He regarded me steadily, as though still uncertain whether I could be trusted. Dylan came back with a tray on which sat a frosty glass bottle of mineral water, an iced glass with a slice of lemon on a small silver dish, and a matching silver bowl of ice. He placed it on the table next to my seat. I looked at him but he didn’t meet my gaze, a face carved out of solid stone.
“I’m entertaining some clients at home next weekend, a private evening—just a few select guests. I wondered if you’d dance for us.”
“What’s the room like?” I asked. I didn’t much care about the room, to be honest; I was stalling for time, to think about whether this was a good idea. Decide how badly I needed the money. I poured some water into the glass, squeezed the lemon, licked my fingers delicately.
He nodded as though this was a legitimate question: I was showing my professionalism, and he appreciated it.
“It’s good,” he said. “You could come and check it out first, if you like. The guys would be close by, the lighting brighter than it is in the club, but the normal club rules apply: no touching, no messing around. My guests are all wealthy individuals. I can guarantee you would get good tips if you agreed to do it.”
“How much?”
“Two grand, for the night. As many dances as they want, although we’ll be talking business, too, so I don’t reckon there would be time for more than four or five. Tips on top of that—you might be looking at doubling the pay.”
I looked into his eyes, saying nothing. One of my favorite sales techniques. He met my gaze resolutely for a few moments, and then laughed. “You’re good,” he said. “Very cute. And cheeky.”
I smiled my best cheeky smile.
“All right,” he said, “I give up. Two and a half, plus tips. Final offer.”
I’d reached his best price. “What about Caddy?”
“What about her?”
“Is Caddy doing it, too?”
Fitz looked at me for a moment, considering. “Nah.”
“Why not?”
“Caddy probably won’t want to do it,” he said. “Think she thinks it’s beneath her these days. You can ask her if you want; I don’t mind paying for two as long as she’s prepared to work for it.”
I thought about it, sipping from my glass of water. Something about it made me uneasy. As I’d found this week, as much as I was getting used to working and dancing at the Barclay, it wasn’t nearly so much fun without my friend. But then, the money . . .
“I’d love to,” I said at last. “What would you like me to wear?”
When I went to go back downstairs to see if Pete was still around, Dylan walked with me, in silence. I hadn’t asked for him to accompany me, and to my knowledge nor had Fitz; maybe there had been a private nod from him behind my back, some signal. He walked a pace behind me, like my shadow. I wondered if there was something going on in the office, some extra part of the meeting that I wasn’t allowed to hear.
“Thanks,” I said to him, when I was back outside the dressing room.
He smiled at me, looked me in the eyes for the first time. “You’re welcome,” he said.
When he smiled, he was a different person. I decided he was all right, in the same way that I’d decided Norland was a piece of shit.
He hesitated at the doorway.
“What?”
“Just wanted to say,” he said, “I’ll be there. Next weekend. I’ll make sure there isn’t any trouble.”
“Thank you,” I said.
He walked off down the hall and I found myself wondering whether I should have been expecting trouble. I hadn’t factored that into the calculations, but, to be fair, I couldn’t really expect two and a half grand for an evening’s work without there being some additional drama to deal with.
When Caddy got back from St. Lucia a week later, I told her about my meeting with Fitz. We were in the dressing room, and I was waiting for her to finish getting ready so we could go out into the club.
“He wants us to dance at a party at his house,” I said. “He wants both of us—you and me.”
She stared at me for a moment, then let out a short laugh. “Really? Why didn’t he ask me himself?”
“You were away,” I said, hoping that this would sound plausible. “What do you think? Go on, it’ll be a hoot if you’re there.”
She set her mouth in a firm line. “I don’t know, Gen. Too much hassle,” she said. “I’ve done them in the past. Don’t really want to do them anymore.”
“Hassle? How come?”
She didn’t answer, pulling on a pair of sandals and tugging at the strap.
“I thought it would be good for the money,” I said.
“Yeah. It’s just what you have to do for it.”
“Fitz said—”
“I know, I know . . . same rules. All of that shit. Just be prepared, is what I’m saying. Think about what you’re willing to do for it. If you don’t want to do anything, he’ll be okay with it, but you won’t be the top dog after that.”
“What? You mean he’s going to ask me to fuck his friends?”
She laughed. “No, not you. He’ll just bend the rules a bit, that’s all.”
We were both ready to go but neither of us moved. It felt as if there was something she wasn’t telling me.
“He doesn’t seem to be here that often,” I said, changing the subject. “What’s he like?”
“He’s all right, as long as you don’t piss him off.”
“What happens if you piss him off?”
She didn’t answer but looked at her foot, and then swore and tugged at the sole of her sandal, which had started to come off.
“Chanelle’s gone, did you know? Dylan told me.”
She had taken both her shoes off and thrown them into her bag in disgust. I wondered if she’d even heard me.
“Over a hundred quid, they were! Bloody rip-off. Well, I’m taking them back.”
“You can fix them,” I said, ever the cheapskate. “Won’t cost much to get them resoled.”
“That’s not the point.”
