Val McDermid - The Vanishing Point

Spurred on by the thought, she paid proper attention to what she was looking at. The house was cared for, the stucco clean and fresh, the gravel raked and the terracotta pots well stocked with geraniums. Bougainvillea was trained up trellises on either side of the mock-medieval nailed wooden door. ‘Looks like she’s got good help,’ Stephanie said. ‘I can’t see Leanne keeping all this in order.’

Nick pressed the doorbell and they waited. He was reaching out to push it again when they heard the shuffle of sandals on tile. The door opened to reveal a short, squat man with skin tanned lizard brown. He wore nothing but riotously patterned shorts and flip flops. Where there should have been a six-pack was a taut firkin. A shock of thick white hair protected his head from the sun that had turned the rest of him mahogany. He looked mildly surprised to see them.

Not as surprised as Stephanie and Nick were to see him. ‘We’re looking for Leanne,’ Stephanie said. ‘This is the right house, isn’t it?’

The man scratched his head. ‘Right house, wrong year. We bought the house after she moved out and we’ve been here, what . . . nine months?’ His accent was Liverpudlian with the edges scuffed off.

‘I’m sorry, Mr . . . ?’ Nick pulled his wallet out of his back pocket.

‘Sullivan. Johnny Sullivan. And you are?’

Nick showed his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Nick Nicolaides, Met Police. And this is Stephanie Harker.’

‘I’m not with the police,’ Stephanie said. ‘I’m an old friend of Leanne.’

‘Well, like I said, she’s not been here for a long time now. We bought the house, all above board. Never met her, like. It was done through the lawyers.’

‘Can we come in, Mr Sullivan? I’d like to ask a couple of questions.’

Sullivan drew his eyebrows down in a considering frown. ‘I don’t see why not. I’ve got nothing to hide.’

They followed him down a cool hallway and into a big kitchen that looked out over a small kidney-shaped pool. Beyond it was a small building. Sullivan cocked his head towards it. ‘She used to run a nail-bar business out there. According to the wife, she was well thought of among the expat women. Did a good job and she wasn’t dear. She was cousins with that Scarlett lass, the one off Goldfish Bowl that died of cancer. But you’d know that, with her being your mate, like.’ He gestured at the patio with his thumb. ‘In or out?’

‘In will be fine, Mr Sullivan.’ Nick stood with his hand pointedly on the back of a chair.

‘Take a seat,’ Sullivan said. ‘You want a glass of water? Or a beer? I’ve got the local brew, it’s not bad.’

They accepted a glass of water each and began the business of extracting information from Johnny Sullivan. He was forthcoming to a fault, apparently holding nothing back. A year ago, he and his wife had been renting an apartment in the village, looking for somewhere to buy. Leanne had taken off one day without warning, causing some annoyance to her customers, who had all forgiven her when they heard her celebrity cousin had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. Nobody could argue with that as a reason for cancelling a pedicure.

What had been more surprising was that Leanne hadn’t come back. Someone had obviously been to the villa to pack up her clothes and personal effects, but they’d been in and out without anybody seeing them. ‘People assumed she’d decided to stop in the UK.’ He shrugged. ‘Some folk get homesick, like. They miss the food and the weather.’

A few weeks after her departure, the villa had been quietly put on the market. Johnny and his wife heard about it through the network of property lawyers. ‘I won’t lie to you, we pounced on it. The price was fair and it was exactly what we were looking for.’

‘You bought it from Leanne herself?’ Nick asked. Stephanie was fascinated to watch him in action. He asked things that wouldn’t have immediately occurred to her, but she could see how important the questions were. They were both expert interrogators, but because they started with different goals, they took very different routes.

‘Well done, young man. You put your finger on the one unusual thing about the whole transaction. The property wasn’t in Leanne’s name, it was owned by some charitable trust.’

‘Was it the TOmorrow Trust, by any chance?’ Stephanie was pretty sure she already knew the answer, but she had to ask.

Johnny Sullivan pointed his finger at her like a pistol. ‘Got it in one. I assumed it was a tax dodge. It usually is round here.’

‘Did she leave a forwarding address?’

‘Only the lawyer. She didn’t get much post, but when anything does come, we pass it straight on to the lawyer.’

‘Do you know if Leanne was particularly friendly with anyone in the village?’ Nick leaned back in his chair, the picture of relaxed, sociable interest.

‘She had a bit of a thing for Paco. He runs the bar in the main square. She was pally with a British couple, Ant and Cat. The three of them used to hang about in the bar nattering to Paco. But I don’t think they’re in touch with her any more. Ant and Cat got married at New Year and they sent her an invitation via the lawyer. She never so much as sent a card or a wedding present, let alone turned up. They were really pissed off with her.’ That was the last nugget of useful information they got from Johnny Sullivan.

As they waved goodbye, Stephanie said, ‘It sounds like Leanne had really had it with Scarlett. To turn her back on all of this, just because they had a row.’

Nick grunted noncommittally. ‘It’s interesting,’ he said. ‘I want to see what Paco and the famous Ant and Cat have to say.’

They found the bar without difficulty. Better yet, the three people they wanted to speak to were all there. It was a typical village bar; simple décor, basic menu and a friendly ambience. But as soon as they mentioned Leanne’s name, the temperature dropped. ‘Walked out on us without a word,’ bleached-blond Ant said, curling his lip in contempt. He rolled his shoulders, deliberately displaying his weight-room muscles. ‘She was Cat’s best mate but she just used you, pet. As soon as she was back with her celebrity pals, we were history.’ Paco nodded, polishing a wine glass with vigour.

Cat, statuesque with an Amy Winehouse mane of raven hair that owed everything to the skills of her hairdresser, nodded sagely. ‘Dumped Paco there like he had the pox. Not so much as a postcard or a text. I lost count of the number of times I texted her and got nothing back.’ Ant patted her hand.

‘And voicemail,’ Paco chipped in. ‘She ignore my voicemail twenty time or more. She love that life in London, I know this. But I think she will come back because we have something good.’ He finished polishing the glass and replaced it on the shelf. ‘I love her. But is no point.’

‘That’s right, Paco. No point. How could we compete with the likes of Scarlett?’ Cat pouted, petulant as an adolescent.

‘After Scarlett died, did you not expect her to come home?’

‘Course we did,’ Ant said, flexing his forearms. ‘But she must have hooked up with some bloke with more money than sense.’

‘She always had an eye for the main chance.’

It was, thought Stephanie, an odd judgement. Living in a small Spanish hill town and painting women’s nails for a living didn’t seem to her to demonstrate an eye for the main chance. What it had always said to her was that Leanne was a woman who knew her limitations and was happy to work within them. If she’d been a gold-digger or someone who was only out for what she could get, she’d had her chances when she’d been living at the hacienda. She’d had power over Scarlett and Joshu and she’d never chosen to wield it. But Ant and Cat had constructed their story as deliberately as Stephanie built the biographies of her clients and this was the version of Leanne that would be handed down now and for ever.