“It’s a bar in Nottingham, right in the center. We’re going to hit a few clubs.”
“Sounds good.”
“How about you?”
“I’m waiting for some friends,” he lied. “We’re going to take a tour around the West End tonight, see what’s happening.”
“So much cool.”
“So shall I give you another call when I get home? Maybe we could meet up?” he asked hopefully.
“Do that. I’d like it. Hey, drown in fun tonight.”
“You too. Bye.”
“Bye, Tim.”
The screen went blank. Who are you trying to fool? he asked himself bitterly. From somewhere he found the courage to say: “Click, real-time call to Goddard house phone, eighteen Southbrook Crescent, Uppingham, Rutland.” This was it, the last desperate gamble. If he blew it now, they would be over forever.
The call wasn’t rejected by the house’s datasphere interface. That alone sent his pulse rate up. He waited while the speakers pealed loudly around him. Then they fell silent, and the screen lit up with poor resolution shadows in a drizzle of emerald sparks. The shadows moved, and he recognized them as Roger Goddard’s face. Annabelle’s father was frowning heavily. “Hello?” his deeply puzzled voice queried.
“Hello, Mr. Goddard, it’s Tim Baker. I wondered if I could talk to Annabelle, please.”
The huge face on the screen displayed a number of strange tics as the question was pondered, changing the frown into an expression of anguish. “No,” he said quietly. “No, you can’t.”
“Please, if you could just ask her to come to the phone. I just want to talk to her. That’s all. Please.”
“I can’t, Tim. She’s not here. She left this afternoon.”
“She left?”
“Yes. Packed her bag and went. She said it was just for a few days. But I know. This is just the start. I’ll be here by myself soon.”
“Where’s she gone?”
“She’s off to spend a few days with her boyfriend.”
“Her boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
“Who the fu—Do you know who he is?”
“I’m not sure. I know you used to be. This is somebody else.”
“What’s his name? Please, Mr. Goddard.”
“I don’t know. That’s strange. I’m sure she must have told me. But I don’t remember.”
“How long has she been seeing him?”
“Quite a while. Was it you she went to the Summer Ball with, or him?”
“Me. It was me.”
“Oh. Well it was about then.”
“The Summer Ball? She was seeing him back then?”
“I think so.”
“Oh my God.”
“She was really happy when she left. I couldn’t stop her, couldn’t say anything. She’s so beautiful when she’s smiling and excited like that. So full of joy. How could I ask her to stay? All I want is for her to be happy. I can’t stand in the way of that. My daughter is so wonderful. And he makes her happy. Shining, she was—”
“Fucking click, fucking end fucking call!”
SINCE THE BALL. Or even before the ball, if her stupid synth-head father was right.
I told you, she’s a real slut. Simon’s exact words. Words Tim had nearly come to blows over. Simon claimed she’d slept with Derek, which at the time Tim was sure was his way of covering the fact that Annabelle had dumped him.
Now she’d gone to stay with her boyfriend. Was it Derek?
How could she? She knew how much he loved her, how utterly devoted he was. How could she do such a thing? They’d been good together. Everyone said that. A great couple. He made her laugh. They had sex. Lots of sex. Hadn’t that meant anything to her? Hadn’t he meant anything to her?
Obviously not.
Tim curled up inside the globe chair, frightened that he was going to cry. Now she had someone else, she would never want him back. They’d moved in together. That meant they would spend every night together in bed. It had already begun.
The idea produced an actual physical pain in Tim’s head. It was so abhorrent. Nobody could love and appreciate her the way he did. Nobody.
He could finally realize why people did such stupid, crazy things when they lost someone they adored. There and then he couldn’t bear the notion of ever going back to Rutland, where he’d be near her every day, walking through places they’d been together. He could just as easily stay down in London with Mum, spend the summer sampling metropolitan life until university. That idea died as quickly as it was born. Mum had her new life, complete with her men; she was happy.
Maybe he should take that gap year Dad had offered him. The other side of the planet was probably the only safe distance to be right now.
37. A SNOWFLAKE IN HELL
THE SUMMER STORM CRAWLED NORTHWARD across the placid azure sky, following some way behind the morning express train from London to Peterborough. Tim changed for the regional train to Stamford, then caught the bus back to Empingham. Thick black clouds were just beginning to fall over the lip of the southern horizon as the taxi carrying him and the Europol team pulled up in front of the manor; the air was heavy with the smell of ozone.
Lieutenant Krober was in the hallway when Tim walked in. “We didn’t expect you back for a few more days,” he said.
To Tim’s ears the Europol officer sounded strangely guilty. “Yeah, well, London didn’t work for me.”
“I see.”
“Where’s Dad?”
“I am not sure.”
“Not sure? You’re his bodyguard.”
“He has not gone out. He is in the manor. Perhaps working.”
Tim frowned at Krober, who was giving Natalie Cherbun a silent, frantic look. He marched into the living room. Dad wasn’t there, but a navy blue bikini halter was draped over the back of the white leather sofa. Tim stared at it, startled by how familiar it was, one of Stephanie Romane’s swimwear line. The big French doors were open, obviously used that morning. He went out onto the terrace to see if anyone was outside. Behind him he could hear Krober and Cherbun talking in low urgent voices. Nobody was in the garden. The pool was calm and flat, with a single inflatable ball floating in one corner of the deep end.
From somewhere above and behind him came the sound of a girl moaning hoarsely. Tim turned slowly to see that the veranda doors of his father’s bedroom were wide open. He wasn’t conscious of climbing up the iron spiral stairs from the terrace. The next thing he knew he was standing on the veranda while the storm’s precursor breeze stirred the louver blinds along the edge of the broad glass doors. There was another cry from inside the bedroom, sharper this time. A cold dread seeping through Tim’s body produced shivers down his arms and legs as he crept forward to the window frame. His face pressed up against the glass, allowing him to peer through the narrow gap between the blinds.
He was looking directly into Annabelle’s wide-eyed stare, though she seemed unable to see anything through her own rapture. She was kneeling on all fours in the middle of the four poster bed, oiled skin gleaming in the room’s rich lighting. Jeff was positioned behind her, hands gripping her hips, muscles straining as he pulled himself forward, grunting with the effort of penetration. Annabelle’s beautiful features suddenly contorted with a grimace of dirty glee, and she let out a long delighted wail.
The tableau rooted Tim to the spot. All he could do was watch in utter disbelief as his father fucked Annabelle barely three meters in front of him.
They went on and on. He was sure there was never going to be an end to it.
The image blurred. Tim blinked, not understanding what was happening. Then he saw big raindrops were splashing against the glass. The storm had arrived from the south, rolling across the sky to shroud the manor in darkness and thunder. Rain and tears mingled together as they trickled down his cheeks.