She sat down again, having rooted through her bag for some low-heeled pumps. Her cheeks were flushed.
“Did you tell Fitz that we saw Chanelle?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Of course not. Did you?”
“No!”
“Well, someone else must’ve.”
“Maybe she just left. Maybe she’s gone to another club.”
Caddy shook her head. “Not without telling us.”
“So . . . what do you think?”
Caddy stood up abruptly. Nicks was at the door. I wondered how long he’d been there, listening.
Chapter Fourteen
I couldn’t get the thought of the man Pat had seen by the office out of my head. The more I considered it, the more convinced I became that it was Dylan. Who else could it have been? I tried to call him for the third time in as many minutes, but still the same result:
The number you have dialed is currently unavailable. Please try later.
In the end I put a second coat of paint on the spare room. With another coat, the paint job on the siding was looking less patchy and more like a reasonable coverage. I would make curtains next, put in a chrome bar at the bottom to tuck the curtain into so that it didn’t swing when the tide came in and the boat rocked. I would build a shelf unit for the walls, use it for books. I might even build a cabinet for bed linens and towels.
I turned the radio up and thought again about the process of building the deck garden, wondered how much it would cost to get a glass roof custom-made, and whether it was something I could actually make myself or if it was beyond my level of expertise. I needed something waterproof for the bad weather, with a reasonable degree of insulation, so that even in the dead of winter my plants would survive.
As hard as I tried to distract myself, the thought of Dylan kept coming back to me. Where the hell was he? Why wasn’t he answering the phone?
By the time I was at the sink, cleaning the
brushes again, it was dark outside and the marina was quiet. Tomorrow I would start planning the bathroom. I’d put it off long enough, finishing the easy jobs first. It would be a new project, something to sink my teeth into; something that would take all of my time and tire me out every day.
The radio was still blaring in the spare room. I should turn it off; it was getting late to be playing music so loud. The instant the radio went off, the silence descended again.
Something was wrong.
A sound, from overhead—on the deck? No, on the roof of the cabin, directly above my head.
I froze, listening with my whole body. No sound, nothing—just the waves lapping against the side of the hull.
A scrabbling, a scattering sound. It was probably a bird, I thought, exhaling. A gull . . . sometimes they landed on the docks and on the boats, especially when it was windy.
I went back to the sink and rinsed it with bleach, trying to cover up the smell of the paint. After that I decided to have a beer, maybe two. My nerves were jangling, and alcohol might numb them a little. Was every night going to be like this from now on? Waiting to get tired enough to go to bed and sleep?
I heard another noise from outside just as I opened my third beer. It wasn’t on the deck, and it wasn’t a bird, I was sure of it. It was an animal noise, a yowl, a yelp. Maybe Oswald was having an argument with the foxes.
Alcohol made me brave.
I unlocked the door to the wheelhouse, which made a noise, and took enough time to scare whoever was out there away.
I stepped outside.
“Hello?” No one on the dock. The marina was in darkness all the way up to the parking lot, a brisk wind blowing from the water, bringing with it the smell of rain.
I took a step forward onto the deck and stood for a moment, looking across the water to the lights on the opposite bank. I looked down onto the dock and I could see a dark shape lying on the wood at the end of it. Whatever it was hadn’t been there this afternoon. I went down the gangplank, trying to get a closer look, my arms folded across my chest against the chill of the wind.
The dock was completely dark. Even standing right next to the object, staring down, I couldn’t make out what it was. I nudged it with my foot and it moved—something soft. I crouched low, reaching out with my hand.
Fur, soft fur. Cold. Wet. I stood and lifted my hand to the little light that came from the highway bridge. I could see dark on my fingers.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” I found myself muttering under my breath. Again, looking out across the dock, over to the office, the parking lot. There was no sign of anyone.
I went back up the gangplank and turned on the light in the wheelhouse, the one I never bothered using because it attracted moths in the summer—and when I went back to the dock I saw what it was. A bundle of fur, black. Blood on my hand.
It was Oswald. Malcolm and Josie’s cat. Someone had killed him and thrown him onto the dock.
I bit back a scream, my breathing shallow and fast. I had a sudden notion that whoever had thrown the cat onto the dock had had no time to leave the marina and was probably hiding somewhere in the darkness, just out of sight.
I ran back up the gangplank, turned off the light in the wheelhouse and jumped down the steps into the cabin, slamming the door and locking it as fast as I could.
From outside came the sound of footsteps, someone walking away quickly, fading and then louder again on the gravel in the parking lot. Whoever it was had been just on the other side of the Scarisbrick Jean.
I stood in the galley in a panic. Everywhere I turned were the black circles of the portholes. Anyone outside on the dock would have been able to see in, to see me. I washed my hands in the sink, rinsing the blood away and scrubbing with soap, tears pouring down my cheeks.
Whom could I call? Whom could I talk to? I tried Dylan’s number again. The same message.
I kept coming back to the same, reluctant thought. He was probably at the club.
