I come to the door. ‘This one’s mine,’ I say.
Giacomo stops and looks at the door plaque. Jason Wainwright, Private Investigator. I half expect him to ask for ID. But without even waiting for an answer, he crouches to open his large blue toolbox and search through it. ‘Yale lock. Shouldn’t take long. You’re paying double, yeah?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Cash?’
I nod to the office door, my expression nonchalant. ‘You know where to find me. Why not just invoice me?’
‘What do you take me for?’ he asks drily. ‘A fool?’
I don’t know what to say.
‘Bianca was there when you rang tonight,’ he continues, looking at me quizzically over his shoulder. ‘My sister? She said she doesn’t know any Joyce Wainwright, and she certainly never told any woman to phone me today. Then we checked the name and address on the Internet.’
I hold my breath, thinking fast.
‘Okay, signorina. Time for the truth.’ Giacomo straightens and stares into my face, an aggressive look in his eyes. ‘I know you aren’t Joyce Wainwright. She died in August. And this guy, he’s dead too. So who are you, and why the hell are you trying to break into a dead man’s office?’
Chapter Fifty-Three I consider spinning another elaborate story like the one I used for gullible George. But it doesn’t seem like a good time for more lies. Especially given his threatening look.
‘My name is Rachel.’ I bend to slip my high heels back on, so that my face is slightly flushed when I straighten up again. ‘And I’m the one who killed Jason Wainwright. Probably.’
‘Probably?’ he repeats, frowning. ‘I read online that he killed himself. Threw himself under a train on Christmas Eve.’
‘I may have thrown him under that train.’
‘You don’t know for sure?’
‘Nothing’s ever simple.’
He gives me a direct look. ‘Killing a man is pretty simple, Rachel – or whatever your name is. Either you killed this guy Wainwright or you didn’t.’
‘I was next to him on the platform. There was a big crowd. Everyone was pushing. Including me.’ I take a deep breath, then continue. ‘He went under the train.’
‘Did you push him?’
I shrug.
‘Did you tell the police?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Well,’ he says, after a brief pause, ‘I wouldn’t have told them.’ And he spits on the floor. ‘I’m no friend of the police.’
‘Me neither.’ I consider spitting too, but decide against it.
‘Okay,’ he says, ‘but why break into the man’s office? What’s he got on you?’
I hesitate.
‘Please,’ he says, ‘no more lies.’
‘That’s another thing I don’t know for sure.’ I nod towards the door. ‘It’s why I’m here. To find out why Wainwright was following me.’
‘So he was investigating you.’
‘Yes, I just can’t figure out why.’
‘Huh.’ He looks me up and down again, more deliberately this time. ‘You married, Rachel?’
‘Very.’
Giacomo spreads his hands wide in an expressive gesture. ‘Allora, there’s your explanation.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Your husband is the one who had you followed. This man Wainwright was a private detective, yes? Your husband doesn’t trust you, so he put Wainwright on your tail.’ His gaze lingers on my legs in the short skirt. ‘Such a nice tail too.’ He winks at me. ‘Can’t say I blame him.’
‘You think Dominic was behind this?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘My husband.’ My head is hurting and I feel vaguely sick again. I push the thought away. ‘You’re suggesting Dominic had me followed? That doesn’t make any sense. He was with me that night. He was right next to me when Wainwright died.’
Except he wasn’t, was he?
I remember looking for him, and finding him just out of reach, standing on the edge of the platform beside Sally.
The two of them chatting, their heads bent together, intimate.
‘Sally,’ I mutter.
That husband-stealing bitch.
Giacomo, rummaging once again through his toolbox, looks round at me in surprise. ‘Sally? Who’s Sally?’
‘My husband’s boss.’
‘Ah.’ He waves a hammer in the air. ‘Is he having an affair with her?’
‘Maybe.’
‘It’s always the boss. Late nights. Working all hours. Then one time she doesn’t bother coming home, and next thing you know . . .’
‘You too?’
‘Divorced. She went off with her boss. Guy made tapas for a living, for God’s sake. These fucking little dishes . . . It was so humiliating. Spanish, too. Not even Italian.’ He shakes his head, throwing the hammer back into the toolbox with a loud crack. ‘Now I’m on my own with three kids. Three kids, for God’s sake, I ask you. Bianca is looking after them tonight. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be able to cope.’ He smiles. ‘She’s a good sister.’
The back of my neck prickles. ‘Keep it down, would you?’
‘Sorry.’ He stands up, grimacing, and weighs a crowbar speculatively in both hands. ‘Okay, no need to change the locks. So we make this look like a burglary, yes?’
‘Thank you.’
‘Once you’re in, I go home.’ He eyes the door. ‘The place may be alarmed. You should get ready to run, just in case.’
I slip off my high heels.
‘Payment?’ He smiles, his dark gaze meeting mine. ‘Or we could come to a more interesting arrangement.’ He looks down at my bare feet, then up my legs, raising his eyebrows suggestively. ‘I expect this Wainwright has a good strong desk in his office. You like desks?’
I smile too, but this is hardly the time.
‘Maybe another night.’ I grab a large handful of cash from my handbag – the remnants of my raid on Dad’s bank account – and thrust it towards him. ‘Will that do?’
He doesn’t bother to count the notes, but stuffs them rapidly into his pockets.
‘It’s . . . acceptable.’
‘Right. Clock’s ticking. Time to do your thing.’
‘Whatever you say.’ He grins. ‘Boss.’
I stand back, my heart thumping.
Giacomo levers the crowbar into the crack between the lock and door frame, and with a quick jerk of his arm breaks the lock with a loud splintering sound.
We both wait for a moment. No alarm.
Nobody has come running to find out what the hell’s going on. The building seems to be empty. It occurs to me that even George may have gone home by now.
Giacomo swiftly packs away his tools and salutes me.
‘Arrivederci.’
‘Goodbye, and thanks.’
I watch him go down the stairs and then the silence is complete.
I push my feet back into my high heels, and crunch over wood splinters into Wainwright’s outer office. Some kind of waiting room. Very posh. Leather armchairs. Potted plants. Even a miniature fake Christmas tree on a table, white with red baubles.
I open the door into Wainwright’s office. It’s a spacious room with broad windows looking out over the street. I flick a switch. Spotlights come on overhead. My heels sink into the soft beige carpeting. Bloody beige. There’s some kind of geometric painting on the wall. Beside it is a huge map of Greater London, covered with pins and strings like something the police might put together for a crime scene analysis. And a free-standing whiteboard, wiped clean except for a date in the top right corner.
24 December.
The day Wainwright went under the train.
The large desk near the window has elegantly turned legs and a green marbled leather top. It looks respectably strong.
I consider calling Giacomo back.
There’s a large computer on the desk. An Apple Mac.
I sit down and turn it on.
The password box lights up, cursor blinking ready.
‘Christ.’
Undeterred, I check in the desk drawers. That’s what people do in films, and invariably find the password written down somewhere inside.