to her now, and really, after all this time, did she want it any other way? She had her life, George had his.
‘Have they got who did it?’ she asked.
‘No,’ said the policeman.
‘And it’s bad? Really bad?’
‘I’m afraid so, Miss.’
Shit, thought Gracie. And it was at that precise moment when she felt, quite distinctly, her cosy, orderly, trouble-free world tilt on its axis. It felt to her like something had ended. Or maybe . . . maybe it had just begun.
19 December
When Gracie got home to her flat, it was just after midnight. The casino didn’t close until six a.m., but Brynn was covering the graveyard shift this week. Pre-Christmas, the place was full of Eastern bloc playboys, footballers and high rollers, so, even in these recessionary times, they had to work late and hard, pampering their clients exhaustively with lim ousines from their luxury hotels to the door of the casino, complimentary gourmet food, Cristal champagne and Cohiba cigars – anything to keep them at the tables and happy while they handed over their cash.
And it didn’t end there.
The day after play, you had to comp the punters even more, to show your appreciation by sending out the finest cognacs, big tins of caviar and bouquets of flowers – and while she had a team of people making sure that all this happened, still she had to oversee it all, she had to know that it was all done.
And now it was.
And now she was, too.
She kicked off her heels, locked the door behind her, and breathed out a deep sigh of relief. She loved being here at home in her duplex penthouse, with its private terrace and canal views. She’d earned it, and she relished it. She had it all now. The twenty-four-hour concierge, the twenty-metre rooftop pool, the huge open-plan living area, the cutting-edge kitchen, the palatial en suites to the two luxurious bedrooms, the on-site gymnasium, whirlpool bath and spa room.
Ignoring the post on the mat, she was padding barefoot into the bedroom when the phone started ringing.
‘Shit,’ said Gracie succinctly, startled. Who the hell could be calling now?
George, she thought. A tingle of misgiving hit her midsection. Had he taken a turn for the worse? After a moment’s hesitation, she walked on, letting the answerphone pick it up.
‘Oh damn, it’s the machine again,’ said a shaky girl’s voice. Then: ‘I don’t even know if I’ve got the right number. I’m trying to reach Grace Doyle. About her brother.’
Gracie stopped walking. She stood there, staring at the phone like it might bite.
Pick it up, idiot.
But she didn’t want to. She was tired, it was the middle of the damned night, and she was not in the mood to hear more bad news. She slipped off her coat, tossed it on to the couch. Kept staring at the phone.
‘I knew she wouldn’t phone you, so I thought I’d better. I’m Sandy. George is really bad. And it’s only right that you know, in case . . .’ The voice broke as the girl suppressed a sob. ‘Anyway, I just thought you should know. If you want to phone me . . .’ She rattled off the number.
Gracie walked over and picked up the phone. ‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Oh! You’re there. Is that Gracie? George’s sister?’
‘Yeah, that’s me. How do you know George?’
‘I’m his fiancée.’
‘Oh.’ She hadn’t known that George had someone in his life. She knew nothing about the family she’d left down in London, her dingbat mother and her two brothers; and that had – until now – suited her just fine.
‘Did the police contact you?’ asked Sandy.
‘They did, yeah,’ said Gracie.
Silence hung between them. A waiting silence, in which the girl was obviously expecting Gracie to make sisterly noises, express concern. Gracie thought about it and realized that she did feel concerned. That annoyed her. She hated Christmas and she hated this; renewing contact with her family was not on her agenda. She was hoping for a quiet time over the festive season, then in early January she planned to take off – alone – for her annual two weeks in Barbados. She’d worked hard all year without a break, and she had been looking forward to a little downtime.
But now, this.
‘Well,’ said Sandy lamely, finally breaking the silence, ‘I just thought you should know. That’s all. And Harry’s just vanished, taken off somewhere, no one knows where.’
Gracie’s attention sharpened. ‘What do you mean, Harry’s vanished?’
‘Well . . . he has. He’s just gone.’
Gone where?
‘Have you . . . have you got your mum’s phone number . . .? Maybe you’d like to call her?’ asked Sandy when Gracie didn’t speak.
Yeah, and maybe not, thought Gracie. ‘I’ve got it here somewhere.’ She didn’t think she had. She thought – hoped – that she’d lost it.
‘I’ll give it to you, just in case,’ said Sandy. ‘You got a pen . . .?’
‘Sure,’ said Gracie, and stared at the wall, not listening, as Sandy gave her the number.
‘I think maybe you ought to call her,’ said Sandy.
And I think maybe you should fuck off.
Too much dirty water had flowed under the bridge for her to even contemplate getting in touch with her mother again, however dire George’s situation might be. Would George’s condition really be helped by her turning up in London to sit by his bedside? Answer: no.
Her dad had been cool and controlled – like her – but her mother Suze had always been almost laughably hyper-emotional, big on pressing panic buttons and beefing up any bad situation. Gracie knew she could bust a gut, get down there, but then guess what? Everything would be fine. And why should she? They’d never given a shit about her.
No.
Fuck them.
But even as she thought that, she could hear her mother’s final words to her. You know your trouble, young Gracie? You’ve got a damned calculator where your heart should be.
And what about Harry? Where the hell had he got to? She thought about that. He was probably upset about George and had taken himself off somewhere to brood. Harry and George had always been close to each other. Once, they had been close to her too.
‘Well . . . I’d better go,’ said Sandy.
‘Yeah. Thanks for calling,’ said Gracie. And don’t for God’s sake call again.
