Forget Her Name(83)
It’s Petra.
‘Wait,’ she says, gasping. ‘Wait.’
I stop, curious.
Her face is flushed when she gets to us. ‘I just wanted to say,’ she gasps, ‘I’m not going to back her up. Sharon, I mean. What she said back there about you attacking her . . . it’s not true. I saw her push you first. You were just defending yourself. That’s what I’ll tell the police.’
I’m moved. ‘Thanks, Petra.’
‘You’re welcome. You deserve it.’ She looks from me to Dominic. ‘And you have a lovely husband. When he told us about you, I thought it was the most romantic thing ever.’
‘Told you what?’
‘About your . . . your problems.’
I look at Dominic, my eyebrows raised. ‘Oh, you told them all about my problems, did you?’
At least Dominic has the grace to look embarrassed. ‘It wasn’t like that,’ he says. ‘I just wanted to make sure you were getting on okay at the food bank.’
‘Of course you did.’
I jerk away from Dominic’s guiding hand.
‘Rachel,’ he says warningly.
But I don’t intend on doing anything awful. Quite the opposite, in fact.
I lean forward and kiss Petra full on the lips, a real smacker, her eyes widening as I hold on to her.
‘Thanks, darling,’ I whisper when I finally let go. ‘I won’t forget this.’
She swallows, but seems unable to speak.
‘Right, you,’ Dominic says flatly. ‘Time we were going.’
He steers me swiftly down the street and round the first corner, one hand at my elbow. As if he still thinks I might make a dash for it.
‘What exactly did you tell them about me?’ I demand as soon as we’re out of earshot, trying to contain my temper.
‘Me first,’ he says succinctly. ‘What the hell did you do to Sharon?’
‘Look, she had it coming,’ I say. ‘I have no idea how saintly little Cat stood it for so long. I’d have decked the bitch months ago. And I would never have asked her to my wedding.’
I can see Dad’s Mercedes ahead of us, parked awkwardly on the kerb.
Double yellows.
‘I didn’t think she’s that bad,’ Dominic says.
‘Look, you’ve only met her twice. You can’t possibly make an assessment . . .’ I wince again, stopping as I make a play of fumbling with my shopping bags. ‘Sorry, it’s these bloody bags. They weigh a ton.’
He hesitates, then says, ‘Here, let me take a couple.’
‘Would you, sweetie? Petra’s right. You’re such a good husband, rescuing me like this. And this one too, it’s hurting my hand.’ I hand over all the shopping bags, keeping my handbag firmly on my arm, until he’s laden down instead of me. ‘Thanks, that’s much better.’
‘What have you been buying? Bricks?’
‘Oh, you know. The usual expensive tat from Knightsbridge. Clothes and shoes.’ I look over his shoulder and frown as if I’ve seen something annoying. ‘Hey, is that a ticket on your windscreen?’
‘Shit,’ he says, turning.
And I run.
Chapter Fifty-One
I catch a cab a few streets further on and tell the driver to head for the mainline station at Paddington. Then, if he’s questioned later, he won’t be able to tell the police exactly where I was going. But anyone looking for me will assume I was planning on catching a train out of London.
I sit back and check the address scrawled on a scrap of paper in my bag. The street I want is Eastbourne Terrace, apparently a short walk from the station entrance. I don’t know Paddington well, but I used my smartphone earlier to find the street online, so I have a rough idea where I’m going.
In the taxi bay at Paddington, I hand over some of the big wad of cash I took out on Dad’s card and wait until the taxi pulls away before getting my bearings.
I zip up my bag and sling it over my shoulder, then walk briskly away and head through the busy concourse.
Beyond the station buildings, there’s a huge Christmas tree swaying in the wind, lit up with hundreds of multicoloured lights. Very festive, I think drily, passing two homeless women huddled together in a doorway, their knees drawn up to their chins, arms round each other’s shoulders.
I stop to check the direction on my phone.
A few turns later, I’m wandering along Eastbourne Terrace, gazing through the revolving doors of office entrances and at the brass name plates of buildings. It’s getting on for dusk by the time I find it, at the far end of the street.
Jason Wainwright. Private Investigator.
It’s a third-floor office in a glass-fronted block. I stare up at the windows, imagining I would find the place in darkness. The poor bastard’s just died. It’s the Christmas holidays. Nobody’s likely to be at work under those circumstances.
But there is a light up there. High up, in one of the front windows.
The glass door at the base of the tower block is locked. I rattle it, but it’s shut firm. And there’s no sign of life inside. The lobby is dark. I can’t see a concierge.
Keeping my head low, I study the metal name plates with their matching buzzers. I need to be quick. The light is failing and I don’t know where else to go.