Tedd and Todd's secret (22 page)

"No, not that either."

"You drugged some poor individual then."

"Are you sick, Lance?"

"You've done something. Don't lie to me. How else could you get something like this?"

"It doesn't surprise me that you're reacting like this, but it belongs to me."

"Look how stupidly the two of you are carrying on," Carol sighed. "Men are so simple."

"Simple? Are you looking at the same thing I am?" Lance despaired, trying to understand how Carol could show such indifference standing in front of one of the greatest masterpieces of engineering of all time. "Women don't understand anything. I'm going to check this out right now."

He took his phone out of his pocket, rang the police station and got them to do a check on the number plate of the car parked in the street in front of them. He hung up after a minute and walked slowly towards the tall, smiling detective.

"I can't believe it. It's registered in your name."

"I've already told you that, dumbbell."

"Can I drive it?"

"No."

"Only a couple of blocks."

"No way."

"I'd give up following you around for a month."

"Stop lying."

"I'd wash your clothes and be your personal maid."

"I thought you were sick."

"I'd edit your reports."

"You already do that."

"But I'm talking about doing them well."

"You're pathetic," Carol interrupted them. "Show a little dignity, for God's sake. It's only a car after all."

"You're kidding, aren't you? That's not a car there. Maybe you can't see the difference. You're a great reporter and a beautiful woman, but listen to me when I tell you, don't get involved in a conversation about cars. This is a Ferrari. There’s nothing more perfect in the world."

"I said it was just a car, didn't I?" she said, jumping in the back.

"I just can't understand how this finished up in the hands of Aidan here," Lance grumbled, sitting down in the front passenger seat.

"A friend gave it to me," Aidan informed him, studying the set of keys.

"That's hard to imagine. You don't have friends, remember. And if you did, they wouldn't be giving you one of these. Not after seeing you drive around London in that old rust-bucket of yours for the last few years."

CHAPTER 15

Bent over with his head on his chest, Trevor Deemer dragged himself along the street towards the entrance of the building. He seemed infirm, the victim of some insidious disease, as he stumbled slowly to the door. He opened it slowly, as if it weighed a ton, and began trudging up the stairs to the first floor.

Only a few days before, he had been a happy man. His thirty-three years had been lived simply without any major problems. He'd passed through good times and bad like most, and had arrived at the point of fulfilling his greatest dream, when at the last moment, it had disappeared.

It had all happened too quickly. And, like a scene out of a movie, had seemed unreal. But it had happened, and Trevor had been incapable of doing anything to stop the thing he wanted most in this world from disappearing.

He knocked lightly on the first-floor door. "Open the door. It's Trevor."

He waited a moment without hearing anything the other side, then knocked again, harder this time. But there was no sign of life behind the door.

"I only want to talk," he said. "I know you're there, Helen. I'm not leaving here until I see you."

Nothing. He began punching the door, kicked it once, then leant his tired body against it, begging the woman to open it. Finally, he heard the key turn, and he stepped back, his heart beating faster. The door creaked open, revealing the tall figure of the woman he loved.

Her voice was barely a whisper. "You shouldn't have come."

She'd been crying, her eyes red, her cheeks swollen, but she was still the most beautiful woman that Trevor Deemer had ever seen. Nothing could take her beauty away. He held himself back from taking her in his arms and holding her as tight as he could with what little strength he had.

"I don't want to bother you," he said, taking in the seven feet of her spectacular body, and her face, a mask of pain and melancholy. "I just want to understand. I think I deserve an explanation."

Helen Black turned and left the entrance without looking at him. He followed her in silence, sat down in front of her, and paid attention to nothing else in the room but her.

"I spoke with your family," she began to say in a trembling voice. "I tried to explain that it wasn't your fault, that I was the only one responsible. I know how terrible all this has been for you."

"You just left me, Helen. You should have said something."

"I… I thought it would be easier if you didn't see me again," she explained, with a look of profound sadness on her face. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Why?" Trevor asked, desperate to know why she'd abandoned him in the middle of the wedding ceremony. "I need to know why."

"I had no choice. If I had been able to, I would have done it some other way."

"I believed in you, Helen. I thought you loved me."

"I was sincere in everything I said," she assured him with surprising firmness in her voice. "I love you, Trevor, more than anything in the world. But I can't marry you."

"If you love me like you say you do, how's that possible?"

"Because I can't marry anyone, Trevor. Not you or anybody else."

Trevor was getting more confused by the minute.

"You've got me beat. Why didn't you tell me that when I proposed?"

"I didn't know then. I didn't find out until I was about to say,
I do
." She took a deep breath. "It's difficult to explain."

"Try!" the word came out of his mouth like a spat seed. He was clutching at straws, hoping she could give him something, anything, to explain the mystery of her running down the church aisle and out of his life. But until now there'd been nothing, not even a clue.

"It's… it's because of my surname," she finally said. And that didn't appear to help him any the more. He'd come to hear the truth, to face up to the revelation of there being someone else, or any other painful explanation for her actions. But blaming the surname was cryptic. "I can't lose my name. And if we got married I'd have to give it up."

