her back and steered her down the stairs, onto the pavement, then gave her a nudge in the direction of my decrepit Renault. She stumbled a bit, but kept on going.
Jennifer dropped the cigarette, ground it out with a black high-heeled boot, then crossed the road, hands in her pockets. Smiled like the sun coming out. ‘Ash: long time, no see. You’re looking …’ A pause as she frowned up at my face, and then the smile was back. ‘Good.’ Lying cow. ‘How’ve you been?’
I nodded. ‘Jennifer.’
She stepped closer so the umbrella covered us both. Rain pattered on the black fabric. Up close, she smelled musky and peppery with a hint of lemon – probably something French and expensive. ‘It’s been too long.’ She wrinkled her upturned little nose. Crow’s feet spread out from the corners of her eyes. They were new. ‘I’ve been thinking about you.’
‘Forget it.’
‘Oh, come on: lunch, my treat. Well, technically it’s on Uncle Rupert, but what’s the point of having an expense account if you can’t treat an old flame now and then?’ She nodded towards Dr McDonald – staring out at us through the Renault’s windscreen. ‘You can bring Katie, if you like? She’s gotten big, hasn’t she?’ Jennifer slipped her arm through mine. ‘Actually … might be better if you gave her a couple of quid to go to the pictures, then it’d be just you and me. Like old times.’
I stopped, pulled my arm away from her. ‘How did you find him?’
Jennifer’s eyes flicked towards a scarlet Alfa Romeo parked opposite Douglas Kelly’s house. The driver’s window was down, a telephoto lens poked out into the cold morning. Staring straight at me.
She brushed something off my shoulder. ‘You used to love that little bistro on Castle Hill, remember?’
‘How – did – you – find – him?’
She shrugged, pursed those perfect lips of hers. ‘All that digging in Cameron Park … You found Hannah’s body, didn’t you? That’s why you’re here.’
‘He’s ex-directory, the house isn’t even in his name … What did you do, follow me?’
A pout. ‘Ash, I’m hurt. But it’s OK: if you don’t want to speak to me, I can go ring the bell and ask him. “How does it feel to finally get your daughter back?” The public love that kind of thing.’
I leaned in close. ‘Pin back your pretty little lugs, Jennifer. If you so much as breathe in Douglas Kelly’s direction—’
‘What? You’ll put me over your knee and give me a good spanking?’ She ran her hand down my chest. ‘Have you still got those handcuffs?’
I stepped back. Glowering. ‘Leave him alone.’
‘I’ll do that thing you like …?’ She closed the gap, pressing her breasts against me, looking up into my eyes. ‘And after – if I’ve been a very good girl – you can give me a wee exclusive on the Birthday Boy, off the record. You know you want to …’
‘Want to?’ I pushed her away. ‘There’s not enough Dettol in the world.’
Streetlight glinted off the camera lens. Click, click, click. Photos for the late edition.
‘Oh, come on, Ash. You knew what you were getting into. We’re both adults.’
Click, click, click.
She licked her lips. ‘It is her, isn’t it? Hannah Kelly. And you’ve got other bodies too.’
Click, click, click.
‘Go away, Jennifer.’
‘You’ve found the Birthday Boy’s body dump. Who is he? You’ve got DNA or something, don’t you? If you know who he is, you have to tell me.’
Click, click, click.
‘We’re pursuing several lines of investigation.’ I stepped off the kerb and marched towards the Alfa Romeo. Rain soaked into my hair.
The sound of high-heeled boots clattered along behind me. ‘Who else have you found? I want an exclusive, Ash. You owe me!’
‘Owe you?’ I kept going. ‘For what, Jennifer? What do I fucking owe you?’
Click, click … The photographer looked up from his viewfinder. Too slow. I smacked the flat of my hand against the end of the lens, driving the whole camera into the hairy little shit’s face. Crack – his head jerked back, a bead of scarlet glistening in one nostril. Weak chin, pointy nose, hairy hands, hairy head. Like someone had cross-bred a rat with a chimp and given it a top-of-the-range Canon digital camera.
‘Frank!’
‘Gagh …’ Frank blinked, hairy paws smearing red across his face.
I grabbed the lens and pulled; the camera strap yanked his head forwards, clunking it into the window frame. I twisted the Canon through ninety degrees – turning the strap into a noose. Pulled harder. Knuckles like burning gravel, fingers aching.
‘Ash! Don’t be a dick, let him go!’
Frank gurgled.
Another twist and there it was – a small hatch marked ‘SD Card’, set into the camera body. I flipped it open, pushed on the plastic edge, and the SD card popped up. About the same size as the end of my thumb, but rectangular, with one corner cut off. I gritted my teeth and pulled it out. Stuck it in my pocket. Let go.
‘Gaahhhhh …’ Frank scrabbled away, clambering over the gearstick and the handbrake, camera clunking against the steering wheel.
Jennifer grabbed my sleeve. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
I jerked my arm away, leaned on the window ledge and glared inside. The car smelled of stale digestive biscuits, cigarettes, and cold coffee. ‘Listen up, you little fuck: I see you anywhere near here again, I see you at all, I’m going to turn that telephoto lens of yours into an endoscope. Understand?’
Frank just coughed and spluttered.
‘Ash!’ She grabbed me again.
I spun around and shoved. Jennifer staggered back against a Porsche – the car alarm blared, the lights flashing on and off. ‘Get this into your thick little skull: it’s over. I don’t owe you a damn thing.’
Her eyes were two cold slits, wrinkles creasing either side of her narrowed lips. Teeth bared. ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ She spat at me: a gobbet of frothy white that spattered against my chest.
I turned and walked away.
‘This isn’t over, Ash, you hear me? This isn’t over!’
I
