Линда Ла Плант - Cold Blood

Lorraine nodded, staring out of the window.

‘What you make of it?’ he asked nonchalantly.

Lorraine leaned back against the seat, eyes closed. ‘Well, from what I’ve read in those newspapers you got it sounds to me as if it was maybe a kidnap case that went wrong — no note, no ransom... she’s probably dead a long while. What do you make of it?’

Rooney headed off the San Diego Freeway, the 405, then on to the Sunset Boulevard turn-off heading towards Beverly Hills.

‘Well, as far as I can make out, the kid didn’t seem the type to go off with any kind of rough trade. She knew the area, been there many times, parents have homes there. Maybe she went freely, but it was Mardi Gras so who knows... If we get the case we’ll get to know more details from New Orleans. Can’t do much this end, guys in LA just covered statements, you know, from family and associates, to see if there was a possible link to the case back here.’

‘Was there?’

‘Not as far as I know, they got fuck-all here.’

‘No ransom note,’ Lorraine repeated to herself. She remained deep in thought for another ten minutes or so as they drove on, then she opened her eyes. ‘Remember that case, 1986, young girl disappeared, turned up eighteen months later in Las Vegas as a show girl? The family really thought she’d be found dead, instead she was found wearing a G-string and her new silicone tits decorated with a few sequins.’

Rooney shook his head. ‘Nope, don’t remember it.’ He stopped at traffic lights, then turned into Beverly Hills. Lorraine lit a cigarette, puffing it alight from the car’s dashboard lighter.

‘Reason I remember it is because of the time it took tracing her, eighteen months. If they want us on this, we gotta think about how long it takes tracing anyone, alive or dead,’ Lorraine said thoughtfully.

Rooney reached out to the glove compartment and, flicking it open, handed Lorraine an envelope. ‘They’re a sort of guideline of expenses. Pal gimme them a while back, you know, when I first thought about bein’ a dick for hire, useful information. If we get the job we got to know how much to ask for. Check ’em out.’

Lorraine skimmed over the notes and tucked the sheets back into the envelope; she’d already had a good idea how much to ask for, but nowhere near what some of the agencies were charging for their high-tech equipment, from bugging and tracking devices to computerized files and camcorders.

‘We’ll undercut those other agencies but give the same crap about our high-tech gear. We don’t wanna come on cheap.’ She replaced the envelope and snapped the glove compartment closed on seeing the stashed bottle of bourbon.

‘Right,’ Rooney grunted as they drove past the high hedgerows and the ornate houses patrolled by security guards with dogs at electronically barred gates. ‘Some of these places remind you of a prison?’ he asked, and Lorraine laughed softly.

‘No way, man. If you’d been banged up, no way you’d describe these millionaires’ mansions as prisons.’

They reached a small roundabout with an arrow sign pointing to the Bel Air Hotel. They turned left, passing the Bel Air, and continued up the quiet road.

Rooney slowed down. ‘Next house on the left.’ He noticed she straightened up in her seat, pulling her jacket down. She looked great, and, compared to his bulky, unhealthy body, she looked fit. Amazing, considering the punishment she’d heaped on herself. Her resilience constantly amazed him, and he admired her for it. Not long ago she had been arrested for drunkenness and vagrancy, but she’d come a long way since then.

He swung the car in front of the gates, opening his window to a blast of hot air. ‘Shit, it’s hot. Weather’s crazy, one second it’s pissing down, the next they’re saying it’s going to be way up in the seventies today.’ He reached out to press the intercom and announced their arrival.

The gates remained closed for a couple of minutes, then eased smoothly open. From the entrance the house could not be seen but the plush gardens were even more exotic than Rosie had described. They were like a hothouse jungle of ferns and carefully planted screens of evergreens, with palms of every shape and size covering each side of the pale gravel drive. They drove slowly past tennis courts, manicured lawns and flower-beds blazing with colour where water-sprinklers ensured they flourished in all the seasons. The water-spraying jets spinning in a wide arc gave the garden a hazy, surreal quality. Not until they turned a wide bend in the drive did the house itself come into view. The white pillars of the three-storey Southern-style house were reminiscent of something out of Gone with the Wind — any moment one expected Scarlett O’Hara to come running down the white stone steps saying, ‘Why, I do declare.’ But there was no Scarlett. Instead, a butler in a black suit and white waistcoat stood poised at the ornately carved front doors.

‘Rosie said it was some place.’ Lorraine was in awe.

‘Money,’ muttered Rooney.

A manservant appeared as if from nowhere to open the passenger door for Lorraine. She hesitated a moment before she stepped out and noticed that Rooney had broken out in a sweat by the time they began walking up the steps.

‘Good morning, would you please follow me, Mrs Page, Mr Rooney?’ said the butler stiffly. He was English, his frozen face devoid of any expression as he gestured for them to go ahead of him into the hall. The white marble floor was so polished it glittered, light sparkling on the surface as they followed the butler towards closed, ceiling-high white and gold-embossed double doors leading off to the right of the hall.

‘Mrs Caley will join you directly,’ the butler said as he gestured for them to head into the room. White sofas with white frilled scatter cushions in satin and silks were everywhere, and everything was white on white with a gold embroidery finish. The white silk Japanese wallpaper had faint outlines of shimmering birds, and hanging between the impressive gilt mirrors on every wall were large oil paintings of Elizabeth Caley in all her many movie roles.

‘Ah, I remember her in that one,’ murmured Rooney as he stared at a painting. ‘ The Swamp , it was called, and she danced with a big snake.’

‘May I offer you any refreshments?’ the butler asked as if he’d just smelt something bad.

Lorraine asked for a glass of water. Rooney would have liked a beer but he shrugged. ‘Fine for me too, just water.’

The austere butler departed and they were able to have a good look around the white palace, almost afraid to sit and disturb the carefully arrayed cushions. Rooney chose a white Louis XV chair, not that he had any notion it was the real McCoy. Only after he’d eased himself down into it did he worry that he might be too heavy for its spindly legs.

Lorraine looked around the room, noting the many beautifully framed photographs of a young girl. She gestured to one. ‘This must be the daughter.’ She looked towards the doorway and then moved closer to inspect a photograph. The girl was exceptionally pretty, with waist-length natural blonde hair, a small, up-tilted nose and wide pale eyes.

Lorraine sat down in the centre of the vast white sofa, sinking so low into it that she felt self-conscious: her weight had disturbed the carefully arranged scatter-cushions, which tumbled inwards.

‘I don’t suppose I could light a cigarette,’ she said almost to herself, looking over the white marble-top coffee table with its carefully placed objects, all either bronze or gold. None resembled an ashtray. She stared down at her shoes, almost hidden by the dense white pile of the carpet, and worried that Rosie’s quick brush might have left a smear of brown boot polish. She looked up as the clink of ice cubes could be heard.