Death by the Book (9 page)

Sabine put a hand to her breast. ‘I haven’t offended you, have I, Jack?’

He grinned. Sabine had the sadist about her, no doubt. Jack bet she took her time with everything. Especially getting even. ‘Of course not.’

Annabelle laid cutlery. ‘Nobody forced you to marry him,’ she said to Sabine, who was now looking at her reflection in the oven door, fixing her hair and readjusting her clothing. ‘I still don’t know why you did.’

Sabine swung around. ‘Love, of course!’

‘Oh, of course. What else?’

‘You’re such a bitch.’ Sabine picked up a handbag from the floor and blew out a weary breath. ‘All right then, honey. I’m off. Leave you to your
romance
.’

‘Bye, baby.’ Annabelle held Sabine’s hands and kissed her on the lips. ‘See you on Saturday.’

‘Ten o’clock, Mario’s, don’t make me wait.’

Jack stood up. Sabine minced over and put her hand on his arm. She kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Lovely to meet you, Jack. I’m sure I’ll see you again.’

She walked out of the kitchen. ‘Bye now,’ she called back. ‘Enjoy breakfast!’ The front door banged shut.

Annabelle began to dish out the risotto. ‘It’s bone marrow and sage.’ She smiled as she served him.

Jack lost a little feeling in his knees, like somebody was
blowing bubbles down there with a straw. ‘So that’s your ex-stepmother?’

Annabelle returned the pot of risotto to the stove. ‘I’d hardly call her that. I didn’t even know her when she was married to my father. I was away at boarding school that year. By the time I got back, it was over.’ She began to dress a salad in a large glass bowl with frosted bunches of grapes engraved over it.

‘You didn’t meet her?’

‘Oh, yes, a few times, but I didn’t take any notice. She was one of many women my father paraded after my mother died. I got to know her later. After my father nearly killed her in a car accident.’

Jack remembered the scar on Sabine’s chin. ‘Nice they’re still friends,’ he said.

Annabelle sucked oil from her little finger. ‘Sabine’s main aim in life is to piss my father off as much as is humanly possible.’

‘He doesn’t mind you being friends?’

‘No, he minds. That’s why Sabine and I get on so well. We have a dislike of my father in common.’

She brought the salad over to the table and sat down. She picked up her glass of wine. ‘Right then. Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

‘I’m starving.’

Jack sipped his wine and then tried the risotto. There was a wholesomeness to the food, a warmth to the atmosphere in the kitchen. He had not expected it.

He stole glimpses of Annabelle as they ate. He could smell the warm soap freshness of her shower. ‘That’s the second relative of yours I’ve met today,’ he said.

‘Really? Who was the first?’

‘Celia Mitten.’

The name floated between them for a moment, like the steam from the risotto. Annabelle looked down into her plate and teased the rice with her fork. ‘What did Celia Mitten want?’ She tried to sound casual, but it did not come out that way.

‘She wanted me to stop selling the Edward Kass books to your father.’

‘What?’

Jack picked up his glass. He regretted that he had brought it up. The wholesome atmosphere went up the extractor fan and blew out into the night. ‘She thinks your father’s burning Edward Kass’s books.’

Annabelle put her fork down and wiped her mouth with a napkin. Jack had been expecting a more shocked expression. But then, what did he know? He supposed you could burn whatever the hell you wanted to burn when you were rich.

‘Do you believe her?’ Annabelle’s voice was low, cautious.

‘Should I?’

She paused. When she spoke again, her voice was clear and sharp and hot. ‘Celia Mitten is a vindictive, hostile, evil bitch. I wouldn’t believe what she said if it passed a lie-detector test.’ She sounded pretty adamant.

‘Why would she spin something like that then?’

Annabelle stood up. The cutlery on the table rattled. ‘Have you got a cigarette?’ she asked, impatiently. ‘The risotto needs to cool down, it’s too hot.’

‘Sure.’ Jack reached into his jacket hanging on the chair and took out his pack and a lighter.

Annabelle opened the glass doors onto the patio. Jack lit their cigarettes and they stood there and smoked. The air was cold as stainless steel.

Jack drew on his cigarette. He looked up into the night: the earlier clouds had cleared. It was a beautiful winter sky, fresh as a tarmac after rain.

‘So what did she say exactly?’

‘She said that Kasprowicz had sent her father a box full of ashes. His burnt books. The note implied there would be more to come. Maybe all of them.’

‘She’s lying. You don’t know her. It’s all about money.’

‘What money?’

‘The fucking money they didn’t get! The inheritance!’ A frown dug into her forehead. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. When she opened them again, they were lustreless, resigned. ‘It all went to my father. Celia’s never let it go. Never will.’ She dropped her cigarette and stepped on it.

‘But why would she accuse —’

‘I don’t know! Why would I know?’

She chewed her bottom lip. Jack wished he could apply for the job. For some reason there was now only thirty centimetres between them. And closing? Maybe it was the alignment of the stars. He flicked his cigarette away behind him.

Annabelle looked up into his eyes. Tension slipped from her face. Her features softened. ‘You’ve got no idea what I’ve been through with this family,’ she said, her voice sounding sorry for her, if nobody else was. ‘No idea at all.’

‘Maybe you should tell me about it.’

‘Maybe I should.’

‘I’m a good listener.’

‘So why don’t you shut up.’

Two seconds later, Annabelle Kasprowicz had her arms around him. Jack watched her lips travel towards him in slow motion through time and space, slightly open, promising death by softness. He held her to him and obliged with an opposite and equal reaction. They kissed. Jack stopped thinking. All was well in the world.

Sometimes a minute can be a long time. You can even forget where you are in one good, long minute. Then a voice from the kitchen reminded Jack exactly where he was.

