Untouchable (32 page)

‘Completely.’

His mouth widens into a grimy-toothed grin as he raises a hand. ‘You’re a fucking angel,’ he calls as I walk away.

I climb the steps to the footbridge. Halfway across, my phone rings. I pull it from my pocket and check the screen.

‘Number withheld.’ But I know who it is.

I hesitate, looking over at the grey and white vista of London spread out before me. Let it ring, once … twice … three times.

Then press the button to accept the call.

47

Wednesday, 15 April

I don’t bother with the gun. There’s no point. This time, there’ll be nothing to be gained by surprise.

This time he’ll be well prepared.

I arrive early, five minutes before midnight. Wait by the gardens down on the river. The weather has turned wet again, rain gusting against my umbrella, which fails to keep the water off my legs. I can’t see anyone around at all. Just cars sliding past, the hiss of tyres on wet tarmac.

I huddle under a holly tree, feeling my damp jeans begin to stick uncomfortably against my skin. Check my watch again. Midnight. Maybe he’s had a change of heart, I think. Maybe he’s got something more effective in mind.

A black Range Rover glides towards me, slowing as it passes. A face at the window. I watch the car turn at the lights. A few minutes later two men round the corner, walking in my direction. It’s hard to see them clearly in the streetlights. Dark clothing, suits under raincoats. One carrying something in his right hand. A briefcase?

My heart reacts. Fuck. I must have been insane agreeing to this meeting. I’m a sitting duck out here. An easy target.

Get a grip, I tell myself. They won’t take a risk like that. Not now. They’ve way too much to lose.

The men are just a few yards away now. One looks up at me enquiringly, his mouth a half-smile, his hands obscured in the pockets of his jacket.

I tense, wondering whether to run for it. But it’s too late. They’re too close. All I can do is wait for whatever is going to happen.

They walk right past.

I’m nearly drenched by the time the car draws up alongside me. A sleek black Mercedes. Tinted windows. Obviously.

The one on the passenger side slides down noiselessly. Alex Lennart leans over.

‘Get in.’

He opens the door. I hesitate, peer in at the back seats. Nothing except a suit and a briefcase.

‘There’s no one,’ he says. ‘Like I promised.’

The window shuts and I climb into the leather seat. It’s warm already – must have some kind of internal heating. Sophie Hunger croons ‘Let Me Go’ from the speakers, rich and silky and sensuous.

Lennart regards me steadily. ‘Good to see you again, Stella. Or can I call you Grace now?’

I don’t bother to respond. He looks at me a moment longer, then pulls off the cycle lane and sets off along Millbank.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says. ‘Flight was delayed.’

I nod. Shift in my seat, my legs still cold and uncomfortable.

‘This song reminds me of you.’ Lennart flicks a finger towards the sound system.

I don’t react. ‘Where are we going?’ I ask, as we hug the river eastwards.

‘Just somewhere we can talk.’

He clicks off the music and we drive in silence, no sound except the rhythmic swish of windscreen wipers sweeping across our field of vision. Like a metronome, beating time as we cruise through the deserted streets.

We turn on to the A13. ‘That was quite a stunt you pulled with old Harry,’ Lennart says. ‘I was impressed.’

I don’t reply, sensing talk will get me nowhere. And truthfully, I’m not sure I even trust myself to speak.

‘I assume you saw the news today?’ he continues, undaunted, glancing at me briefly before fixing his eyes back on the road.

Hardy’s resignation from the defence ministry. It wasn’t headline news, but had received a fair amount of coverage. Or rather speculation. Several of the papers linked his sudden departure to his testimony at the select committee.

‘Back benches for the rest of his term,’ Lennart remarks. ‘Then I expect the party will drop him at the next election, when the media’s no longer paying attention. Thanks to those photos you sent the chief whip. Government minister partying with a dead call girl – seems even the Tories draw a line at that.’

I stay mute. We’re leaving London now, heading towards Barking and Dagenham. High rises and squat warehousing. Signs for the Dartford Tunnel. I resist the urge to ask again where we’re going.

‘So I’m guessing Ted and Harry weren’t the only clients Amanda was blackmailing?’

‘No.’

Lennart smiles, acknowledging the fact I’ve broken my silence. ‘So where’s all the money then? I’ll bet she accumulated quite a bit.’

