Times of Trouble (8 page)

He hadn’t seen these
two before. It wasn’t rare for him to have employees whom he never
met. For particular areas of his business, this was how he wanted
it to be. He didn’t bother to introduce himself because he
preferred not to know their names. They walked into the foyer like
scared school boys, ready to be caned by the head
master.

One of them said
quickly: ‘Sorry we’re late’, and the other scuttled in, ready for a
handshake that wasn’t offered.

‘
Nice house, boss,
must be a nice change from freezing cold London.’

He glared at the one
who spoke. It wasn’t his business to talk about nice houses,
weather, or where he came from. This nervous prattling was making
him feel angry, so he quickly cut to the chase.

‘
I like to sit out on
the deck to discuss business.’

He led the way
through the giant glass bi-fold doors that looked out over the
beach. It was a habit of his to take this sort of meeting outside.
He knew beyond an inch of a doubt there were no recording devices
hidden in this house, but old habits were familiar and
comfortable.

The men had
thankfully worked out silence was the best option; they sat at the
wooden outdoor seating on the deck, and waited to be spoken to.
Vince let the tension hang in the air for what must have seemed an
eternity to the men, before he turned away from the view, finished
his glass of wine, and started to speak.

‘
I've been told you
lads can be handy when someone has a problem they need
sorted.’

The visitors nodded.
Vince felt a sudden flare of irritation. The men were obviously
nervous, but did they have to look so spineless? He couldn't stand
wimps.

‘
Take those
ridiculous sunglasses off. I wanted you to come here so I could
firstly congratulate you on your excellent work. You saw a
situation might get out of hand, and you acted to ensure it
didn’t.’

One of the men
started to relax, letting a small grin slip onto his face, enjoying
the praise. The other man, however, still looked petrified. Maybe
he heard the note of sarcasm. Or maybe he knew about these
‘meetings’, and how unlikely it was they had been summoned to the
beach house for a pat on the back.

‘
Secondly, I would
like to ask you whose idea it was to dispose of the target in front
of so many witnesses?’

The small grin
disappeared. The men's eyes met, each urging the other to say
something. The seconds ticked by, and neither of them found an
answer. They each secretly blamed the other.

‘
I had a suspicion we
might have this problem, two mute men. Don’t worry. I won't hold it
against one of you. I’ll just hold it against both of
you.’

Before either of them
had time to protest, Vince saw Jared appear on the deck. His right
hand man always had impeccable timing. Sometimes it was like he
could read Vince's mind. Jared was older than Vince, and shorter
and thinner, with an impassive face. He was, as always, dressed in
a suit, which today looked incongruous at the beach.

‘
Jared, good to see
you,’ said the one with the sunglasses – now in his pocket, relief
in his voice. But Jared didn’t react. He held a gun in his hand,
with a silencer on the end of it. The silencer was probably
unnecessary, since the beach house was so isolated. But this was
another old habit Vince insisted on keeping up. Jared lifted the
gun, directing it at the face of the more timid of the two men, who
had gone as white as a sheet.

‘
What are you doing?’
In his panic, he suddenly had his voice back. His eyes were frozen
on the gun.

‘
The witnesses didn’t
see how she got on the tracks. The news, the police, they all said
it was just an accident, she must have tripped. Honest, it was a
clean hit.’

‘
So you watch the
news do you?’ Vince asked. His tone was patronising. ‘But do you
read the newspaper? Obviously not.’

He reached for the
paper that lay at the end of the table, and flipped to the second
page. He looked at an article for a moment, reading the first few
lines to himself, the silence excruciating for the frightened
men.

Then he started to
read aloud, his voice emotionless: ‘Police are yet to identify the
woman who was struck by a train at Central Station yesterday
afternoon. Although police initially assumed her death to be a
tragic accident, subsequent investigations, witness statements and
evidence at the scene suggest she may have been pushed onto the
tracks. Police are now treating the death as highly suspicious.
There is no known motive or suspects, but police are anxious to
interview two men who were seen with the woman moments before she
fell. If members of the public have any information, please phone
Crimestoppers....’

