Janklow crept around the house. He found Lorraine’s purse, opened it and searched through. She had little money, no cards or check books. All she had in her purse was a packet of cigarettes, a used lipstick, a comb, and, he smiled to himself, car keys.
He left the house and went down the driveway. He saw Bruno look up and wag his tail, and hoped he wouldn’t start barking. He stood, frozen to the spot, until the dog lowered his head. The gardener was on the other side of the tennis courts, using some kind of spray, intent on his work. Janklow opened the gates and walked along the road, sure that no one had seen him. There was no one on the road and not even a ear passed him.
He found Lorraine’s car and checked the keys against the registration number. He was feeling better now, more in control, already working out in his mind how he would kill her, because she was going to die.
Rooney rang Andrew Fellows’s doorbell, keeping his finger on the button. Fellows opened up and sighed when he saw who it was. ‘I said everything on the phone to Lieutenant Bean. I didn’t think it was necessary for anyone to come out, especially not now. She was here before lunch.’
Rooney smiled. ‘Sorry about this. I just wanted to go over a few things, and I’d like to speak to Mrs Fellows.’
They went into the kitchen where Dilly was sitting. She looked upset, tear-stained. She repeated everything to Rooney, again without any mention of her disclosure to Lorraine about Brad Thorburn.
‘Can I speak to you alone, Professor?’ Rooney asked.
‘Of course. Dilly, this won’t take long.’
Fellows took Rooney into his den. He looked a little sheepish.
‘You know the Thorburns?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t mention it this morning.’
‘No one asked me if I did or didn’t know them.’
‘When you left the station, did you come straight back home?’
Fellows flushed a deep red. ‘No, I did not. I... I went to the Thorburn house.’
Rooney stared hard, in disbelief as Fellows told him what he had said to Brad. He was obviously ashamed and knew he had behaved unethically. Rooney asked for Thorburn’s address and phone number. He left shortly after, not reprimanding Fellows, not saying much at all.
Fellows found his wife in the bedroom. She was crying again. He stared at her for a moment and then walked out. In a fit of rage he dragged Brad’s portrait off the wall, smashed it against the open fireplace until the canvas ripped apart and the frame snapped. He stamped on it, then lit the log fire and watched it blaze. He had never felt so angry in his life — angry and bitter, but above all foolish. He hated that most of all. He had just jeopardized his work with the police and doubted if he would ever be called upon again.
As the flames slowly destroyed the painting, his anger subsided. Now he felt nothing but humiliation. Brad Thorburn’s nakedness had dominated his home and he had allowed it, joked about it, encouraged Brad to visit Dilly. What made it worse was that Brad had known of her instability, which made his affair with her even more of a betrayal. Fellows vowed never to speak to or see him again. He couldn’t even stay in this room, even though the painting was no longer hanging on the wall. The vast space where the life-size portrait had hung added insult to injury. He picked up a cup of cold coffee and headed into the den. As he shut the door, he could hear his wife still crying but he had no intention of discussing Brad with her again. Fellows didn’t care if he had screwed her once or twice, it was immaterial. The fact that he had fucked her at all was what mattered.
Fellows found little solace in his den. There were photographs of him and Brad together all over the walls, the two of them fishing, playing baseball, water-skiing in Miami, at squash tournaments, on tennis courts. Brad Thorburn and Andrew Fellows had known each other for many years, had always been competitive with each other as sportsmen. In the women stakes, Fellows had never moved in Brad’s social sphere, had never wanted to, could never have been any competition there. No man could, not with Brad’s looks and wealth.
Fellows sat at his desk. He drew the file on the murder investigation closer and began to go over every detail once again. He had been so sure that Brad Thorburn could have no connection with the killings but what if he had been wrong? What if he had missed something? If he had, he was determined to find it. It made him feel better. He wanted to hurt Brad Thorburn — better still, destroy him.
Rooney reached his car and picked up the radio to tell Bean he was now on his way to the Thorburns’.
‘You going to interview Janklow?’ Bean asked.
‘Nope, I think Lorraine Page is trying to though so get a squad car out there. It’s Beverly Glen, you got the address? Okay, I’ll see you.’
Chapter 17
They lay naked side by side, the sheet loosely covering their bodies. She was face downwards, her eyes closed. Brad drew the sheet back and brushed his hand gently over her body. ‘How did you get these marks?’ He leaned up on his elbow, to trace the scar on her face. ‘And this?’
She pulled away from him, and suddenly swished the entire sheet from the bed and wrapped it around herself. ‘I’d better get dressed.’
He remained lying naked on the bed as she crossed the room. Trailing the sheet, she started to pick up her clothes. Skirt in one hand, she looked around. ‘Where are my shoes?’
Brad got up and opened a wardrobe. He took out a white kaftan and dragged it on over his head. ‘They must be downstairs. I’ll get them.’ He stood behind her and wrapped his arms round her, kissing the nape of her neck. Then he frowned and brushed the short hair at the nape of her neck upwards. ‘Jesus Christ, how did you get this one?’
The scar, still pink and raised, zig-zagged across her hair line. She tried to move away but he gripped her tightly. ‘Why don’t you answer me? Who did this to you?’
She tried to release herself but he held her tighter. ‘I need to get dressed.’
He let go of her shoulders. ‘I’ll be downstairs.’
‘Don’t go, not yet, we have to talk, the reason I came here.’
Brad sighed. ‘You want to talk but if I ask you a question you refuse to answer. So you go ahead, you talk.’ His face was tight with anger because he had thought she had come to see him, be with him. She continued to gather her clothes as he sat waiting.
‘Look, if it makes it any easier I know you’re a whore, you told me that yourself. Is it money you want?’
She moved so fast and it was so unexpected that he did nothing to defend himself. The slap was hard and it hurt. He rubbed his cheek and laughed.
‘I didn’t come here for what we just did.’ She stepped back and her fists were clenched. He reached out his hand to her but she wouldn’t take it. She began to pace up and down, the sheet trailing on the floor. She looked astonishingly beautiful. There was a mannish quality to her as she tightened the sheet round her body. ‘The scars I got from times when I was on the streets. I used to get drunk, I don’t know what I did, who I went with. I’m not proud of the hideous things or the cigarette burns, but I never felt them. I didn’t care enough about myself to care.’
‘And now?’ he asked.
‘Now I just want you to listen — don’t interrupt me, just listen.’
‘Fine.’ He leaned back against the pillows. He was not disgusted by anything she had said — in some ways he didn’t really believe it.