Countess Dracula (12 page)

‘You look fine.’ He tried to sound supportive – even after what she had done he couldn’t help but try and stand by her. His self-loathing really was at an all-time low. As was his ability to convince her because the words failed to stick.

‘I look horrid!’ Elizabeth shouted. ‘Worse than ever.’

Nayland sat on the edge of the bed. ‘It’s all over the newspapers,’ he said, throwing down the copy of
Variety
that Fabio had left for them. ‘Fabio was insufferably excited.’

‘Fabio’s been here?’

‘Just left – did you think it would take him long? He sniffs money.’

Elizabeth pulled the newspaper closer, opened it out and lost herself in the front page. After a moment she began to cry. It took a moment for Nayland to recognise the noise: it had been so long since he had seen her this fragile and exposed. He didn’t know quite how to respond.

‘I won’t have it!’ she said. ‘Not now, not after last night. I won’t go back to this.’

‘What choice is there?’ he asked, though he knew and dreaded the answer.

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ she replied. ‘It worked before and it will work again. I just need more blood.’

‘No,’ he insisted, trying to sound as firm as he could. ‘I helped you last night because the deed was done. Nothing I could do was going to give that girl her life back. But I won’t stand by and let you do it again.’

‘“Let me”? You’re not my keeper. I’ll do what I want.’

‘And I’ll go to the police.’

‘What? And go to the chair with me, as an accomplice? Don’t think I can’t make sure that the blame falls on you, Frank Nayland. I may be old but there’s power in these ageing eyelashes yet.’ Elizabeth pressed her hands together, the very image of the terrified and repentant woman. ‘Oh officer … he made me watch while he cut her! I was so terrified but he gets so angry … I didn’t know what to do! For all I knew it might be me next …’

‘You fucking bitch.’ Nayland had known she was more than capable of this kind of blackmail; in truth there was very little she wasn’t capable of, as she had proven last night. But in that moment he hated her more than he had ever imagined he could.

‘Damn right I’m a bitch! And I’ll do whatever needs to be done for the both of us!’

‘Don’t drag me into it. This is all about
you
!’

‘Really? And I suppose Fabio didn’t promise it would help your career too? Don’t give me that. It benefits you just as much to be seen with the most beautiful woman in Hollywood.’

‘But then I rarely am, am I? You have other gentlemen in mind.’

‘Is it that again? Jealousy?’

Nayland wouldn’t be so easily sidetracked. ‘Dress it up however you want to, but this is about your hunger, your greed … I don’t come into it.’

‘You do if I pull you in, and be assured I will. I need more blood and you’re going to help me get it!’

Nayland couldn’t remember ever feeling so lost, not only because of where his blind devotion had got him but because he knew where it was going to take him next.

What was he to do? He had no doubt that Elizabeth would be a woman of her word: if it all came to light then she would do her damnedest to push him to the forefront of the whole affair. He could go to the police himself first, of course, get his story in early. Still, there would be no denying his involvement in the disposal of the body. That mess had his hands all over it. Would any jury really believe he had been blameless in the murder itself? Would anyone think he was so weak that he had just come running to do Elizabeth’s bidding after the deed was done? Part of him couldn’t bear the idea that they could – he was disgusted enough at his own weakness without it being a matter of public record. Even if they did, didn’t that still make him an accomplice after the fact? He might just escape the death sentence if he could sell himself as worthless enough. Might. Whatever happened his life as it stood now would be over, he would be sentenced to prison and lose everything. All over the death of a stupid maid.

The only other option was to go with it, to try and make it safe. Women vanished all the time. If they chose more carefully the next time, picked their target with care, maybe they could continue to get away with it. Certainly they would have more chance of success if he was involved in the planning: Elizabeth was a wild card, a madwoman labouring under the impression that she was untouchable by the law. Nayland had no such beliefs. If they slipped up then at best everything would fall down around them, at worst their final performance would be in the electric chair, burning for the pleasure of one last, eager audience.