I didn’t even stop to think about what I was going to say to him. I put Dylan’s phone back down and picked up mine. I dialed the office number for the Barclay and waited an age for it to be answered.
“Hello?”
I could hear the music, a low, thumping bass in the background. It sounded like Helena’s voice, but I couldn’t be sure.
“Can I talk to Dylan, please?”
“He’s not here.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Who is this?”
“Genevieve.”
“Who?”
“Genevieve. Viva. I used to work there?”
“Hold on.”
The music cut out and was replaced by an “on hold” bleep. I waited. This is ridiculous, I thought. What am I even going to say to him if he’s there? What could I say about Caddy? Was he grieving for her, or had he not given her death a second thought?
“Genevieve.” Fitz’s voice was loud and took me by surprise.
I swallowed. I should have disconnected the call the moment the woman had told me Dylan wasn’t there. I just hadn’t quite believed her.
“Hi,” I said, as cheerfully as I could manage. “How are you?”
“Well, this is an unexpected treat. What can I do for you?”
“I just—just wanted to see how you all are. And I wanted to say I’m sorry—about what happened to Caddy.”
There was an awkward silence, a long one. I could hear him breathing and, muffled this time, the low percussion of the music.
“You don’t really want to know about everyone, do you? You were asking for Dylan. He’s not here, though. You want me to pass on a message?”
“No, no,” I said, too quickly. “Is he in tomorrow? I could try then. It’s not urgent.”
“Yeah, all right. I’ll tell him you phoned, shall I?”
“Whatever,” I said, hoping that I didn’t sound as panicky as I felt. “If you like.”
“So what are you up to, these days?” he asked then.
“Oh—nothing much. I moved out of the city,” I said.
“How’d you hear about Caddy?” he asked, his tone casual.
I had no idea what to say. My hands were shaking and then I felt the tears starting at the horror of it, the shock at finding the cat, covered in blood, and the lunacy of calling the Barclay and ending up with Fitz, of all people—and that Dylan was obviously fine, still happily working there and deliberately not answering my calls.
I couldn’t think of anything to say and the prolonged silence had become too much to deal with. I disconnected the call. Cut him off. Well, I thought, that was an unbelievably stupid thing to do.
There was only one place left to turn. I took the scrap of paper with Carling’s number on it from the table and turned all the lights off in the galley and the main cabin. I went through to my bedroom and scrambled onto the bed, to the far corner, tucked into the side of the hull. Above me, the skylight—someone looking in would not be able to see me, here, in the shadows—but I would see them, outlined against the dark sky.
I huddled in the corner and dialed the number.
It rang for ages and I thought he wasn’t going to answer.
And then: “Hello.”
It took a long moment for me to find my voice, so long in fact that he said, “Hello?” a second time.
“Is that Jim Carling?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“It’s Genevieve.”
There was a pause. I wondered if he was trying to remember who I was.
“Hi. How are you?”
“I’m sorry to call you so late,” I said. My voice was hoarse. “I’m . . . I’m afraid. Something’s happened.”
“What is it?”
“I was here on my own and I heard noises outside. I heard a bump on the deck. I went up to look, and . . . and . . .”
“It’s okay,” he said gently. “Take your time.”
“Someone’s killed Oswald. I found him outside. I don’t know what to do.”
&n
bsp; “Oswald?”
“The cat. My friends’ cat. He’s lying outside and I’m afraid, I’m so scared. Please help me.”
There was a pause. I realized that maybe I should have just dialed the number for the police, whatever it was. Called the main switchboard.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask if you were on duty. You said I could call you.”
“To be fair,” he said, wearily, “I did say to call me if you remembered anything else, not if you found a dead cat.”
I felt very small and suitably chastised.
“I’m coming over,” he said.
“Really?”
“Yes. Don’t go anywhere, okay? I’ll give you a call on your cell when I get to the marina, so you won’t get a fright when I knock on your door. All right?”
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you so much.”
I shrank back into the corner in the darkness and waited. On the deck above my head I could hear more noises. Bumps, scrapes. As though someone was crawling over the roof of the cabin. I stared and stared at the skylight, but all I saw was the dark, stormy sky.
Chapter Fifteen
I didn’t even have to get myself to the venue for Fitz’s private party: he arranged for Dylan to pick me up. It meant I had to be ready early, of course, but, on the other hand, getting a lift was certainly preferable to public transportation.
Dylan rang the bell for the flat, and when I went downstairs he was holding the rear door of the car open for me.
I laughed. “Are you my chauffeur, Dylan?”
“Something like that,” he growled, and climbed in the driver’s seat.
“Does Fitz not trust me to get there on time, do you suppose?” I asked, as we headed toward the main street.
“Don’t ask me. I think he thinks this is a perk.”
“A perk for you, or for me?” I asked cheekily, then instantly regretted it. He gave me a look in the rearview mirror, a look that said, Don’t mess around.
The busy streets of London gave way to the leafy, dark suburbs. I had no idea where we were; I hadn’t been paying attention. And that, I thought with a sudden understanding, was probably the real reason I was being driven—so I wouldn’t know where I was going.