Линда Ла Плант - Cold Shoulder

‘Do you remember that big topaz ring? It had diamonds all round it, very large, set in platinum,’ he said quietly, surprised at even bringing the subject up.

‘Hard to forget. Your father would always give me something extravagant when he was screwing somebody else. The more expensive it was the higher the chance of it being a close friend. The topaz was good quality and they were rose diamonds, excellent carat. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason.’

‘Ah, my darling, there’s always a reason. I suppose it was one of the items Steven stole or sold or whatever they wish to call it. Well, it was a beautiful ring but too ostentatious for my taste.’ She turned to face Brad, her eyes even at eighty still china blue.

‘Why did he have so many other women? My father. It’s always struck me as odd. You must have loved each other at one time?’

‘Love never came into it, sweetheart.’ He wanted to hold her clawlike hand but she was turning to one of the other wealthy inmates, waving like royalty. ‘That was why he hated me so much and tried to hurt me in every way possible. He hated me because I could not find him attractive. I married him for his money. I told him but I don’t think he believed me.’

‘Is that true?’

She turned back to face him, her blue eyes like ice chips. ‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t know and I have to go.’ He stood up. She waved again across the elegant room and murmured that it was tea-time. ‘Will you write to Steven?’ he asked.

‘He’s dead to me. I can’t bring myself to write or make any contact. He does not exist. I’ve already changed my will. You’ll get everything.’

He touched her shoulder. ‘I’ll write, and then, as soon as I’m settled, you’ll come visit me.’

‘That would be very pleasant, dear.’ Both knew the other was lying; there would be no visits. There was no antagonism or reprimand in her bright eyes. She held out her hand and he kissed it gently. How often had he smelt that sweet floral perfume? How many times had he as a child wanted this woman to hold him and kiss him? He felt it even now: he wanted some sign that she cared for him. But she gave none, dismissing him by withdrawing her hand.

He walked away across the polished wood floor, then turned back, half hoping she would still be watching him. But she was already flicking through the pages of Vogue again, positioning a yellow sticker on a long cream evening gown worn by a doe-eyed model.

She hadn’t worn an evening gown for more than thirty years but she hadn’t wept for much longer. Tears ruined her make-up, made her false eyelashes unstick. It had taken many long years of practice not to weep. She could recall the last time she had cried herself to exhaustion. It had been when she had found her husband in bed with her closest friend. The two of them naked, moaning with orgasmic pleasure. She had never had an orgasm in her entire life; she was frigid; she was, as her husband had called her, the ‘Ice Maiden’. Only little Steven had broken through to her heart. Only Steven had known how to love her, seemed to know intuitively the fear she had of allowing herself to be loved. He had known how to kiss her without pawing or fumbling. Only Steven knew how delicate she was — and now even he had betrayed her. He had been as brutal as every man she had ever encountered. Sitting trapped in her wheelchair, she remembered his slim, delicate body, his sweet, tender kisses, his perfect circumcised penis that she had loved to kiss awake and then to rub his semen over her skin, because it was better than any expensive creams. They had discussed its therapeutic powers endlessly, lying together in her overheated bedroom. She had never believed that what they were doing was wrong — it was only natural. She bore no blame for what he had subsequently done: that was nothing to do with her. The women were whores, just like the bitches her husband had brought home. They had meant nothing to her, and she refused to feel any remorse for the women her beloved son had killed. She started to sing softly to herself, snatches of a song she’d sung in a chorus someplace a long time ago.

but she could no longer recall all the lyrics.

Steven Janklow was being led from his neatly made bed in the white-walled room. He liked night time. Every night on the way to the bathroom with his warder, he passed a window. He always stopped in his tracks when he saw his reflection in his white cotton institution gown. ‘Oh, hello, darling,’ he whispered, before he was led into the bathroom. He never spoke to anyone else, only to the image in the dark window-pane, but he was always smiling. He seemed happy and contented. Often singing the same few lines from some half-remembered song.

Brad Thorburn returned to France. He made one last attempt to contact Lorraine but received no reply. ‘If I say I love you, do you mind...’

Rosie and Lorraine had worked hard all week. They had bought some cheap office furniture, a bookcase and filing cabinets. They had arranged for the phone to be connected and delivery of a word processor. Lorraine dropped by the gym to see Hector and explained that she was taking over the office next door. The close proximity of the gym would make it very convenient for workouts.

They did not hire a sign painter as no good agency wants their work broadcast. They were to keep a low profile and advertise in newspapers and magazines. Lorraine would require a licence and a permit to carry a weapon but she felt she should give Bickerstaff a few weeks before she asked a favour. She’d left the number and the address in case he wanted to talk to her but he hadn’t called.

She and Rosie were surveying their handiwork when there was a rap on the door. Lorraine turned. ‘I thought you were doing Europe.’

Rooney took off his hat. ‘The wife still is. I was called back for the Craig Lyall business.’

She tilted her head on one side and he gave an odd, rueful smile.

‘Okay, I’m lying. I called Josh to see what was happening and, well, in case they needed me I thought I should come back.’

‘Do they?’ she asked, wanting to give him a hug but deciding against it. Rooney was not the kind of man you hugged often.

‘Got the bum’s rush. They’re all very pleased with themselves and now there’s no nasty smears about the Art Mathews suicide, which makes the FBI happier.’

He edged further into the new office and looked around. ‘You won’t get a licence, you know,’ he said flatly.

She shrugged. A lot of agencies were working without one.

‘Won’t get the good clients. You won’t even get a weapon licence.’

‘I’ll take it day by day, Bill.’

He sniffed and looked around, twisting his hat. ‘You got my home number?’ he asked. He had something on his mind but was too embarrassed to come out with it so he merely shrugged his shoulders. ‘I might go and have a curry. I don’t suppose you’re in the mood for a vindaloo?’

‘Not right now, but thanks for the offer.’ She let him plod all the way to the door before she called his name. ‘Bill...’

He turned, plonking his hat on. ‘Yep?’

She walked slowly towards him, arms folded. ‘I know you’re retired and looking forward to sitting back and enjoying a life of leisure, but I was just wondering...’

He couldn’t hide it: his face lit up as he looked at her expectantly.

‘Well, as you said, I couldn’t get an investigator’s licence or a weapon permit. I’ve only got my driving licence thanks to you. What would you say to helping me out — not full time, I wouldn’t ask that of you, maybe just a couple days a week?’