"What?" Trevor's face twisted into a series of grotesque grimaces. "You left me because you couldn't change your name?"

"I told you, you wouldn't understand. It's got nothing to do with your name. It's just that I can't change mine."

"Why not?" he asked, scratching his head.

"I can't explain why. And you wouldn't understand anyway. It just has to be Black."

Trevor took some time to digest the new facts. It was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. So mad, in fact, that he had no idea what to say next. It crossed his mind that the whole thing was one great joke, or that Helen herself had flipped. And they seemed the most plausible of a dozen other crazy theories that were weaving their way through his head.

He looked at her again, at her precious black eyes, shining sadly, but as intelligently as ever. She was the same perfect woman that he'd wanted to spend the rest of his life with only a few days before.

"If the problem is the name," he said, resigned to understanding as much as he could, "we can fix that. Being married or not doesn't bother me. I only want to be with you, Helen. It's the same to me."

He was close to her, his hand holding hers. He could feel a glimmer of hope welling up in the pit of his stomach. But she unlocked her hand from his and stepped away. "I'm sorry, Trevor. I can't be with anyone. You'd be in great danger being with me."

"Danger? What are you talking about?"

"Remember the bow that I had when I left the church?"

He nodded his heavy head. He doubted he'd ever forget that scene for the rest of his life.

She went on. "After I left the church someone tried to kill me. I shot three arrows and killed him. I know it's difficult to believe. But I'm involved in something that I don't understand."

"I'll help you, Helen," he said, without having the least idea what the whole thing was about. All he wanted was her. "Whatever the problem is, we'll face it together."

"You can't, Trevor. I'm sorry. This is something that I've got to do alone. I couldn't bear to see anything happen to you because of me."

"You just said someone tried to kill you. We should go to the police. Do you know who it was?"

"No. I think I saw him once, two years ago, maybe in a dream or a nightmare. But it's too real to be either of those."

Helen began crumbling away before Trevor's eyes. She started to laugh strangely and breathe very quickly. The attack was gaining momentum. She was in the middle of some great nervous crisis. Trevor reached out for her, unsure about how to help her.

"You need help, sweetheart," he whispered sweetly. "We'll look for someone. I'll take care of–"

"Oh, no. Not again. Trevor, run!" she screamed, pulling away from him. "Hurry!"

Trevor was struck dumb by the sudden change in Helen. Her expression had changed yet again and her hands were no longer trembling. Her breathing was normal. It was as if she had been perfectly calm the whole time. And if that wasn't proof enough that something strange was happening, she stood up without saying a word and walked out of the room, undressing herself as she went, leaving her clothes scattered across the floor. Trevor couldn't move. He called after her as loudly as he could, but she was gone.

Seconds later, she darted back into the room dressed in the elegant black dress that she'd worn running down the church aisle. He nearly fell off the chair as he watched her run out of the flat.

He decided to chase her, to find out what this was all about. At least this time she wasn't carrying the bow.

"Are you expecting anyone?" Dylan Blair asked, looking up from the sad pair of sevens he was holding.

The doorbell had just rung and broken his concentration. The game hadn't changed much since the break. The supposed professional gambler and Dylan's croupier friend had neither won nor lost, while James White's fat fingers had been sliding back and forth across the velvet, collecting one pot after another. Dylan was paying a high price for his lesson.

"No, I'm not expecting anyone," James said indifferently.

"It's your house," Dylan reminded him. "Don't you propose to open the door?"

"To tell you the truth, no," James said, continuing to ignore the bell that was ringing insistently. "I'm too comfortable here. You open it."

Dylan Blair was getting impatient. He had a lot riding on this hand, pretending he had good cards. He was keen to find out if he could outwit James at least once. But the damn doorbell wouldn't stop ringing. He nodded to the croupier to go to the door.

"What do you want, brat?" they heard the croupier ask when he opened the door. "Are you deaf? You're interrupting us. What? Your grandfather?"

"You've finally arrived, Tedd," they heard a young voice say.

"My old bones need time, Todd," an old voice explained.

Dylan Blair and James White looked at each other. Where they'd just been curious a few moments before, now they were worried. The professional gambler was looking at them wondering what was happening.

"If I'm not mistaken, Todd, this miserable bloke here just called you brat," Tedd said.

"That's how it was, Tedd," Todd confirmed, "I don't believe he said it seriously. He doesn't even know us."

"That's possible, Todd," Tedd agreed. "Nevertheless, his manners have offended me. I think he needs a lesson."

"Who do you think you're going to give a lesson to, old man?" the croupier laughed. "I don't like picking on the aged or on little kids either, but I'll do it if you don't get out of here right away."

James was the first to react, racing to the door. Dylan wasn't far behind but fell over in his haste. The gambler stayed at the table, shocked. Something bizarre was happening in this room, judging by Dylan's and James's actions and the look of fear in their faces.

"Shut up," James told the croupier as he ran down the corridor, bumping into a wall as he turned the corner on his way to the door. "Don't say a word."