Stephen Leather - Take Two

‘It doesn’t work like that, not in the real world,’ said Terry. ‘Murderers don’t go around killing witnesses.’

‘They shot at me,’ said Carolyn. ‘When I was running away.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I heard a shot, and I’m pretty sure the guy chasing me had a gun. He was a big bald guy. I was lucky he was so big because he couldn’t run for toffee.’ She smiled. ‘All those sessions in the gym paid off.’

Terry raised his coffee mug. ‘You’re welcome.’

‘I need a cigarette,’ said Carolyn.

‘Do you have to?’ sighed Terry. ‘You know I hate those things.’

‘I’ll smoke it in the garden,’ she said. She got up and retrieved her cigarette and lighter from her bag. ‘Terry, will you stay with me tonight?’

‘Of course.’

‘I don’t want to be alone,’ she said.

‘I’ve already said yes,’ he said. He waved at the door that led to the garden. ‘Go and smoke your coffin nail while I see what we can watch on your cable.’

‘Not porn,’ she said. ‘Anything but porn.’

Terry laughed and wagged a finger at her. ‘Visitor’s choice,’ he said. ‘Can I open a bottle of wine?’

‘My fridge is your fridge,’ said Carolyn. ‘There’s a bottle of Bollinger in there, we can toast my award.’

‘You don’t like champagne.’

‘No, but I know you do.’

‘You’re such a sweetie.’

Terry woke up and blinked at the ceiling. There were cream curtains over the window and three watercolour paintings of Venice scenes on the walls. He stretched and rolled over. The sheets were as smooth as silk, cool against his skin, and he made a mental note to ask Carolyn where she’d bought them. They were the most comfortable sheets he’d ever slept on. He stretched his arms and then looked at his watch. It was just after seven. They’d sat downstairs and demolished the Bollinger and fallen into bed at two o’clock in the morning. Terry had offered to take the spare bedroom but Carolyn had told him not to be so stupid and insisted he share her bed. It wasn’t the first time they’d slept in the same bed, and for most of the time he’d held her in his arms. Terry was convinced Carolyn’s best option by far was to go to the police, but he couldn’t convince her.

He rolled out of bed. He was still wearing his jogging pants and his Pineapple Studios sweatshirt and he found a white silk robe hanging on the back of the door and slipped it on as he went downstairs. Carolyn was sitting cross-legged on a sofa in the sitting room watching the television above the ornate Victorian fireplace as she sipped a mug of coffee. ‘Can’t sleep?’ asked Terry.

‘I wanted to see if there was anything on the news.’ She was watching Sky News and she used the remote to click over to the BBC. ‘But there’s nothing.’

‘Maybe he’s not dead,’ said Terry, dropping down next to her on the sofa.

‘Or maybe they haven’t found the body yet.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘There’s coffee in the cafetiere if you want it.’

‘I have to get it myself? I’m a guest.’

‘You slept with a TV star last night. You want me to get you coffee as well?’

Terry laughed and went through to the kitchen. He poured coffee and a splash of milk into a mug and took it back into the sitting room.

‘Terry, I need to ask you a favour. Just hear me out before you say no.’

‘Sure,’ said Terry, sitting down and swinging his feet up on the coffee table.

‘I want to go back to the house. Will you come with me?’

‘No,’ said Terry flatly.

‘Just hear me out.’

‘I did hear you out. No. Why on earth would you want to go back to that house? What if the cops are there? And if the cops aren’t, what if the killer is? Either way it’s a no-win situation for you.’

‘I just want to know what happened,’ said Carolyn.

‘You know what happened. You were there, remember.’

‘Pretty please.’

‘No.’

Carolyn moved closer to him. ‘Pretty, pretty please.’

‘You’re like a kid with a loose tooth,’ said Terry. ‘If you keep messing with it you’re going to lose it.’

‘It’s Saturday. We can go for a drive. We’ll have a pub lunch. Lots of pubs in Surrey. I’ll buy.’

Terry tried to look at her sternly but she started making puppy whining sounds and his face broke into a grin. ‘You’re mad,’ he said. ‘You know that?’

‘Think of it as doing a recce for a crime show.’

‘Okay darling, now listen to me. You can’t go prowling around crime scenes. Everyone knows who you are.’

‘So give me a makeover. You were in hair and make-up before you were in props. You haven’t lost the knack, have you?’

‘Darling, I could take ten years off you, easy. But we’ll have to go to my place.’

She grinned. ‘Then let’s do it.’ She raised her coffee cup and clinked it against Terry’s. ‘You’re a star.’

‘No darling,’ he said. ‘You’re the bloody star. I’m just one of the minions who makes you look good.’

Terry lived in a converted clothes factory in Kilburn, close to the main high street, with his boyfriend, Gabe, and hundreds of movie and theatre props. While Terry was under contract with the company that made Rags To Riches, he and Gabe also ran a firm that specialized in props and costumes for film and television productions. The downstairs area was packed with movie props, everything from furniture and paintings to half-built robots, fake trees and plants and hundreds of labeled cardboard boxes. The main door led into the storage area the size of a tennis court and to the left was a metal staircase that led to the upstairs living area, two large bedrooms, a sitting room, two bathrooms and a kitchen. Terry took Carolyn up the stairs and switched on the kettle. ‘Coffee, then I’ll get you fixed up,’ said Terry.

‘Fixed up?’ repeated Gabe, walking sleepily into the kitchen. He was unshaven and wearing only black silk pyjama bottoms, showing off his six-pack abdomen. He ran his hand through his tousled blonde hair and smiled at Carolyn. ‘Not planning on stealing my boy are you?’ he asked.

‘As if she could,’ said Terry, planting a kiss on Gabe’s cheek and patting him on the backside. ‘Get her a coffee while I take a quick shower.’

Carolyn sat down at the breakfast bar and sighed.

‘Are you okay?’ asked Gabe. ‘Terry said you were a bit distraught last night.’

‘I’m going through some shit at the moment,’ admitted Carolyn. ‘Not the least being that my boyfriend of two years has decided he’d rather shag a younger model.’

‘Men,’ said Gabe. ‘Can’t live with them, can’t shoot them in the nuts.’

Carolyn laughed. ‘In this case I might make an exception.’

Gabe made three mugs of coffee and Terry reappeared just as Carolyn was sipping hers. He’d changed into a Nike tracksuit. ‘Right, let’s get started,’ he said to Carolyn. ‘I’m thinking estate agent. Both of us. Drumming up business. I’ll run off some business cards and we’ll get you in a suit.’

‘What’s going on?’ asked Gabe.

Terry patted him on the cheek. ‘Secret squirrel stuff,’ he said. ‘We could tell you, but then we’d have to kill you.’

Gabe smiled sarcastically and folded his arms. ‘Don’t fuck around, Terry. What are you up to?’

‘I’ve got a problem, Gabe, and Terry’s trying to help me with it,’ said Carolyn. ‘It’s personal. Really personal. And Terry’s being an angel.’

‘And you can’t tell me what it is?’

Carolyn looked pained. ‘I’d rather as few people know as possible. If that’s okay. If you really, really want to know I’ll tell you, but I’d much rather not.’