‘He’s late. I knew this was a bad idea.’
‘No, what’s a bad idea is me thinking I could make choux pastry.’ Rachel pushed away the mixing bowl. ‘He’s probably just stuck on the Tube or in traffic. Why don’t you put some coffee on?’
I filled the new stainless-steel percolator and set it on the hob before going back into the study. But with my mind on the meeting it was a waste of time trying to work. I’d just resolved to give Scott-Hayes another fifteen minutes when the intercom buzzed.
About time. I went into the hallway to answer it.
‘Got a Francis Scott-Hayes to see you,’ the concierge’s voice came out of the speaker.
‘OK, thanks.’
‘Told you,’ Rachel said from the kitchen.
I was saved from responding to that by the trill of my mobile in the study. ‘Can you let him in while I get that?’
Leaving her to open the door for the journalist, I hurried back through the living room to the study. My phone, a replacement for the one Lola had dropped in the sink, was on the desk by the laptop. When I picked it up I was surprised to see Ward’s name on the display. She didn’t call so often now, and we’d spoken only the day before. Leaving the study, I walked back through the living room to the kitchen as I answered.
‘Hello, I wasn’t expecting—’
‘Where are you?’
Startled by her urgency, I stopped in the kitchen doorway. The percolator was bubbling on the hob, filling the air with the scent of fresh coffee.
‘I’m at home. Why, what’s—?’
‘Is Rachel with you?’
The door leading to the hallway was at the far side of the kitchen. Through it I heard the murmur of voices. ‘She’s just answering the door—’
‘No! Don’t let her open it!’
But Rachel was already coming back to the kitchen. She had a bemused smile on her face as she walked through the doorway, raising a quizzical eyebrow at me.
‘Frances Scott-Hayes is here,’ she said, stressing the last syllable to emphasize the female spelling.
A woman was behind her, thin with greying hair cut in an unflattering bob. My first thought was that there had been a mix-up, that I’d researched the wrong journalist by mistake. My second was that there was something familiar about the woman who followed Rachel into the kitchen. Then I caught a waft of her perfume, a heady scent of spice and musk I’d have known anywhere. It had burned itself into my memory as I’d bled out in the doorway of my old flat, a knife buried to the hilt in my stomach.
Ward’s voice was still coming from the phone, but I barely heard it. Grace Strachan was almost unrecognizable. The breath-stopping beauty had been replaced by a cadaverous thinness. Her skin was stretched taut across the high cheekbones, revealing the contours of her skull. The dark eyes were sunken and shadowed, burning into me now with a manic intensity.
The smile fell from Rachel’s face. ‘David…?’
I was struck mute. With a nightmare sense of déjà vu, I saw Grace reaching into her shoulder bag as Rachel turned to her, and only then was I able to move.
‘No!’ I yelled, throwing myself forward.
Knowing I was too late.
Grace brought out the long-bladed knife and slashed in one fluid motion. Rachel gave a cry and reeled away, blood flicking from her onto the kitchen tiles. Then Grace was coming at me, teeth bared as she raised the knife. I grabbed for it as it swept down, not caring if it cut me or not.
Suddenly, Grace’s head snapped back. She jerked to a halt as Rachel buried one hand in the grey hair and swung the heavy percolator with the other. The hot metal smashed into Grace’s upturned forehead, steaming coffee gouting out as its handle snapped off. The percolator clattered to the floor as Grace collapsed, the knife falling from her hand. Kicking it away, I ignored the prostrate woman and rushed to Rachel. She was standing with one hand pressed against a long slice in the flesh of her upper arm, eyes wide with pain and shock. The broken handle of the percolator was still clutched in her fist.
‘Oh, Christ, are you OK?’ I asked, frantically checking her.
She nodded shakily. Blood was running down her arm and dripping on the floor. The hand pressed against the wound had livid blotches where the boiling coffee had splashed it. Sparing a quick glance to make sure Grace wasn’t moving, I steered Rachel to the sink and ran the cold water. Soaking a towel, I eased her scalded hand away.
‘Hold your hand under the tap,’ I told her, binding the wet towel around the deep cut in her arm.
She did as I said, gasping as the cold water hit the burns. ‘You’re shaking.’
I couldn’t help it. I became aware of an animal keening. Looking down, I saw Grace had curled in a foetal position, arms covering her face.
‘It hurts,’ she whimpered. ‘Please, Michael, make it stop…’
‘Oh, God, look at her…’ Rachel breathed.
‘Keep your hand under the water.’
Leaving her by the tap, I went to the emaciated figure on the kitchen floor. Blood from a large gash on her hairline was intermingled with the coffee, turning Grace’s face into a marbled mask. The skin was already starting to blister, and I flinched when I saw what the boiling coffee had done to her eyes.
Grabbing another towel, I soaked it under the cold tap and gently laid it on Grace’s scalded face. She screamed at the contact, a bony hand clutching at my arm. It didn’t let go as I looked around for my phone. I couldn’t remember dropping it, but it hadn’t disconnected. I could hear Ward’s frantic voice as I picked it up.
‘We need an ambulance,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
Epilogue
The sky was threatening snow. The low clouds were featureless, and dusk was already falling although it was barely three o’clock in the afternoon. In the room, though, it was stiflingly hot. A fluorescent light shone from the ceiling overhead, further muting the world beyond the glass.
‘Won’t be long now. Can I get you anything?’ the overweight young man asked from by the door.
‘No, thank you.’
He went out. I shifted position on the hard plastic chair and looked at my watch. I’d been waiting almost an hour and I’d a long drive ahead of me. I wanted to set off before the snow came down. But I knew that wasn’t the reason for my impatience. I was nervous.
I should have done this long ago.
My phone chimed with the arrival of a text. I took it out and smiled. The image on the screen showed a red-faced infant, eyes screwed up and tiny fists balled. The caption with it said Emma Louise Ward, born this morning 3.25am, 6lbs 3oz. It was signed Sharon and Doug.
Still smiling, I texted congratulations and put my phone away. The news was a welcome patch of brightness, and there had been few enough of those recently. Not since the afternoon when Grace Strachan had walked back into my life.
I’d been at the hospital when Ward and Whelan had caught up with me. Staring into space in a busy A&E waiting room while Rachel had her wound stitched and dressed.
‘How is she?’ Ward had asked, taking the seat next to me while Whelan stood.
I looked at her. ‘You told me Grace was dead.’
‘I’m sorry, we thought she—’
‘You said it was her body in the car.’