‘Sis, you’re still drowning things.’ Ruth has reappeared with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc.
Mitzi twists the nozzle off and drops the hose. ‘Sorry. I was never good with growing stuff.’
‘You grew the girls good.’
She takes a glass from her and settles on a teak bench turned white by the sun. ‘You think?’
‘Yeah, I think.’ Ruth clinks her bowl of golden wine against her sister’s and sits beside her. ‘I wish my fifteen years of marriage had two gorgeous kids in it.’
‘Hey, you’ve got all this.’ She waves a hand at the giant spread of land. ‘And you can have my two any time you like.’
Ruth smiles. ‘I guess so. What about you and your new home?’
‘I scanned the papers today; there are a couple of places out at Serramonte and one across the San Mateo bridge that I’m going to fix to see at the weekend.’
‘There’s no rush.’
‘Thanks. But I’m driving you nuts. I can tell. And I need to get the girls settled over the summer and into school for the new term.’ She sees Jack’s SUV kicking dirt at the end of the long drive. ‘Looks like they’re back.’
Both women take final sips of wine, then wander over to where the garages are.
The big Porsche Cayenne halts and the girls burst out the back doors swinging store bags.
‘Uncle Jack bought us those trainers that we saw.’ Amber opens her bag for her mom to see. ‘Look, Prada.’
‘They’re so cool,’ adds Jade.
Mitzi’s in shock. She couldn’t have afforded one pair, let alone two. ‘That’s real kind, Jack. You’ve spoiled them, thanks.’
‘My pleasure. You got a big hug for your brother-in-law. How you doing?’
‘I’m doing good.’ She surrenders herself to his open arms and he pulls her a little too tight and intimate for her liking.
‘Let’s get that barbecue going,’ grins Jack as they break. He picks four bags of groceries out of the back of the SUV and winks at Mitzi as he heads to the house.
7
It’s early evening when Irish reaches the crime scene with Sophie Hudson. The streets have emptied and shadows on the tree-lined sidewalks softened.
The old man’s body has been moved. The wet squad has scrubbed away the blood and cleared the blowflies.
A uniformed cop opens up for them. Beyond clouds of industrial-standard disinfectant, Irish still smells death.
Sophie wobbles slightly as they enter. He puts a reassuring arm around her. ‘It’s okay; we’ll be outside again in no time — just open the safe for me.’
She nods and leans on him for support. The strange odours disorientate her. There’s a sickly sweet smell she doesn’t recognize. Irish feels her apprehension rise with every step.
Sophie stops and looks down. Areas of dark wooden boards near the counter are lighter than anywhere else. They’ve been washed. Scrubbed hard.
This is where the strange smell is coming from.
She can’t go forward. Can’t step nearer the place where it obviously happened.
Irish feels her go rigid. ‘Come to the side. We can walk round. Don’t look down. I’ll watch out for you.’
She lets him waltz her stiffly to the skirting boards and behind the counter. Only when she’s near the register does she realize she’s been holding her breath. A long sigh escapes.
‘You’re doing really well, Sophie. Really well.’ Irish can see the clock now. A grand casket of mahogany, with a face as white and cold as mortuary marble. There are minute and hour hands of black sculpted iron and a big brass pendulum swinging low.
Sophie gets down on her knees and flips open the tall oblong panel at the foot of the timepiece. Behind it is a small metal safe eighteen inches high by nine wide.
She types a six-number code on the keypad, hears a familiar click and pulls open the door. Inside are two pull-out shelves, each two feet long, extending beyond the back of the clock and into the part of the safe that is cemented into the load-bearing wall that the timepiece is bolted to.
Sophie lifts them out. She stands and puts the trays on the counter.
‘It’s not here.’ She looks up at Irish. ‘The cross has gone.’
8
Scrupulously polished mirrors around the vast, opulent ballroom reflect the dazzlingly dressed figures of more than two hundred of the world’s richest and most powerful people.
Sir Owain Gwyn insisted that his farewell is also a charity occasion, which is why movie stars, musicians, politicians, magazine editors, sportsmen and women have all paid $10,000 a ticket to attend the Ambassadorial Ball for the Disabled and the Homeless.
The deep bass of a brass gong draws eyes to the small stage where the Vice President of the United States, Connor Anderson awaits their attention.
‘Don’t worry, everybody, my speech is going to be very brief.’ The fifty-year-old white-haired Texan lets the last of the noise subside before he continues. ‘Sir Owain is leaving us, returning to the service of Her Majesty the Queen. On behalf of the American government and its people, I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done while you’ve been on duty here in our country. Your diplomacy and your hard work will be remembered forever.
‘Sir, you have made a special relationship between our countries even more special. But you and I, and President Renton, who regrets that he cannot be here tonight, know that you have achieved even greater things that for security reasons we cannot speak of. Ladies and gentlemen, it is a sign of a truly exceptional man that what he does privately, without public credit, outshines the work that most of us do publicly and crave recognition for. Sir Owain Gwyn we raise our glasses to you; we thank you most sincerely for all you have done and wish you the greatest of success in your new posting back in your homeland.’
The room resounds with hearty toasts of ‘Sir Owain!’
While the audience applauds, the vice president half-turns to an assistant and lifts from a velvet cushion a gold, white and red medal. ‘On behalf of the United States Department of Defense, it is my honour to present you with this decoration, the Legion of Merit for exceptionally meritorious conduct in the performance of outstanding services and achievements.’
He holds aloft the rare neck order and even louder applause breaks out as the British knight stoops to duck his head into the loop of red ribbon.
It takes more than a minute for the clapping to stop.
The dark-haired diplomat cradles the medal, one of the highest ever awarded to a foreigner. ‘Most unusually for a Welshman, I find myself stuck for words.’ His soft brown eyes blink as camera flashes explode. ‘I’ll always treasure this and also the wonderful memories that at the end of tomorrow I will take back to Great Britain. I will leave behind a country that has become my second home and one I love dearly. The Gwyns have had ancestors here since the Mayflower docked. Rest assured that even when I am thousands of miles away, America and its great people will remain close to my heart. Thank you. Now enjoy yourselves.’
A band breaks into dance music and almost drowns the applause as he steps away from the small podium.
Gareth Madoc, who’s also his right-hand man in the US, takes him to one side. He cups his hand to his mouth so no one can lip-read the news he breaks to the ambassador. ‘We’ve just got new intelligence on a terror strike.’