Ella, of course, had been fine. When they had gone to pick her up, the child had been fast asleep. But that didn’t stop her from kicking off on the cab journey home. The usual fractured night followed; his dreams of Melissa Graham regularly interrupted by extended periods of pacing the living-room carpet trying to ease the baby back to sleep.
It was after 4.30 a.m. when he’d finally got to sleep himself. Then, of course, he’d slept through the alarm and only woken up an hour after his shift had been due to start. As he rounded the corner into Agar Street, he braced himself for the inevitable dressing down that Carlyle would only too happily deliver.
As if on cue, the mobile in his pocket started rumbling.
‘Boss . . .’
The inspector didn’t stand on any ceremony. ‘Where are you at the moment?’
‘Just heading into the station.’
‘Busy morning?’
‘Er, yeah.’
‘Okay, well, look, there’s something I need you to do.’ As Carlyle explained what he wanted, Umar’s mood began to brighten. It looked like the aforementioned bollocking was not going to materialize after all.
Problems on the Bakerloo Line meant that it took Umar about forty-five minutes to make the journey from Charing Cross to St John’s Wood. Although still in the centre of London, Boyle Avenue was a different world, a suburban tree-lined road where mock-Tudor mansions hid behind tall hedges, thick security gates and state-of-the-art CCTV systems. If you wanted to buy into this neighbourhood, a property would cost well north of ten million.
Placards on the lampposts informed any unwelcome visitors that the residents were being protected 24/7 by a private security firm. That was the thing about having too much money, Umar supposed: it made you paranoid.
Crossing the street, something didn’t feel right. It took him a few moments to realize what it was: the place was empty. No cars on the road. No pedestrians on the pavements. No security guards anywhere. Since arriving in London, this was the first time Umar could ever recall being alone on a street.
Number 72 stood behind a ten-foot brick wall. In the middle was a large grey metal gate which slid open to allow vehicle access to the property. Beside it was a smaller gate which allowed pedestrian access under the gaze of a fish-eye lens. Stepping in front of the lens, Umar pressed the intercom and waited. A few moments later, a maid answered and, after checking his ID, buzzed him inside.
As he walked up the short gravel driveway, the front door opened. The woman standing beside it, however, was clearly not the help. Wearing tight white jeans and a paisley silk blouse, she swayed slightly in the doorway as he approached. On first glance, Umar put her at maybe early forties. Tanned, with blonde hair that reached her shoulders, she had a well-preserved look that suggested both plenty of money and the time to spend it.
Approaching the door, he held up his ID for a second time.
‘Mrs Winters?’
‘Yes.’ Ignoring the warrant card, Giselle Winters looked at the young sergeant and licked her lips. ‘Another policeman?’ Her accent was noticeable, but he couldn’t place it.
Umar held up the bag he was carrying. ‘I have your husband’s briefcase.’
‘You’d better come in then.’ Turning, she disappeared back down the hall. ‘Close the door behind you.’
The hallway ran the length of the house to a kitchen at the rear. Through patio doors was a large garden, which backed on to the house on the next street. At the far end, a couple of women were on their knees planting a flowerbed.
‘It’s such hard work.’
‘Sorry?’
Mrs Winters gazed at the expanse of green that was the lawn. ‘The garden. It costs an absolute fortune to keep it looking good.’
‘Hm.’ I bet it’s not the only thing.
‘Take a seat.’ The woman pointed to a series of stools lined up against an island that looked bigger than the entire kitchen in Umar’s flat. ‘Drink?’
‘That would be great, thanks.’ Trying not to gawp too openly, the sergeant took in his surroundings.
‘What would you like?’
‘Tea would be good.’ Umar hoisted himself on to one of the bar stools. ‘Maybe peppermint?’ He ran a hand along the cool black granite work surface. The place was straight out of one of those magazines that Christina liked to read, Homes amp; Gardens. Everything looked shiny, expensive and unused. Surrounded by such wealth, he suddenly felt energized for the first time in months.
‘I was thinking of something maybe a little stronger.’ From the other side of the island, Winters lifted her glass without taking a sip. Standing next to a vase filled with white roses, Umar noticed the half-empty bottle of vodka.
At this time of the day? The signals from his brain, however, weren’t reaching his mouth. ‘Sure,’ he grinned, ‘why not?’
‘Good for you.’ As she reached for the bottle, Umar’s eyes were inevitably drawn to the front of her blouse.
Catching his gaze, Giselle Winters leaned a little further forward to give the young policeman a better view. ‘Ice?’
‘No, thank you. Straight is fine.’ Trying to re-focus on the matter in hand, Umar hoisted her late husband’s briefcase onto the worktop. ‘I have to apologize that it has taken so long to return this to you.’
‘Don’t worry about that.’ Winters poured a large measure into a tumbler and handed him his drink.
‘Thanks.’
Slinking round the island, she raised her glass. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’ Umar took the tiniest sip of his drink.
Gulping her vodka, Giselle Winters nodded towards the bag. ‘I can’t believe that there is anything of much interest in there, anyway.’
‘Perhaps not. But it is my responsibility to make sure that it is returned to you. And there were also a couple of things I was wondering if I could ask you about.’
A sly grin passed across the widow’s face. ‘First things first,’ she purred, slipping her free hand between his thighs. ‘We can talk later.’
THIRTY-TWO
Sitting up in bed, Giselle Winters reached over and plucked a packet of Rothman’s King Size from the bedside table. ‘Want one?’
Scratching his balls, Umar shook his head.
Pulling a cigarette from the packet, she placed it between her lips and reached for a lighter. After lighting up, she inhaled deeply, holding in the smoke for five or six seconds before exhaling towards the ceiling. ‘I needed that.’
Me too, thought Umar. If there was to be any guilt attached to what he had just done, it would have to come later. At the moment, he just felt pleased with himself.
‘That was really quite something. Not bad for a first run.’
A first run?
‘You know, before now, I hadn’t had sex for almost a year.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
The tell-tale scars confirmed what he already knew – but the breast-enhancement surgery had not been too outrageous. Clocking her erect nipples, Umar felt himself begin to stiffen again.
‘Ever since my husband started seeing his whore, I made him sleep in his own room.’
‘You were getting a divorce?’
‘Of course. What else should I have done?’ Taking another drag on her cigarette, she patted him on the shoulder. ‘Anyway, it seems that I wasn’t the only one who needed to get laid.’
Saying nothing, Umar propped himself up on his elbows and looked around the bedroom for the first time. On the far wall was a large oil painting in a heavy gilt frame. The smiling nude, hands on hips, breasts thrust forward, looked familiar. ‘Is that you?’