Nayland wasn’t as greedy as Elizabeth but he was just as pragmatic. When it came down to the lives of a few worthless women in exchange for his own – and, yes, an improvement on his own, Fabio had been right about that, he knew that Nayland’s star would ascend alongside hers if he let it – well … it was a transaction he could accept.

‘You’re going to do it,’ Elizabeth said, her voice no longer angry but quiet and dismissive as if they were discussing nothing more than the purchase of a new suit. ‘So let’s move on from the recriminations and name-calling and get down to
how
we’re going to do it.’

‘I hate you sometimes,’ Nayland said, not quite willing to let the recriminations lie. ‘You’re selfish, cruel and evil.’

‘I’m also beautiful and the only woman you’ve ever loved. What does that say about you, darling?’ She put her arm around his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek.

‘Nothing good,’ he admitted, though he couldn’t quite bring himself to push her away.

‘But with a beautiful wife on your arm the world will be a better place and you know it. You say this is all about me? Fine, think that if you must. But you know deep down that you need the attention as much as I do, the
adoration
.’

This was partly true, though the one person he really needed that adoration from would never provide it.

‘We need to be more careful next time,’ Nayland said. ‘We need to pick someone who won’t be so easily missed. Someone who isn’t connected with us.’

‘In this city? That’s easy, the street corners are thronging with them.’

This was certainly true. Marie might cater for Hollywood’s exclusive appetites but there were always those further down the rungs of every profession. Could they ask for a better feeding ground?

‘People would recognise us.’

‘
You
, darling. I don’t mind being the butcher but you’ll certainly be the man bringing me my animals from market.’

So that was to be the division of labour, was it? Nayland supposed he could live with that.

‘Anyway,’ Elizabeth continued, ‘they don’t have to recognise you. Try and remember what it is that you do for a living.’

She had another fair point there. It had been so long since he had done any acting that he had almost forgotten.

‘We shouldn’t do it here,’ he said. ‘It adds too many risks.’

‘Agreed. We need to find somewhere nearby. The mountains are covered with old farmhouses and abandoned outbuildings – we must be able to find somewhere.’

‘Then get dressed. We’ll go and take a look.’

To remember what the area used to be like wasn’t difficult once you went off the well-trodden paths. This entire chunk of land had been open fields and farmland before the money and glitter came and carved it all up between them. Still, the abandoned buildings remained, and many of them would stay in good shape until the day when the city’s inevitable expansion would swallow them up.

Elizabeth and Nayland found the perfect place only a couple of miles from their house. A small barn surrounded by an orange grove that had been left to grow wild. The long grass was littered with rotting fruit, their cultivator having upped sticks and left once he’d sold enough of his land to let him out of the orange business for good. Nayland imagined he would have packed up his truck and driven away with a smile on his face. Screw long hours in the trees when the idiots from the East Coast had money to burn.

The doors on the barn were intact but unlocked. They could soon see to that – a bit of security was only a length of chain and a padlock away.

Inside was a mess but that could easily be dealt with. The previous owner had abandoned much of his equipment: buckets were piled in the corner and old, rusting tools hung from hooks on the walls.

Nayland looked up. The roof seemed intact, though there was no sure way of telling until it rained.

‘It’s perfect,’ he said.

‘It reminds me of home,’ Elizabeth replied, not meaning it as a compliment.

‘You don’t have to live here,’ he reminded her. ‘It serves one purpose and for that it’s ideal.’

He still wouldn’t quite meet that ‘purpose’ head on. While he might have made his decision he was still doing his best to avoid facing its implications.

‘Only one way to find out,’ Elizabeth said.

‘Let’s not rush at this.’

‘Who’s rushing? We’ve found a place and I want to make myself better again. So find me someone who can help me do that.’

‘We still need to get a chain for the door, and somewhere you can actually—’

She pointed behind him. Turning to look he spotted an ancient tin bath, rusted and filled with offcuts of wood.

‘You can’t use that,’ Nayland said. ‘It’s filthy.’ The absurdity of what he was saying suddenly struck him and, on an impulse that seemed to come from nowhere, he burst into laughter.