He looked up from the
paper. The two men stared at him, their faces white, their eyes
filled with terror. Jared took a step towards them. His voice was
cold and clear.

‘
So, as you’ve heard,
I’m afraid you couldn’t call that a clean hit. This is a clean
hit.’

One bullet each,
straight into the forehead. His experience was obvious in the speed
of his actions. The two men slumped backwards, their chairs close
enough to the edge of the deck to ensure the bodies hit only sand,
not polished wood. Neither required a second bullet. Vince watched
as Jared efficiently dragged the bodies down the side of the house,
heaving them into the boot of the car they had arrived in. Then he
washed his hands at the tap and joined Vince on the
deck.

‘
Any news of the
baby?’ Jared asked, not showing a hint of concern, just sly
curiosity.

Vince grunted,
without committing to an answer. He was expert at only speaking
when it suited him, which was usually when he was giving
orders.

‘
Good to hear things
went well for you in London, Jared. But we’ve still got one little
problem. We need more information.’

Jared nodded and
replied: ‘Time for some more pressure? Do you want me to give him a
call?’

‘
No, I'll do it. And
lose that car out front.’

Jared let himself
out. Vince waited to hear the car reversing out of the driveway,
and went back into the house.

‘
Melissa, you can
come back down now. I’m ready for dinner.’

Chapter 8

‘
Mum, you’re not
cleaning the house because Liam is coming today, are you?’ I
teased, knowing full well why she had been up so early, dusting,
vacuuming and polishing every visible surface. It made me thankful
we didn’t have visitors more often, as the flurry of activity was
exhausting to watch.

‘
I’m just giving
everything a once over. I wouldn’t want him to think we live in a
pig sty.’

The house was far from
a pig sty before mum started cleaning, and now it looked more like
a display home, with 1980s furniture instead of modern white sofas.
While she busied herself scrubbing the kitchen sink, I started
mentally to prepare myself for Picasso’s exit. Even after all the
anxiety and misery over the last couple of days, I still hadn’t
completely come to terms with the fact my piano was about to leave
the house. The realisation that I wouldn’t be able to play anymore
filled me with dread.

Eager to stop staring
at Picasso like a love sick teenager, I logged onto Facebook to see
if I had found the right Tina Gianopoulos. Much to my excitement,
there she was, under the heading ‘Friends’. Thank goodness. Wasting
no time, I emailed her to see if she knew anything.

‘
Dear Tina, I wasn’t
sure if you would remember me, but you obviously do as I can see
you've added me as a friend. This may seem like a strange request
from someone you haven’t seen for over 10 years, but I was
wondering if you are still in touch with my sister Sophie? The
reason I ask is she moved to London a few years ago and, as awkward
as it is to admit, we haven’t heard from her since. Now I’d really
like to get back in contact with her. If you could give me any idea
where she is, or what she is up to, or even a phone number, I’d be
really grateful. Hope all is well with you, Ellen’.

It was a bit of a
rambling email. I hoped it didn’t sound too full-on or crazy. It
seemed ridiculous, even to me, to ask someone you hardly knew if
they still spoke to your sister, who you had lost touch with. Who
loses touch with their immediate family? Mum and I do, that’s who.
It was a long shot, as the chances of Sophie still having a
friendship with Tina were very slim. But I might as well try to do
something useful. I might not be a lawyer or a private
investigator, but I was sure there were some things I could do to
help find Sophie. I clicked over my profile for a while, wondering
if I should fill in my ‘likes’ and ‘hobbies’ or if I should add a
photo like everyone else seemed to. Then I clicked onto Tina’s name
on my friendship list and realised I could look at her entire
profile, which included her list of friends. So this must be how
people network! With a rush of adrenalin, it became clear that if
Tina was still friends with Sophie, there was a chance she was in
her list of friends. If Sophie had got married, or changed her
name, surely I'd recognise her in her profile picture? Tina had
over 200 friends; I hastily scrolled through the names. The most
expensive search in the world would be over very quickly if I could
find Sophie through Facebook. I wondered again if Liam had ever
thought of looking for Sophie online. But my hopes disappeared as I
got to the end of the list, and Sophie wasn’t there. Her life must
have been far too exciting for her to have time to join Facebook.
Not that this was my reason for not joining, it just seemed a more
likely reason why Sophie wouldn’t be there.

