‘So Didi got back in the car, knowing Holly was dead in the trunk. Then what?’
‘All the stupid cow had to do was dump it and piss off, but she gets into a terrible state. Her foot all swelled up, and she drove home in it because she said she couldn’t have walked and she was scared of anyone seeing her. I had to dump it. I gave it a good clean in case there were any prints. It wasn’t so bad because there was no blood or anything. In fact it wasn’t until I got out and was walking past it that I saw this bit of cloth sticking out and then freaked. I just ran like hell back home.’
Lorraine sounded friendly and understanding. ‘It must have been really hard for you.’
‘It was, but then it was un-fucking-believable. Didi started wearing the ring. And she wouldn’t part with it, it was like some kind of obsession, as if she wanted to be caught. She was always crying and she couldn’t sleep. Nothin’ I said made any difference. She wouldn’t listen to me and that’s why we had this row. I was trying to get it off her but she went hysterical, saying it was hers.’
‘So you had to get the ring away from Didi, is that right?’
‘Course I did but she wouldn’t give it up and so we had this argument. She pushed me, then I pushed her and she fell. I thought she was dead, but when... It was like Holly happening all over again.’
Nula started to cry, her shoulders shaking, and Lorraine reached across the table for her hand. ‘It’s okay, everything’s going to be okay. After she’d fallen what happened?’
Nula’s lipstick smeared, her mascara running down her face. ‘I called Art and he came over. He said we should make it look like this serial killer had murdered her, like we’d done with Holly. But he said as he’d fixed it with Holly, I should do Didi, that he was having nothing to do with it and then he left—’
‘And?’ Lorraine asked.
‘I hit her with the hammer and it must have been just like Holly because she moaned. She was still alive, just like Holly. I could hear her voice, telling me about Holly, and I just kept on hitting and hitting her until she was quiet.’ Nula accepted another cigarette, inhaled deeply and then sipped some water. ‘After I’d done it, I didn’t know what to do next. I couldn’t lift her by myself so I called Craig. All he did was help me get her to the car.’ She fell silent. No one spoke. She smoked the cigarette down to the cork, then looked at it.
Lorraine took the stub from her and tossed it into the ashtray. She stood up.
‘Where are you going?’ Nula asked.
‘They can charge you now.’
Nula watched fearfully as Lorraine walked to the door. She didn’t even look back; she just walked out.
It was after midnight. Ed Bickerstaff was jubilant. Lyall’s and Nula’s statements were signed and they had been taken to their cells. He passed a small white envelope to Lorraine. ‘Five thousand dollars in used notes. You did good. I didn’t think she’d crack.’
‘I won’t be needed at the trial, will I?’
‘Not unless she changes her plea but I don’t think she will.’
‘What about Brad Thorburn?’
‘I reckon the only thing he was guilty of was screwing a prostitute but we’ll need him for questioning. He’s on his way back from France.’
Bickerstaff guided her to the door, then paused. ‘If I ever need you again...’
Lorraine smiled. ‘I’ll send you my card. I can set up an office now.’
‘Just one more thing, if you don’t mind me asking. You seemed pretty friendly in there with Nula.’
‘Just doing my job. She’s scum — she almost killed me.’
‘You don’t want to press charges, though, do you?’
She gave him a wry look. ‘No.’
Rosie was sitting on the sofa watching TV when Lorraine got home. Lorraine looked at her and grinned. ‘You’re a good friend, Rosie.’
‘Bed’s all made up. I’ll kip on the sofa.’
Lorraine winked. ‘Thanks.’
Just as she walked into the bedroom, the phone rang. ‘If that’s for me, I’m not back yet.’ She switched on the shower and couldn’t hear properly what Rosie was calling through the door. She had to switch it off.
‘That was Brad Thorburn. He said he’d ring again tomorrow morning.’
Lorraine stripped off and stepped beneath the cool water, tilting her face up to the jet spray. She was unnerved by his call and she hadn’t expected to hear from him again.
‘Is he back in LA?’ she shouted.
Rosie appeared in the doorway again. ‘On his way, be here in the morning. He said he was at the airport in Paris. Did you want to speak to him?’
Lorraine wrapped the towel around herself and frowned. Brad had picked up Holly, taken her back to that house, had probably screwed her in the same bed as he’d fucked her in, little seventeen-year-old Holly. Brad Thorburn would probably always pick up the wrong kind. As much as she wanted to see him, she thought he was probably calling her to find out if she knew why the police wanted to talk to him.
‘If he calls again, I’m out. He’s no good — well, not for me.’
‘Okay, whatever you say. You want a cup of tea?’
‘Sounds good.’
Lorraine lay down on the bed. Tomorrow she would open up the agency, get cards made, get a word processor. By the time Rosie came in with the tea she was deeply asleep. Rosie didn’t wake her but gently wrapped the bedcover over her. Lorraine didn’t stir.
The last item on her list had been blurred, only half considered, but it was the first thing she thought of in the morning.
Rosie looked up sleepily from the couch when Lorraine walked in. ‘What did you say?’
‘Let’s go to a meeting this morning.’
Brad Thorburn stared around the empty house with all its furnishings draped in dust sheets. He walked out, slamming the front door. He drove to the police station and was introduced to Ed Bickerstaff. The interview was formal and he gave a detailed statement of the night he had picked up a young blonde hooker. He couldn’t recall her name; she was just one of so many. Bickerstaff questioned him as to what time of night, how long she had stayed and then asked if on the night in question he had noticed anything unusual about her. Brad shrugged, he couldn’t remember clearly.
‘How about an item of jewellery?’
Brad thought, and then it dawned on him. ‘She was wearing a large ring. I only remember because it was similar to one my mother used to wear, but she took it off and slipped it into her purse and I never gave it much thought.’
‘Was this it?’ Bickerstaff held out the ring taken from Didi’s finger.
Brad stared at it. ‘Yes, well, it was similar.’
‘Could this be your mother’s ring?’
‘Possibly. It is similar but whether it’s hers or not I couldn’t say. She had a large collection of jewels — she was a collector. Some of them were worth thousands, others cheap replicas. She was always terrified of being mugged. I’m sorry not to be of more help.’
Bickerstaff didn’t bother to explain how important the ring had been in so many people’s lives — or deaths.
Brad left and returned to his car. He drove to the real-estate agents, signed over the documents for the contents of the house to be sold along with the property, and then went to Beverly Glen. The sale notices already hung outside. Brad collected the items he wanted to take with him and put little red stickers on the rest so the storage men would be able to ascertain which articles were to be removed. He walked from room to room in the shrouded house. There was little he needed or wanted, it was mostly his personal belongings from his own quarters. He did, however, stick red dots on all the silver-framed family photographs. He found it difficult to look at the faces of his brother and mother but went about his work as fast as possible. Steven’s room was more difficult than he had anticipated, with his precious collections of shells and snuff-boxes, the banks of photographs of their mother. He closed the door, refusing to allow himself to think about Steven. Not until he was in his own room did he relax as he checked his books and record collections, his sports equipment. There was so little with which he had any emotional ties — everything could easily be replaced. All he knew was that he would never come back to this house and its memories.