Stephen Leather - Take Two

‘You can’t show drug-taking on TV,’ said Carolyn.

‘Of course you can. And we should. How do you think models stay so thin? The models I know all do coke. Lots of it.’

Carolyn looked at her watch. It was after half eleven. ‘We should be going,’ she said.

Waites put away the vial. ‘What’s the rush?’ he said. He unfastened his seat belt and put his left hand on her knee. ‘We’ve got the moonlight, some very good cocaine, I’m with the sexiest woman on TV. Have you ever done it in a Porsche?’

‘Are you insane?’

‘Come on now, Carolyn. Live a little.’ He tried to kiss her but she pushed him away. He sneered at her. ‘You need all the friends you can get at the moment, honey,’ he said. ‘You’d be a lot better off with me in your corner.’

‘What do you mean?’

He tried to kiss her again but she pushed him away.

‘What do you mean?’ she repeated.

‘I mean you’re not on everybody’s to-do list, Carolyn. Some people at the network just think you’re a dog that’s had its day. They want to replace you with a younger model, maybe one of the girls from The Only Way Is Essex.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Is it? Reality TV is where the big numbers are. We get one of the hot reality girls onto Rags To Riches and the numbers will go through the roof. And if that happens, you’ll be history.’

‘Is that what the network’s planning?’

Waites grinned, He reached between his legs. ‘Tell you what, you give me a BJ and I’ll tell you which way the wind is blowing.’

Carolyn couldn’t believe she’d heard him right. ‘What?’

Waites rubbed his nose with his left hand and then reached for the back of her neck. Carolyn knocked his hand away. ‘Don’t touch me, Martin.’

‘Come on, honey. What’s wrong?’

‘Fuck off, Martin!’

Waites grinned. ‘Playing hard to get, huh?’ He laughed and rubbed his nose again.

Carolyn noticed for the first time how red and bleary his eyes were. She opened the door and climbed out. ‘Screw you!’ she shouted and slammed the door. She slung her bag over her shoulder and began to walk away from the car.

Waites wound down the window. ‘Now you’re being ridiculous, we’re in the middle of nowhere. Get back in the car.’

‘Sod off!’ shouted Carolyn, still walking.

‘Carolyn, this is a complete overreaction,’ said Waites. ‘Just calm down, I’ll drive you home and I won’t say another word.’

Carolyn stopped and turned around. ‘Screw you,’ she said. ‘I’ve never, ever, slept with anybody to get where I am and I’m bloody well not going to start now. And definitely not with a spineless little shit like you.’

He opened the door and got out of the Porsche. ‘Just get back in the car,’ he said.

Carolyn pointed at him. ‘Get away from me,’ she said. ‘You come near me and I’ll call the police and tell them you’ve got cocaine on you.’

His face hardened. ‘You stupid cow!’

‘Yeah, well, I guess I’m off your to-do list,’ she said. She started walking again.

She heard the car door slam and a few seconds later the car drove off down the road.

She didn’t look around, but as the car disappeared into the night she became aware of just how dark it was. There was a sliver of a moon overhead and plenty of stars but there were trees all around her and she could barely see fifty feet in front of her. She fished her mobile phone out of her bag and pressed the screen. The light seemed blindingly bright and she had to squint at it. No bars. Not one. ‘Of course there’s no signal,’ she muttered to herself. ‘How could there be? That would just make it too bloody easy, wouldn’t it?’

She stood at the side of the road, trying to remember how far they’d driven since they’d passed a house. A couple of miles, maybe. There had been a farmhouse. And a couple of cottages, but so far as she could remember all of them had been in darkness. She started walking, wondering what the odds were of a car driving by at that time of night. Probably not good, she decided. She walked as quickly as she could but the Prada shoes and McCartney dress weren’t designed for trekking along a country road at night and after a few minutes her feet were hurting. She realised she had made a big mistake getting out of the car, but she had been so annoyed at the way Waites had behaved she figured she hadn’t had any choice. With hindsight she realised she should have just sat there and made him drive her home. Her right foot twisted on the uneven surface and she cursed. She checked her phone again. Still no signal.

The road ahead curved to the left and as she reached the bend she saw a house ahead of her. She smiled thinly when she saw the lights were on. ‘Please be home,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Please, please, please.’

She could see a high brick wall through the trees. Beyond the wall the land sloped upwards and the house was at the top of the slope.

She walked down the road and reached a set of black wrought iron gates set between two ten-feet tall brick pillars. She tried to open the gates but there must have been an electronic mechanism and they wouldn’t budge. From where she was standing she couldn’t see the house. The driveway curved around to the right and there were lines of bushes either side. She looked around for a doorbell or intercom but there was nothing. There was a letterbox set into the brick pillar on the left, along with a brass plate that read ‘No Junk Mail’. She stood back and wondered if she had any alternative other than to climb over the gate. The walls were too high and there was nothing to hold on to, but at least the ornate wrought iron provided handholds and footholds. She sighed and took off her shoes, then pushed them through the gate, along with her bag. She hitched her skirt up around her waist and began to climb. It wasn’t as difficult as she’d imagined, though she had to be careful not to snag her dress as she went over the top. Once she reached the other side she smoothed down her dress, put her shoes back on, picked up her bag and headed up the driveway.

The house was a good hundred yards from the gate, it was modern, a two-storey white cube with lots of glass and a flat roof. Between the wall and the house was a gently-sloping lawn that was as flat and even as a carpet. To the right of the house was a double garage and in front of it were parked two cars, a black Bentley and a white Mercedes. The front door was on the right of the building, and to the left was a floor-to-ceiling window that looked into the main sitting room. She could see a man standing in the middle of the room and there was another man sprawled on a sofa. Carolyn smiled to herself. At least there was someone at home. Hopefully they’d call her a cab and she could get back to London.

She carried on walking up the drive, now with a spring in her step, her painful feet all but forgotten.

‘Where’s my fucking money, Nicholas? You’re going to save yourself a whole world of hurt by telling me now.’ Nicholas Cohen put his hand up to his lip, then blinked at his fingers. They glistened with blood. His blood. Cohen was middle-aged with a receding hairline, heavy jowls and an expanding waistline, the body of a man who had spent most of his life sitting behind a desk. Cohen was on his knees, looking up at the man who’d hit him. Drops of blood splattered onto the thick white rug underneath him.

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

Warwick Richards shook his head. Richards was sitting on one of the sofas, watching Cohen with hard eyes. ‘You see, lying like that isn’t going to help you. You’re an accountant, Nicholas. You’re my accountant. Money is your job. Looking after it, putting it where the Revenue won’t find it. That’s what I’ve been paying you for. So telling me you don’t know where it is just doesn’t wash.’ Richards was a big man, six foot two tall and broad-shouldered, but he wasn’t the one who’d hurt Cohen. It had been years since Richards had hit anybody. He’d reached the stage where he paid to have people hurt though, truth be told, he sometimes missed the adrenaline rush that came with dispensing retribution. Richards crossed his legs and straightened the creases of his Hugo Boss trousers. He stretched his arms along the back of the sofa as he waited for Cohen to reply.