After an hour or so, Ray felt tired, so he took a break and rolled a cigarette. His neck and chest ached from the stooped position in which he painted. A quick shot of Macallan and a few stretches soon had him back at the easel again, but now he needed music. He searched through his collection of old vinyl looking for something he hadn’t played in a long time and came across The Thoughts of Emerlist Davjack, by The Nice. That had some pretty good Keith Emerson organ work on it, he remembered, so he put it on. He remembered seeing The Nice at the Marquee in their brief heyday, Emerson sticking knives between the organ keys to hold the notes down, shaking the thing and all but jumping up and down on it like Jerry Lee Lewis. He smiled at the memory.
There was still a lot of work to do, Ray thought, as he stood back and viewed the painting critically. It lacked a certain clarity in places, and several minor touches stood out just a little too much when viewed from afar, unbalancing the whole effect. He began to wonder whether he could even carry it off. It wouldn’t be the first attempt to immortalise Zelda to be abandoned. He moved in closer, chewed on his lower lip, and got to work.
Time passed. As usual, Ray paid no attention to it. But he noticed the light dimming, clouds obscuring the sun, and as he hated working in artificial light, knew it was almost time to stop. He also had to get the curry started. Alan wasn’t sure exactly when he’d be back, but that was OK; dinner could simmer on low for a long while if necessary, and he could leave out the chickpeas until the last twenty minutes or so.
This time the discomfort in his chest was greater, and when he turned to put down his brush, he suddenly felt as if someone hit him with a piledriver. He sat down. His brow felt clammy with sweat and his stomach was churning. What was wrong with him? Something he’d eaten? The omelette had been fine. He knew the eggs were fresh because he had bought them from the farm down the road just two days ago.
Another blow from the piledriver struck him, this time hard enough to send a pain all down his left arm. He tried to get up, knowing somewhere deep inside that it was time to call an ambulance, but his legs felt too wobbly. His phone was downstairs, where he usually left it when he was painting. He thrust himself to his feet, gripping the chair arm, and stumbled forward. He was having trouble breathing now, and the slightest move made him out of breath. His chest felt as if it were being crushed.
He made it as far as the top of the stairs, where he dropped to his knees. The world was closing down, the pain gripping him tighter. He was aware of The Nice singing ‘The Cry of Eugene’ as he fell forward on to his face. He grasped at the banister to lift himself up, but he had no strength left. Oh, God, he thought. Oh, God, please don’t let it end like this.
After the short break, both Charlotte Westlake and Jessica Bowen looked as if they had been put through the ringer.
‘Are you going to charge my client?’ the solicitor asked.
‘We’re still in the process of gathering evidence,’ said Annie. ‘She’s still under caution. You’ve been here throughout the interview so far, surely you must realise we have a fair distance to go yet? If necessary, we’ll apply for an extension of detention from the Chief Superintendent.’ Annie knew that AC Gervaise would authorise such a request.
‘I’m not so much interested in the journey as the destination,’ said Jessica Bowen. ‘My job’s a little different from yours, and right now I’m here to safeguard my client’s rights and well-being.’
‘Well, let’s get on with it, then.’ Annie opened her file folder. Gerry set the recorders going again.
Charlotte Westlake seemed puzzled and frightened, Annie thought, as well she might, now all her lies were being held up to the light. Annie still wasn’t convinced that Charlotte was a murderer, but she was intending to pick and pull at the scab of her tissue of lies until the truth was revealed one way or another.
Annie couldn’t see Charlotte Westlake creeping into Blaydon’s pool area, shooting him and Roberts, then gutting the naked Blaydon and dumping him in the pool. But she could have done it. The CSIs and pathologist told her that the killer hadn’t needed to be especially strong. There was the matter of acquiring the gun, of course, but Baikals are easy enough to pick up, and there were plenty of guests at Blaydon’s parties who might have had access and procured one for her — Gashi and Tadić, for starters. But Annie still couldn’t quite see Charlotte as a murderer. Surely, she must soon come to understand that if she hadn’t killed Blaydon but she knew who did, then she had better give it up before she was charged with murder herself.
There was, however, another ace left in the deck: Leka Gashi.
‘OK, Charlotte,’ Annie began. ‘Do you remember where we’d got to? You had Blaydon’s baby — Marnie — he raped her, she told you and you killed him for it. Is any of that wrong?’
‘It’s all wrong,’ said Charlotte. ‘You’ve twisted it all up.’
‘Put me right then. Untwist it. Are you saying that Blaydon wasn’t Marnie’s father?’
‘Yes. All right, I slept with him. Once. And I slept with most of his friends. Sometimes more than one in the same day. I was a slut. OK? Let’s get that out of the way. But I’m not a killer.’
‘Why should I believe you now after all the lies you’ve told?’
Charlotte banged so hard on the table that it rattled. ‘Because it’s true. All right, I lied. I tried to keep things from you. Do you blame me, the way it’s turning out, the way you’ve been treating me?’
‘That’s entirely your own fault, Charlotte. Lying to the police isn’t an advisable route to take.’
They let the silence stretch for a few moments, then Gerry said, ‘Did those men you slept with on Blaydon’s yacht in Corfu include Leka Gashi? Someone you described as “a crude pig of a man” the first time we talked. Is that accurate?’
‘Probably.’
‘That you said it, or that you slept with him?’
‘Probably both. Back then Leka was a kind of fashionable sexy gangster. Like someone from a Guy Ritchie film. He was exciting to be around. And like Connor, he was young, sexy, devil-may-care. Liked to flash his money around. I was young and impressionable.’
‘So you slept with him?’ Gerry repeated.
‘Yes. Probably.’
‘Could he have been Marnie’s father?’
‘Leka?’ Charlotte looked away. ‘You must be joking.’
‘Why not?’
‘We took precautions.’
‘Doesn’t always work. Surely you must know that.’
Charlotte pouted.
‘There’s no need to sulk,’ said Annie. ‘Come on, get it off your chest. Tell us what you know.’
Charlotte glanced at Jessica Bowen, who gave her a brief nod. Charlotte seemed to pull herself together, this time taking several deep breaths and relaxing as best she could in her hard chair. To Annie, she seemed like someone who was finally relieved to be unburdening herself. It happened often in interviews, just before the confession.
‘It’s true I knew them both back then,’ Charlotte said. ‘Connor and Leka. The summer of 1999. I’d just turned twenty-one and the world was my oyster. Or so I thought. I had friends, money saved — not a fortune, but enough — and there were good times to be had. We spent most of May and the first part of June sailing the Greek islands — Samos, Santorini, Mykonos, Patmos, Rhodes, Kos — all this before the migrants, before they were the way they are now. And yes, there were lots of parties, sex parties, if you like. And drugs. Mostly cocaine. That’s why I was coming to hate working for Connor so much lately. I could see it starting all over again. It was all starting to remind me too much of my misspent youth, the bowls of white powder, the casual sex. I thought I’d put all that behind me.’