Линда Ла Плант - Cold Blood

A maid in a black dress with a white pinafore entered with a tray of iced waters, fizzy, still, with lemon, all in tall crystal glasses in silver and gold containers. Lorraine could barely hide a smile as Rooney murmured his thanks and his chair creaked ominously. The maid passed each of them the water of their choice and then put the tray down. As she returned to the door, Phyllis appeared.

‘Don’t get up, please. I’m Phyllis Collins, Rosie’s friend. You must be Lorraine? If I may call you, er... Lorraine?’ She scurried across the room and shook Lorraine’s hand, and then acknowledged Rooney. ‘And you are William Rooney, Rosie told me all about you. Please don’t get up, Mrs Caley knows you are here and will be with you shortly.’

Lorraine nodded her thanks. Rooney felt even more awkward in his chair but at least no longer felt the heat. On the contrary, the room was icy cold.

‘This has been a very distressing time,’ Phyllis said, hovering by the matching Louis XV chair opposite Rooney’s.

‘Will you be staying for—’ Lorraine couldn’t think how to describe the meeting.

‘No, no, Mrs Caley has asked me not to. I am really just her companion. She should be down any moment.’

The moment stretched to three-quarters of an hour. They discussed Elizabeth Caley’s films and paintings, and Phyllis’s English background, but whenever Lorraine tried to steer the conversation towards the reason why they were there, Phyllis changed the subject. Lorraine had drunk two tall glasses of water and refused any further as she knew she would need the bathroom. Rooney had gulped his down and wished he hadn’t asked for carbonated water as he could feel the gas roaming around his belly. A clock chimed and all three looked at the large gold-embossed and glass-domed ormolu clock on the white mantel.

‘I presume these are photographs of Miss Caley?’ Lorraine asked, quietly indicating one of the ornate silver frames.

Phyllis nodded, and was about to say something when they heard footsteps in the marble hall, the click-click of high heels, and then the doors were opened by the butler.

‘Mrs Elizabeth Caley.’

Phyllis made the introductions and Lorraine rose to her feet, the cushions scattering around her. Rooney creaked out of his chair but Mrs Caley only fluttered her hand in his direction and he eased himself back down.

Elizabeth Caley gently brushed Lorraine’s outstretched hand, just giving it a light feather touch, then smiled warmly at Rooney who blushed bright pink. She was, as one would picture a movie star of the late fifties or early sixties, perfectly made-up — her black hair was glossy and worn swept up from her beautiful, strong face, neatly clasped in a tortoiseshell comb. At a distance she could still be taken for a woman in her thirties, yet she was very much the wrong side of fifty, her many face-lifts giving her skin a tight, fragile falseness. Her creamy, low-cut blouse showed just enough cleavage of probably equally fake bosoms. She wore a straight, tight black skirt and pale stockings, which showed that her wondrous legs were still like a young woman’s, and high-heeled sandals which accentuated her slender ankles.

Rooney was almost overcome. He could feel his heart thudding as her perfume seemed to wrap itself around him, a heavy magnolia that made one even more aware of her soft white skin. Elizabeth Caley was still a very stunning and sexy woman. She had full red lips, matching long red fingernails, and on her wedding finger a diamond and emerald ring the size of a small bird’s egg. She was also charming in her manner, almost deferential as she sat poised as if for flight on the edge of a small, hard-backed gilt chair. She gave only the slightest incline of her head to indicate that Phyllis should leave them alone. Phyllis silently closed the doors behind her.

‘My daughter.’ Mrs Caley gestured slowly towards a large colour photograph on a glass-topped corner table. Rooney and Lorraine both turned in the direction of the fluttering hand.

Anna Louise Caley was as fair as her mother was dark. Similar wide eyes stared from the photograph but Elizabeth’s were a dark tawny brown while her daughter’s, judging from the photo, were light blue, and she had a faint smile on her sweet, childish lips, a secretive, shy smile.

‘She is very beautiful,’ Lorraine said softly.

‘Yes, she is.’ But Rooney couldn’t take his eyes off Mrs Caley, recalling all her films, one after another, and almost had to pinch himself to realize that he was sitting within a few feet of her.

‘I know you have already hired a number of private investigation agents,’ Lorraine began, as Mrs Caley stared vacantly ahead. ‘If we are to reopen the case—’

‘It is not closed,’ Mrs Caley said quietly.

‘I’m sorry, of course it isn’t, but if Page Investigations are also to begin making enquiries into your daughter’s whereabouts, then we will have to ask you a lot of questions. It may be very upsetting for you, but perhaps we will be able to uncover—’

Mrs Caley bowed her head. ‘A clue?’

‘Yes. Often an individual or a company like my own, coming on to a case fresh, can uncover something that might have appeared inconsequential to others.’

Mrs Caley nodded, her eyes studying the sparkling ring on her finger. ‘The reason I was interested in meeting you is that Phyllis explained to me that you had been involved in other similar cases.’

Rooney frowned, giving Lorraine a questioning look. She ignored it, wondering just what Rosie had embroidered, and covered fast, keeping her voice low and encouraging.

‘Tracing missing persons can be a lengthy and costly process and we cannot give any guarantee of success. But that said, I am very confident that with my previous experience as a lieutenant with the Pasadena Police, and with the assistance of my partner, Mr Rooney, ex-captain, we will promise you...’

‘No stone will be left unturned?’ Elizabeth Caley’s wide eyes looked from Lorraine to Rooney and then returned to her ring. She laughed softly. ‘They have all promised me that, dear, and quite honestly I am not interested in the cost or how long it will take. I want my daughter found because every day is like a nightmare, every phone call a hope, and every night...’ She caught her breath and swallowed, taking a moment to gather her composure. If this was any indication of her acting prowess, her films must have been good. ‘I have never given up hope, even though it has been implied that after so long...’ Another intake of breath and her delicate hand stroked her milky-white neck. ‘Do you have any children, Mrs Page?’

‘Yes, I have, two daughters,’ Lorraine said softly.

‘Well then, you must be able to understand what it means to a mother. Every night I mark in my diary, another day passed, another night ahead without my darling, and I pray, I have prayed so much. And I have wept so much that I don’t think I have any more tears to shed.’

Again came another slow, flowing hand gesture in the direction of her daughter’s photograph. ‘I stare at her face, saying over and over, where are you? Oh, my darling, dearest child, where are you?’

Rooney was almost in tears. Lorraine looked suitably moved but was still of the mind that Mrs Caley was talking, or acting, as if she was in one of her movies. She thought this all the more when Elizabeth Caley sprang to her feet and began pacing up and down, her emotion spilling out as she moved soundlessly back and forth on the whiter-than-white carpet, her voice lifting slightly.

‘It was February fifteenth. We went to New Orleans, we always go for Mardi Gras. She didn’t come down for dinner, but we had only arrived a few hours earlier and we just thought she wasn’t hungry.’