‘Hi Mum.’

Annabelle pushed herself away from Jack as though he had caught fire.

‘Louisa, what are you doing home?’ She stepped back into the kitchen. Her daughter stared at Jack. If there had been a cigarette in his mouth, her eyes would have lit it. His eyebrows might have gone up, too.

‘Nina got upset with her mother and took off.’

‘Who brought you over?’

‘I called Dad. He’s in the car. We’re going out for food.’

Annabelle glanced at Jack. ‘Louisa was at a wedding rehearsal. She’s a bridesmaid for her cousin.’

Jack nodded. He was imagining himself punching Durst through his car window. He walked back into the kitchen, closing the patio door behind him.

‘I remember you,’ said Louisa. She tilted her head to the right, the stern look was replaced with a smirk. ‘You’re the gas man.’

‘The best in the business.’

‘He’s cute, Mum. Nice shoulders.’

‘Don’t be smart.’

Louisa crossed her arms. ‘When are you going to introduce him to Dad?’

‘We’ve already met,’ said Jack. He was glad he was no longer a nineteen-year-old, hormones surging, confused, loud, fragile. Girls like Louisa had always eaten poor bastards like that for breakfast.

‘Oh, good. Then you can say hello.’ She smiled at Jack, then winked at her mother.

‘That’s enough, Louisa.’

‘I’ll just go get him.’ She walked out of the kitchen and down the hall.

‘You might have to set another place,’ said Jack, bristling.

‘This isn’t funny.’ Annabelle walked over and picked up her glass from the dining table and drank: but wine was the wrong drink. It was not for going down quickly. She coughed. ‘She won’t bring him in.’

‘Maybe he’s hungry.’

‘She won’t bring him in.’

The extraction fan whined. Jack strained his ears, listening for the front door, for footsteps down the hall. Annabelle was listening, too. A minute later, they both heard them.

Here he comes
. Jack dropped his right hand to his side and flexed his fingers. His heart beat hard in his chest. He had never thumped a middle-aged metrosexual before.

9

H
AMMOND
K
ASPROWICZ WAS FAR FROM
M
ARXIST
, but he strode into the kitchen like a politburo minister of the former Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. His face was flushed and sweaty: under the whiteness of his hair, his colour reminded Jack of a hot saveloy. He was dressed in a charcoal grey suit, white shirt, and a broad, pale yellow tie. There was a black leather briefcase in his hand. He dropped it onto the floor beside the island bench and immediately began tugging at the Windsor knot around his neck.

‘You should teach your daughter some manners.’

He said it without looking at Annabelle at all. His voice was gruff, but tired. He removed his jacket, then checked the pockets before throwing it onto a stool.

Annabelle walked over to the dinner table and sat down. Jack stood looking at Kasprowicz, wondering when the old man was going to acknowledge his presence.

‘I thought you were flying back tomorrow night,’ said Annabelle.

Kasprowicz grunted. ‘Obviously.’ He opened a cupboard door and removed a bottle of Scotch. ‘Are you well, Mr Susko?’

‘Any better I’d burst. Yourself?’

No reply. Kasprowicz hunched his broad, round back over the bottle and cracked the cap.

‘Sit down, Jack.’ Annabelle motioned to his chair.

‘Yes.’ Kasprowicz poured himself three fat fingers of Scotch. ‘Please, don’t let me disturb your dinner.’ He held onto the edge of the granite bench-top, tilted his head back and threw half the Scotch down his throat.

‘You’re a smooth operator, Susko,’ he said, his back still to them. ‘One minute you’re knee-deep in smelly old books, the next you’re in my kitchen, enjoying a meal with my daughter.’ He brought the glass up to his mouth again. ‘I can only hope you’ve applied yourself as tenaciously to my little job.’

Jack grinned. Kasprowicz was quick: he might be old, but his brain ticked over like it had been engineered in Stuttgart. ‘I’m giving it my full attention, Hammond. I didn’t know you were such a fan of your brother’s work.’

Hammond Kasprowicz turned around. ‘So you know.’ He sipped his drink and glanced at his daughter. She had her back to him but shifted in her seat under his gaze. ‘That’s almost impressive. Maybe I’ll have to find more jobs for you.’ He rubbed his chin and pulled at his tie some more.
‘Though I worry about your confidentiality.’

Jack smiled. He could have cut the nonchalance with a chainsaw. ‘I worry about your disclosure,’ he replied.

Glass in hand, Kasprowicz picked his briefcase up from the floor. ‘Some things just aren’t your business, Mr Susko. You have your job and you’ve been paid.’ Kasprowicz rolled his shoulders. ‘When can I expect a delivery? Have you had much success?’

‘Moderate. But competition doesn’t help.’

Kasprowicz’s brows angled down and shadowed his eyes like furry awnings. He seemed genuinely surprised. ‘Competition?’

Jack nodded. ‘That’s right.’

Kasprowicz stared thoughtfully at his glass of Scotch. Jack waited, watching him.

Annabelle broke the silence ‘Why are you after Edward’s books?’

Kasprowicz frowned like a High Court judge. ‘And why would that be any of your concern?’

‘Not so much my concern,’ said Annabelle. ‘Rather Celia Mitten’s.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Annabelle turned to look at her father. Kasprowicz pushed his chin out.

‘Are you burning Edward’s books?’ she said, a little stronger than matter-of-factly. ‘Is that why you’ve got Jack searching for them? So that you can burn them, put the ashes in a box and send them to a sick old man?’

Kasprowicz shook his head, disappointed and annoyed, as though Annabelle had just told him she was pregnant by the gardener. ‘You’ve been drinking,’ he said. The man was
a Fourth-Dan Black Belt in the delivery of contempt. ‘Who told you this nonsense?’