I shrug. ‘It’s sitting in a bank account somewhere. I can’t touch it. No one can.’

Lennart overtakes an Audi and accelerates up the outside lane. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ he says. ‘I imagine they can afford it.’

I check the speedometer. We’re doing nearly a ton. In the rain. On a dual carriageway. Is he driving like this to scare me? I gaze out my window at the blur of lights and buildings. What will he do if we’re pulled over by the police?

Nothing, I suspect. Let them book him, knowing the charges will be buried under paperwork.

We peel off the A13, curve right around the roundabout and head back towards Barking. What the hell? I stare out the window, trying to get my bearings. A minute later we take another right. And another.

Christ. Perhaps I should have brought the gun, I think, as Lennart turns into the car park of some kind of nature reserve and kills the ignition. After a minute or so the lights go out and the engine ticks in the darkness, cooling fast in the night air. I peer out the window but can’t see any other cars.

A lurch in my stomach as I realize we’re completely alone.

Lennart takes his hands off the wheel, leans back in his seat. Exhales heavily.

‘So, nice work, Grace. I like your sense of poetic justice. Deprive the politician of his career and the banker his money. But what are you going to do about me, that’s what I’ve been wondering. Execute me with one of my own weapons?’

I look away as he turns to face me, eyes squinting with amusement. ‘Trouble is I’m not married. No children. Strictly, I’m not employed by anyone, and I’ve hardly an impeccable reputation to lose.’ He sighs. ‘In my line of work, mud doesn’t stick; you’re up to your neck in it anyway.’

I run my tongue around my teeth and swallow. My mouth feels painfully dry. I can feel Lennart’s scrutiny like a prickle on the surface of my skin.

‘You interest me, Grace. Not many women do that.’

‘I’ll take it as a compliment,’ I say, forcing myself to speak.

‘You should.’

I turn my face to meet his. It’s still dark outside, but my eyes are growing accustomed to the gloom and I find I can gaze right into those inscrutable iron-blue eyes. He’s more attractive than I remember. And compelling, in that understated way. His effect is unnerving, exerting a kind of force field that somehow saps my remaining energy.

‘Amanda was beautiful,’ he says, his voice softer. ‘But your face is more interesting.’ He lifts a hand and touches my cheek. I steel myself not to flinch.

‘So, Grace, what are we going to do about our little problem? Or rather, what are
you
going to do?’

He’s playing with me, I think. Relishing every moment.

I stare out the front window. Maybe I should tell him the truth. Maybe I should tell him that I have no idea. No plan. Nothing up my sleeve.

He’s going to suss it soon anyway.

Because everything he’s said to me since I got in this car is true. I can’t blackmail him. I can’t threaten or embarrass him. I have no leverage over him whatsoever.

But that’s not the worst of it. Not by a long way. The worst I daren’t admit even to myself.

‘You can’t help yourself, can you?’ he says suddenly. ‘Like a moth to the flame.’

I jerk my face back towards his. ‘What do you mean?’

His gaze is casual, even clinical. ‘Don’t disappoint me, Grace. I think you know exactly what I mean.’

An ancient feeling stirs within me, half-forgotten, now resurrected. A creeping lassitude weighing me down as he lifts his hand again and trails it from my chin to my chest. A warmth between my legs, an ache, dull but insistent.

The mind forgets, but the body always remembers.

I take a deep breath, confronted now with what I’ve so far managed to avoid – the terrible recognition that some part of me is drawn to this man. Desires him. Despite everything he is, and everything I know he has done.

‘Grace,’ he whispers, slipping his hand through my shirt buttons and cupping my breast in his hand.

Oh God, not again. I close my eyes and find myself standing in that terrible little flat, facing Michael.

‘Grace.’

Lennart releases his seatbelt and mine. Leans across the console between our seats and moves his hand to my thighs, pressing it against my jeans. I force myself to look at him, his features blurring as he moves closer.

‘Keep your eyes shut,’ he commands. I obey as he pulls me towards him, covering my mouth with his. I kiss him back, wanting to devour him, to be devoured. Craving the oblivion that only sex can bring.

But Michael’s face hovers in my head, that indifferent, almost triumphant expression in his eyes.

Lennart slides his tongue into my mouth. I push him away and sit upright.

‘No.’

