Not yet? Miles thought with unease.
‘Our forensic team will be there another day or so,’ said the policeman. ‘Although it’s big enough for us to section off the appropriate area.’
‘Just the west beach?’
‘More or less.’
‘Have you spoken to Nelson Ford?’ asked Michael, leading Carlton to the door. ‘I gave you the up-to-date contact details we have for him.’
‘Not yet. He’s not at any of the numbers you gave us. Anyone would think he had gone underground.’
Miles laughed. ‘Not Nelson. He’s a sixty-five-year-old man, not a master criminal.’
‘Let’s hope not, Mr Ashford,’ said Carlton. ‘I hate to have mysteries like this hanging around. Here in the islands we find that secrets don’t stay that way for long.’
70
When Grace woke up the next morning, Julian’s side of the bed was empty. It had happened before; after eight years together, Grace was used to his hot temper and mood swings. In happier times, his mercurial disposition had manifested itself in spontaneity: leaping into the car to drive to the Cornish coast or the Scottish highlands simply because the muse had taken hold of him. Back then, Julian had been romantic and exciting. Now he was childish and petulant, using arguments – picking fights – as an excuse to go out to parties and bohemian dive bars. For a while Grace had put up with it; Julian was an artist after all and given to sensitivity. He certainly hadn’t taken Connie’s death well – it couldn’t have been pleasant to be the one to find her lying at the bottom of those stairs, thought Grace with a shiver. But lately, his behaviour had simply left her angry and dismayed. The pointless argument of the previous night had made her wonder if she really knew him at all.
She showered, dressed and had a breakfast of grapefruit and black coffee, but she still felt edgy. She thought about calling Joe who was at tennis camp in Marbella but it was too early. Usually when she needed to clear her head, she would go for a run: all those long jogs along Port Douglas’ Four Mile Beach or the muddy bridle paths around Toddington. But you never saw people jogging around this part of east London. Slouching, yes; scowling with studied indifference, that too. But jogging? No.
So I’ll clean! She smiled to herself, grabbing the keys to her scooter. Weaving through the streets of London, her hair streaming in a long ribbon from under her helmet, she immediately felt better. Grace’s friends had laughed at her for getting a scooter at forty, but it was her little shot at rebellion. She’d spent her entire life being sensible, doing what she thought was right, so why not have a little fun? At the time when she should have been falling out of nightclubs, sleeping with unsuitable men and feeling carefree and unfettered, she’d been bringing up two children in the stifling atmosphere of El Esperanza with a dark secret that would barely let her sleep at night. Come to think of it, she should get a real motorbike, she thought as she parked the scooter. That would really raise a few eyebrows.
Olivia’s apartment was in a red-brick mansion block behind Cheyne Walk. It had been a probate sale, still full of an old lady’s things, curtains from the fifties and knick-knacks not removed by the family, so Olivia had made Grace promise to come back to help ‘sort it’. Grace opened the front door with her spare key and went up the stairs. The apartment was still in the same mess she had left it yesterday: overflowing boxes, designer clothes hanging off every surface, thick layers of dust on the windowsills.
There was no sign of Olivia, but then it was still only nine o’clock and she had probably been out clubbing till all hours. Putting the kettle on, Grace went down the corridor to rouse her daughter from bed.
‘C’mon, sleepyhead, rise and . . .’ she began, the words dying in her throat. Olivia was lying on top of the well-upholstered body of a man, his face buried between her tanned, slender thighs. She was completely naked, her skin sheened in sweat, and her long blond hair could not disguise the fact that her mouth was on his cock. As Grace stood there, Olivia looked up, her hair dishevelled, her cheeks flushed, her moist lips glinting in the hazy morning light.
‘Mum. Shit.’
She scrambled off the naked man and knelt up on the duvet, her face suddenly blanched of colour.
The man sat up, and Grace thought she was going to die on the spot.
‘Julian,’ she croaked. Her whole body felt like lead, unable to m
ove, revulsion and fury rising in her chest like boiling magma until it reached her throat. Finally she took a breath and let out a scream.
‘You little whore!’ she spat.
‘Mum, I’m so sorry,’ said Olivia, jumping off the bed, knocking over a bottle of wine that leaked on to the carpet.
‘Get out!’ Grace bellowed at Julian, picking up his jeans, shirt and shoes and throwing them out of the door.
‘Grace, please,’ he said meekly.
‘Don’t you dare say another word,’ growled Grace. ‘I said get out!’
She watched him leave, his plump body scampering into the corridor. In the other corner of the room her daughter covered her naked body with a small pink robe with a teddy bear motif on the front pocket.
Olivia was frantic. ‘I know how this looks.’
‘You know how this looks? It looks like you’re a cheap, cheap slut, that’s how it looks.’
Olivia’s face immediately became defiant. ‘I love him, Mum.’
‘Love?’ She tried to roar but it came out as a pathetic little squeak. ‘The only person you love, Olivia, is yourself.’