Sonja Nathan knew the house, the gardens, and more than likely her ex-husband’s routine — or she could readily have arranged to meet him in advance. Sonja was clearly capable of premeditation, as she must deliberately have hired a jeep identical to Kendall’s to conceal her comings and goings at Nathan’s house — perhaps she had even hoped to incriminate Kendall, Lorraine thought, and she had managed to take every nickel of the woman’s money through the art fraud. Even if Kendall’s death really had been accidental, Sonja bore some indirect responsibility, as it had been after realizing that she had lost her stake in the paintings that Kendall had been tempted to try to burn down the gallery for the insurance. That must have given Sonja considerable satisfaction, Lorraine thought, for, as Arthur had said, she was all too human — or inhuman — under the cool, superior façade, and had clearly hated Kendall as intensely as she had ever loved Nathan.
As for the paintings, Lorraine now knew that Harry Nathan had been to Germany, to make preparations for the sale of the real works of art, and she was sure, too, that once she got out of here and could get to Berlin, she could find out exactly how Sonja and Arthur, the expert copier, had stepped into Nathan’s shoes and netted the proceeds of sale.
Lorraine’s head throbbed, but she carried on, piecing the jigsaw together. All the dead faces floated in front of her — Harry Nathan, Cindy, Kendall, Vallance — faded, and then became clearer, but her concentration was wavering like a guttering torch. It was on Vallance’s death that she tried to shed the last of its light. Lorraine knew now how Sonja had killed him — or made him kill himself — by threatening to release the porn videos, the murder weapon Jake Burton had innocently sent her. Sonja could not, of course, be made to bear legal responsibility for that murder, or for Cindy’s death, for which she was also morally responsible: Vallance had strangled his former mistress, believing mistakenly that she, not Sonja, had killed the man he had idolized and lusted after all his life. Christ, Lorraine thought, that this should be the woman to whom she had poured out her own most private griefs to turn Sonja’s mind from suicide — but once she got out of here... The faces blurred and parts of the conversations she was trying to recall began to crackle and echo in Lorraine’s brain. The pain grew worse and worse: she was losing her grip, unable to think any more. She screamed in agony, as if a red-hot iron were forging up from her spine, blinding her, exhausting her, and she couldn’t take it any more.
Rooney went pale. Even though he was outside Intensive Care, on his way to see Lorraine, he knew something had happened. Nurses and doctors, running as if for their own lives, entered the unit, and the curtains were drawn across the viewing window. Lorraine was shielded from his sight, and the last thing he saw as they clustered around her was the heart monitor, bleeping loudly.
A little later, Jake Burton walked up the corridor with fresh flowers, and Rooney turned to him. ‘Something’s happened, I don’t know what, but they shut the curtains and there’s got to be eight of them round her. I don’t know for sure, but I think it’s her heart.’
Sonja had had one white wedding, and she had decided that this time she would get married in deep red, a rich colour more suitable for both a Swiss wedding in winter, she thought, and for a mature bride. The close-fitting crimson suit, with rich brown fur collar and cuffs, accentuated her tall, slim figure, while she had bought a frighteningly expensive hussar’s cap in the same fur, which she was now wondering whether or not to wear.
She put it on, took it off, fluffed out her hair, then crossed to the far side of the room across the expanse of pale green carpet: she and Arthur had booked the Grace Kelly Suite in the best hotel in Geneva, with private sitting and dining rooms and a marvellous view of the lake. She walked towards her reflection in the long cheval mirror, studying it intently.
‘Too much fur?’ she asked, as Arthur appeared. ‘I don’t know whether or not to wear the hat.’
He was wearing a smart suit, with a rose in the buttonhole, and a matching waistcoat, and was knotting his tie. ‘Put it on and let me see,’ he said.
Sonja did as he asked and turned to face him: she looked beautiful, he thought, but she was different now, and it wasn’t just the unfamiliar new costume. For all these years he had yearned to possess her without Harry Nathan, but now that Nathan’s shadow had gone, she was not the same woman, less driven, less intense, as though someone had dropped the end of a rope she had pulled against for years, sometimes seeming younger, sometimes older. Was she free now, he wondered, or adrift?
She had always been able to read his moods, almost his thoughts, and it was as though she sensed his scrutiny. ‘You’re sure you want to do this?’ she said quietly. ‘You know you can still back out.’
‘I don’t want to back out,’ he said. You could never tell with love, he thought, whether it would last or fade, stay constant or change. You just had to trust and step in. ‘Wear the hat.’
Sonja looked at herself again in the mirror, then turned. ‘Shall we go?’ she said, her expression grave.
Arthur tossed something towards her. ‘Here — this time it’s not a fake.’ She caught the ring box in both hands, knowing that the price of the jewel didn’t matter now: all the money had been transferred to Switzerland, and they would decide later how to move it back to the United States if and when they needed it.
He watched her take the ring from the box, admire it, then hold it out. ‘You put it on.’
He took it and held her hand, slipping it onto her wedding finger. Then he bent down to kiss her.
‘Well, we did it,’ he said softly, then smiled. ‘And we got away with it. Was it worth the wait?’
‘Yes, yes, it was.’ She was not looking at him. ‘Believe me, it was worth it.’
She turned away to catch another glimpse of herself as Arthur checked the time. They should go down to Reception, the limo would be waiting. Arthur crossed to the doors: as a small surprise, he had ordered some deep red roses as a bridal bouquet.
‘Give me two minutes... I’ll join you,’ she called.
He held the door half open.
‘Two minutes. See you down there.’
She waited for him to leave, adjusted her hat, needing a moment alone to look in her room of memories one last time before she turned the key. She remembered crossing the lawn, seeing Harry towelling himself dry after his swim. She had not decided then that that would be the day she killed him — a day she had been thinking about for a long time, and neither of them had known then that everything Harry Nathan did that day he was doing for the last time. It was when she had seen the gun on the table, one of Nathan’s own guns, and had known that there would be no difficulty in disposing of a weapon, that she had felt she had received the signal to put the plan into action, had known that there would never be a better chance.
Harry had tossed aside his towel, not bothering to cover his nakedness in front of her, vain as ever of his body. Sonja had taken a handkerchief out of her pocket. He had paid no attention when she picked up the gun, turning it in her hand and covering it with the cloth. It felt cold and heavy — like her heart. She had raised it first to his chest, then a little higher, and he had smiled, told her to be careful as it was loaded. Then his face had slowly drained of colour as she aimed it at his neck, then tilted the barrel to his face.