He supposed it must be shock, an outlet for the stress he had been feeling over the last twenty-four hours. At least, that was how he tried to convince himself. Better that than admit he was so cold-hearted that he could actually find the situation comic.

Elizabeth had no problem with her own laughter. ‘Oh, Frank, you are the silliest idiot sometimes.’ She stroked his cheek. ‘I know you don’t believe it but I do love you a little, you know.’

‘A very little.’ He got his laughter under control. ‘You bloody should do, given what I’m doing for you.’

She reached up and kissed him. ‘And don’t think I won’t thank you again with the body you help me to heal.’

Nayland didn’t want even to think about that just yet. But he kissed her back nonetheless, taking his opportunities on the rare occasion they presented themselves.

‘Let’s get back to the house,’ he said. ‘I need to get myself ready.’

Nayland was selecting a suitably nondescript outfit from his wardrobe when he noticed the old makeup box. Hidden away behind racks of shoes, it was a buff leather case still filled with the tools of his trade from when he had been working as an actor with touring theatre companies. He remembered the first time he had sat in the make-up studio for a movie, partly thrilled, partly worried that this was a part of the job that was no longer under his control.

He pulled the case out, set it down on the bed and opened it out. Like a doctor’s bag it had extendable sections inside that had compartments for his oil sticks, pancake and sponge. There was a lower section containing a couple of bottles of spirit gum, some remover and a selection of false hairpieces. There were also a couple of moustaches and a goatee that had a somewhat piratical air, with the chin-beard working its way to a point. He held the goatee up to his face and looked in the mirror.

‘I am Chandu!’ he intoned, mimicking the hero of radio and screen. ‘Mystic of the magical arts! My power is in my eyes!’

Too much, Nayland decided.

He looked again and found a more conventional beard, this one in light grey.

Looking once more in the mirror he decided it would do the job admirably. He would have to lighten his hair slightly to match (though not as much as he would have liked – it already had a fair amount of grey) but it would go some way towards altering his appearance.

He selected his clothing to match, picking out items that were a little older and more unfashionable: a sports jacket that was now baggy on him, a plain white shirt and some light grey slacks. Clothes that wouldn’t make an impression. He dressed himself and checked that everything he needed was in the make-up case. One of the bottles of spirit gum had been left slightly open and the contents were now useless but the other was still fine even after years of being ignored.

Nayland was about to leave before a stray thought brought him back to his wardrobe to check the drawers. He pulled out a pair of driving gloves. He’d appeared in enough crime pictures to know that fingerprints were what police nailed criminals on, so why leave any if it could be avoided?

He put the gloves in his pocket and headed out. He checked his watch. He had agreed to meet Elizabeth at the old barn in a couple of hours. She had her own preparations to make.

It was hard to choose a car that was as discreet as his clothes: he had never liked a vehicle that was bland. Settling for the oldest, a Cadillac Le Salle Coupe that at least had been through enough years on the road to have had the edges knocked off it, he headed towards Los Angeles.

As the light began to fade from the sky he pulled over by the side of the road and took a few minutes to fix his make-up. It wasn’t perfect, working in such limited conditions, but when you’d fixed your slap in the dressing rooms of places like the inappropriately named Grand Theatre in Doncaster you could wield an eyeliner anywhere.

By the time he crossed the line into Los Angeles he was in character, hiding as far away from the man who was Frank Nayland as he could. It was better that way, he had decided: let the theatricality of it swallow him whole, all the easier not to feel.

He hadn’t been in the city for some months. Hollywood had a habit of forgetting that the outside world existed, becoming its own little bubble community. Besides, for all that he had acclimatised to American life there was still something about its cities that seemed too raucous and alien to Nayland. More and more these days he did his living in his own head, sitting in his viewing room or on the patio with a book. The real world had ceased to offer him much and he gladly avoided its company.

Still, much better that they hunted for prey here than in the incestuous streets so close to home. As the night came alive around him, he was just another cruising driver working his way through the seedy streets looking for a woman.