’t wait to see anything more pass between the woman and the man from Scotland Yard. Her world was collapsing so quickly around her that the only idea she had in her mind was flight. She would have run like a lioness in pursuit of food if she had a single place she could go, but her routes were limited so she was forced to calm herself long enough to think, just to think.
The woman needed confirmation of Alatea’s identity. The detective, obviously, would give it, courtesy of Alatea herself, who could have denied, who should have denied, but who had not thought quickly enough to deny. That much was established, for what else could they have to discuss with each other? The only questions that possibly remained were those that Alatea herself could ask. Had the woman outside with the Scotland Yard detective sent photos of Alatea to Raul Montenegro already? If she had not, was she open to bribery, a payment for maintaining silence, for reporting to Raul that Santiago Vasquez y del Torres, who had become Alatea Vasquez y del Torres, who had married Nicholas Fairclough to escape a past that tied her to a man she had learned to hate, was not in Cumbria, was not in England, was nowhere in the UK to be found? If she was open to bribery, Alatea was safe. Only for now, of course. But now was all she had.
She ran to the stairway. She flew to the bedroom she shared with Nicholas and from beneath the bed, she brought out a locked box. A key from her dressing table gained her access, and within the box she had money. Not a lot, not a fortune, not what Raul was paying to find her, surely. But along with her jewellery, perhaps there was enough to tempt this woman who was closing in now, who was hearing the truth from the detective even as Alatea gathered what she could to keep that truth from spilling out of the hidden corners of her life.
She was back down stairs when the expected knock sounded against the front door. The woman would not know Alatea had seen her in conversation with Inspector Lynley. For a moment this gave Alatea the upper hand, and she intended to use it.
She pressed her slick hands against her trouser legs. She closed her eyes briefly and said, “Dios mio por favor,” and then she opened the door with as much assurance as she could muster.
The red-haired woman spoke first, saying, “Mrs. Fairclough, I’ve not been truthful with you. May I come in and explain?”
“What do you want from me?” For her part, Alatea was stiff and formal. There was nothing to shame her, she told herself. She had already paid the price of Raul’s help in altering her body. She would not pay more.
“I’ve been following you and watching you,” the woman said. “You must know that— ”
“What is he paying you?” Alatea asked.
“There’s no money involved.”
“There’s always money involved. I can’t afford to pay what he’s paying, but I ask you… No, I beg you…” Alatea turned from the woman to where she’d placed the strongbox and her jewellery. “I have this,” she said as she scooped up these things. “I can give you this.”
The woman took a step backwards. She said, “I don’t want these things. I’m here only to— ”
“You must take them. And then you must leave. You don’t know him. You cannot know what people like him are capable of.”
The woman thought, her brows drawn together and her eyes on Alatea as she weighed the words she’d heard. Alatea thrust the money and the jewellery at her once again, but the woman nodded and she said, “Ah. I do see. I’m afraid it might be too late, Mrs. Fairclough. Some things are unstoppable and I think he could be one of them. There’s a desperation to him… He doesn’t say exactly but I get the impression there’s a lot on the line for him just now.”
“He’d make you believe that. That’s how he is. It was clever of him to use a woman. For reassurance, he thinks. To calm my fears. While all the while his intention is to destroy me. He has the power to do this and he intends to use it.”
“There’s no story, though. No real story. Not a story that a paper like The Source would care about.”
“And this is supposed to reassure me?” Alatea demanded. “What does a story in The Source have to do with anything? What does it have to do with what he’s asking of you? You’ve photographed me, haven’t you? You’ve followed me and you’ve photographed me and that’s the proof he wants.”
“You don’t understand,” the other woman said. “He doesn’t need proof. These types never do. Proof is nothing to them. They start their business just this side of the law and if they slip over onto the other side, they have a score of solicitors to take care of the problem.”
“Then let me buy your photos,” Alatea said. “If he sees them, if he sees me in them…” She took off her wedding rings, the diamond and the band. She took off a large emerald that Valerie Fairclough had given her as a wedding gift. She said, “Here. Please. Take these as well. In exchange for your photos.”
“But photos are nothing. They’re meaningless without words. It’s the words that count. It’s what’s written that counts. And anyway, I don’t want your money and I don’t want your jewellery. I just want to apologise for… well, for everything but especially for how I might have ruined things for you. We’re much the same, you and I. With different cause, I daresay, but otherwise the same.”
Alatea clung to what an apology from this woman might mean. She said, “So you won’t tell him?”
The woman looked regretful. “I’m afraid he knows. That’s the point. That’s why I’ve come. I want you to be ready for what might come next and to know it’s my fault and to know how terribly sorry I am. I tried to keep things from him, but these people have ways of finding things out and once he came to Cumbria… I’m so sorry, Mrs. Fairclough.”