Val McDermid - The Vanishing Point

‘Damn, I gave myself away.’ He pursed his mouth in a self-mocking expression.

‘Why are you here?’ It occurred to me that his presence was a little puzzling.

He fiddled with the stem of his wine glass and shrugged. ‘Call it curiosity. I don’t often get the chance to have a window on this world. I like to take my chances when I can.’

‘If this was an episode of Poirot , you’d be here because you didn’t think Joshu’s death was an accident.’ I was teasing him, but he showed no response at all. Not a quirk of humour or a flash of seriousness. Just a blank.

‘But it’s not an episode of Poirot ,’ he said. ‘And I’m a nosy copper who had nothing better to do on his afternoon off. How’s the not-quite-widow taking it?’

‘Harder than I’d have expected. She put on a good show of being over him, but it turns out she wasn’t. Trust me, there’s nothing fake about her grief. She’s genuinely stricken. Partly it’s on Jimmy’s account. But she still had feelings for Joshu.’

Nick nodded. ‘She’s lucky to have you to take care of something as major as this.’

‘I cracked the whip, that’s all. It was other people who did the nitty gritty.’ An idea was nibbling at the edge of my mind. ‘I’m quite good at getting people organised.’ I tried to project a winning combination of tentative and sexy.

‘I imagine you are,’ Nick said, not quite meeting my gaze.

‘For example.’ I shifted so that I had my back to the window. If he wanted to keep eye contact with me, he would have to move round, putting Pete firmly in his line of sight. ‘You mentioned that you’re a gatecrasher. But you’re not really. If you had asked to come, we’d have been happy to give you an invitation. In your case, it’s a technicality. But there are people here who are definitely not welcome. And someone like you would be doing Scarlett a huge kindness if you were to escort them off the premises. For example.’

He moved so he could see the section of the room that I’d been looking towards. ‘Is there someone you had in mind?’

‘Don’t stare. But there’s a guy beyond the bar, leaning against the wall. He’s wearing a black jacket and a black shirt with a silvery tie.’

Nick stooped slightly, as if he were leaning down to hear my words over the background din. ‘Dark hair? Kind of gaunt? Straight black brows?’

‘That’s him. His name’s Pete Matthews.’

‘And he’s not welcome?’

‘Definitely not.’

‘I presume there’s a reason you don’t want to give him the bum’s rush yourself?’ Nick pushed his shaggy hair back from his face. In the vivid lighting, I could see one or two strands of silver among mixed shades of brown that reminded me of the colours of a female blackbird’s wing. It made him seem more grown-up. More grown-up than me, at least.

‘Yes.’ I’m desperate to run away from here and I want you to distract him so I can get a head start .

‘But you’d rather not share it,’ Nick said. I don’t think I imagined a note of regret in his voice. ‘And by the time I’ve dealt with the problem, you’ll be gone, right?’

Not just gorgeous and sexy, but smart too. I really hoped Nick would cobble together some vague reason to come and talk to us again about Joshu. I wasn’t about to count on it, though. ‘Something like that. My work here is done.’

‘Hi, ho, Silver, away.’ He grinned again. Damn, but it’s a great sense of connection when someone gets your cultural references. ‘I’ll go and chase your gatecrasher away, Stephanie. I’ll consider it the price of admission.’

‘Thank you. And thanks for coming.’

‘I’m glad I did.’ Nick dipped his head then slipped away from me through the crowd. As soon as he came between me and Pete, I walked quickly along the fringe of the room and through the door into the bustling kitchen area. A pink-faced woman in chef’s whites said, ‘Oi! You can’t come in here,’ as soon as she caught sight of me.

‘I need to check out the back way in case Scarlett needs to leave quietly,’ I said in as authoritative a tone as I could muster. ‘You know, with the cancer treatment, she can’t always predict how much energy she’s going to have. And she doesn’t want to make a fuss.’

‘Oh, I get it. You’re like the SAS, clearing the route for her.’

I tried not to roll my eyes. ‘Something like that.’

Three minutes later, I emerged from a service lift at the back of the building. I didn’t have my car with me – it was still at Scarlett’s house, since I’d travelled to the memorial in one of the big black Daimlers Georgie had ordered to bring us from Essex in style. That didn’t matter. The car could stay put until I needed it. I couldn’t go back to Essex tonight. That would be exactly where Pete would come looking if Nick didn’t put him off the whole idea of tracking me down. Somehow, I didn’t think a word from Nick would wave a magic wand and end my persecution.

And assuming Nick did manage to buy me a few minutes, I knew I had to get out of the immediate neighbourhood before Pete emerged from the Centre Point tower. The one thing I had going for me was that clearly he still didn’t know where I lived. That was why he was here today. An event he knew I’d be participating in, at a crowded venue where he knew I wouldn’t want to make a scene. Then he could pick up my trail and follow me back to my lair. His mistake had been to show himself. If he hadn’t been so cocksure, he could have kept watch in the street below and simply followed me when I emerged without a suspicion. Thank God for arrogance.

I looked around to get my bearings, then headed for Tottenham Court Road station at a brisk pace. Northern Line to Waterloo then Jubilee Line to London Bridge, then a train to Brighton. I would be safe behind my own front door in less than two hours. The very idea put a spring into my step. I’d thwarted the man who threatened my peace of mind.

It was a great feeling. Shame it didn’t last long.

40

It had taken a while to get there, but Vivian McKuras figured they were finally getting to the heart of the matter. Pete Matthews was emerging as a man with a grudge against Stephanie Harker, and a man who didn’t give up easily. ‘Was that the first time you’d had any evidence that he was still trying to track you down?’ she asked.

Stephanie nodded wearily. Her face had aged as the day had worn on, the markers of the years overwhelming the youthful elements of her features. Vivian had seen it before in those left behind by a crime. The damage became visible very quickly. Her voice had changed too. It had grown markedly less sprightly as her story had unfolded. ‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘I really thought he’d given up. But obviously he hadn’t. The thing is, I don’t lead a very public life. Other writers appear at literary festivals, or give talks at libraries. Ghost writers don’t. If you don’t know where I live, it would be hard to stake out anywhere I visit regularly. I seldom go to my agent’s office – if we’re seeing each other, we tend to do lunch and meet at the restaurant. Or if I’m auditioning for a book, we’ll meet at the venue. And it’s rare for me to attend launch events for books I’ve written. It’s easier all round if I stay invisible.’

‘Couldn’t he track you down through property title or taxes, that sort of thing? Is that not possible in your country?’

‘I didn’t buy the house in Brighton in my own name. I set up a limited company and used it to purchase the property. I pay rent to the company, and the rent covers the mortgage. That way I don’t show up as the owner at the Land Registry. My name is not on the public register of council tax, and all the utilities are in the company name. My bank statements and credit card bills all go to my agent’s office address. I did everything I could to cover my tracks.’