I start to cough. Try to draw breath but my throat has seized up. Tears sting my eyes as I grab my handbag and grope for my inhaler. Grasp it and raise it to my mouth, pressing down hard on the canister.

Nothing.

Oh fuck, I think, as I remember it’s run out. I forgot to get a new one. I fucking
forgot
.

I shake it and try again. Not even a hiss. I drop it and attempt to breathe in. I’m gasping, choking. Stars begin to implode in my head.

Oh God.
I can’t fucking breathe.
Panic surges up inside me. My hands grip the seat as I try desperately to rake in some oxygen.

Lennart leans across me and takes something out of the glove compartment. A small tin. As another paroxysm of coughing engulfs me I see him remove a neatly rolled joint and light it, pulling on it deeply before holding it to my lips.

‘Inhale,’ he orders. ‘As much as you can.’

I try, but the coughing becomes more violent.

‘Grace!’ He grips my arm, his voice insistent. ‘You’re hyperventilating. Calm down and try again.’ He raises the spliff to my mouth and I suck on it as hard as I can. Manage to pull some of the smoke into my lungs. A few seconds later the pain begins to ease.

‘Again,’ Lennart insists.

I inhale more deeply this time, and the ache in my chest slowly subsides to a memory. I draw away, clearing my throat.

‘Thanks,’ I choke, barely able to form the words.

He grinds the spliff out on the ashtray in the console. Chucks it back into the tin. ‘You should be more careful. Keep more than one inhaler. And get yourself on a decent preventative.’

‘I never had you down for a stoner,’ I say, my voice still croaky.

He laughs. ‘Purely medicinal. I find it helps with the headaches.’ He studies me for a minute while my internal chaos subsides. The pot has taken the edge off the fear; not much, but a little.

‘Why did you just do that? I ask. ‘Why not leave me? It would have been cleaner, wouldn’t it?’

Lennart looks at me with the expression of a parent whose child just said something humorous. ‘What, and miss the best part? You haven’t told me what I want to know yet.’

‘I thought you already knew it all.’

‘Not this. Not now. I mean what happened before,’ Lennart says, his eyes never leaving my face. ‘With Michael Farrish.’

I swallow. He knows. Of course he does.

‘Convicted for raping his girlfriend, right?’

I avoid his gaze. But don’t bother to deny it.

‘You worked with him for how long?’ he asks, though I’m sure he already knows that too.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Let my head sink back into the headrest. ‘Two years.’ My lips are numb and it’s an effort to speak.

Lennart thinks for a moment, his right hand rubbing his chin. ‘So, your job was to rehabilitate him, guide him through the sex offenders programme. Get him to acknowledge the pain he caused his victim, and so on.’

I nod, eyes still closed, wondering why he needs to do this.

‘I’ll bet Farrish did a very convincing job of compliance. Talked about his feelings, his difficult childhood, yadda yadda. You were convinced you were really getting somewhere, right?’

I cough. ‘Do we have to do this?’ I lift my hand and wipe my eyes. I’m suddenly exhausted, wondering how this is all going to end. Almost ready for it to be over.

‘Yes, Grace, I think we do,’ Lennart says, turning to me. ‘You know why? I think I’m the only person you
can
do this with.’

I snort. But my heart’s not in it.

‘Oh, I’m sure there was plenty of talk afterwards, in hospital,’ he continues, undeterred. ‘All that counselling and psychotherapy – after you tried the easy way out.’ The derision in his tone is mild, but unmistakable. I’m not sure if it’s aimed at the therapists, or my botched attempt at an overdose.

‘But your depression, what was at the heart of it, Grace? That’s what interests me – and what should interest you.’ I feel his hand again on my cheek. It barely touches my skin, but the tiny hairs register its presence like an electric charge.

Don’t open your eyes, I tell myself, as if I really am a child. Don’t look.

Silence for a while. Long minutes with just the rhythmic sigh of our breathing. It’s the only sound in the whole vehicle, beside the patter of the rain on the car. Softer now, less insistent.

‘What you forgot, Grace, wallowing in all that guilt, that remorse, was the nature of the beast.’ Lennart inhales, releasing the breath slowly. ‘By all accounts, Farrish is a very plausible man. Charming even.’

I open my eyes finally. Meet his. ‘You’ve certainly been doing your homework.’