Sophie was always
surrounded by friends. When I was 10 years old, she was a grown up
13, and allowed to have a sleepover party. She told mum she was
just having ‘a few friends’. But twenty people turned up. Sophie
found somewhere for everyone to sleep, and she happily put up with
mum’s fussing about the overcrowded house. Dad laughed at mum for
suggesting Sophie was selfish for expecting me to give up my room
for some of the girls. He told mum parties should always be ‘the
more the merrier’. And Sophie said, ‘I’ll ask more people if that’s
the case’, which put mum into an even more hysterical spin. I ended
up sleeping in mum and dad's bed, my room hijacked by five guests.
Mum tossed and turned all night, fretting about the music and
laughter coming out of the living room. But dad didn’t lose any
sleep. Sophie and dad were two of a kind, breezing through life,
leaving all the worry to mum, and eventually me. I wondered if mum
and dad ever found it strange I never had sleepovers, nor went to
any. I was never good at making friends. I blamed all the piano
practice, and my complete devotion to making it as a musician. But
what could I blame now? I was 24 years old, and if I disappeared,
no one would notice. Except mum of course.

When the two piano
removalists arrived, I cowardly hid in my room. Mum called out when
she heard them pull into the drive, and I pretended not to hear. I
didn’t want to witness them loading Picasso into their truck, and
taking him god knows where. I could just hear them discussing the
easiest way of getting the piano through the door. I closed my
eyes, wishing they would just get it over with. After a few moments
of grunting, I heard a trolley rolling across the living room
floor. Mum was fussing, asking them to be careful. And then I heard
a large crunch, and one of the men swore. Had they just dropped
Picasso? I had to find out whether he was damaged, so I raced
towards the living room. To my relief, the piano was still on the
trolley, but had tipped sideways, and the two huge removalists were
struggling to hold it upright. As they pulled, I noticed a third
man also steadying the piano, partly obscured behind it. He wasn’t
a removalist; he wasn’t dressed like someone who moved things for a
living. It had to be Liam Kingsley.

My first thought was
that he looked much younger than I expected. He mentioned in one of
the emails to mum when he finished his law degree, and I calculated
he must be around 30. But he didn’t look much older than me. He was
wearing knee length shorts, in a conservative cream colour, a
collared light blue polo T-shirt and what looked like brown suede
thongs. Not exactly formal business attire. His hair was a light
blonde wave on top of darker curls, shaped long but neat around his
neck. His toned arms had bulging muscles, put to good use moving my
piano. I was incredibly disappointed to find myself noting he was
extremely good looking. Just what I needed. To find my arch nemesis
attractive! I reminded myself it was typical for con men to be
attractive; it was how they got away with everything, with a bat of
the eyelids and a huge row of smiling, perfect white
teeth.

Liam noticed me just
as I saw him, and yelled across the room: ‘Hi Ellen, I’m Liam, nice
to meet you.’

His manners weren’t
at all awkward or forced. Even with the huge weight of the piano to
contend with, he looked unflustered and cheerful. I felt suddenly
shy and ugly, wishing I had brushed my hair before I came out of my
room. Why did the fact he was good looking make me so nervous? I
reminded myself that most people made me nervous, especially when I
met them for the first time. And Liam was still potentially a con
man who had shafted my mum out of more money than she could ever
afford to repay. Why did I care if I’d brushed my hair or not? I
quickly waved at Liam and then excused myself back to my bedroom,
to hide from the whole wretched scene.