Dead Man's Grip

wearing a lightweight beige mackintosh over a dark grey jacket, plain white blouse, black jeans and black leather boots. Every shred of her confidence seemed to have deserted her and, despite the adrenalin pumping, she felt even more spaced out now. She tried to block from her mind the fact it was past 2 a.m., body time.
    She pressed the square metal button. Instantly a light shone in her face. Above it she could see a CCTV camera pointing down at her.
    A voice speaking in broken English crackled. ‘Yes, who is this?’
    Carly stared straight back at the camera and forced a smile. ‘I’ve come from England to see Mr and Mrs Revere. My name is Carly Chase.’
    ‘They expect you?’
    ‘No. I think they know who I am. I was in the accident involving their son, Tony.’
    ‘You wait, please.’
    The light went off. Carly waited, clutching her iPhone, her finger on the Send button. She turned and saw Detective Investigator Lanigan leaning against his car, smoking a cigar. He gave her a good-luck shrug. She caught a whiff of the rich smoke and it reminded her for an instant of Kes.
    A minute later, the gates began to swing open, in almost total oiled silence. There was just a faint electric whirr. Feeling sick with fear, she climbed back into the car.

79
    Carly stepped out into the silence of the night. Above her loomed the façade of a huge modern mansion. It looked dark and unwelcoming, with barely any lights showing. She turned back to look at the limousine, having second thoughts. It was parked a few yards away on the woodchip-covered drive, close to a Porsche Cayenne sports utility vehicle. Floodlights printed stark shadows of shrubs and trees across an immaculate lawn. Her nerves shorting out, she sensed faces peering from the darkened windows down at her. She swallowed, then swallowed again, and stared at the front door, which was set beneath an imposing portico with square, modern pilasters.
    Christ, am I up to this?
    The silence was pressing in all around her. She heard the faint, distant, restless sound of the sea. She breathed in tangy, salty air and the scent of freshly mown grass. The normality of that scared her. These people, their life going on as normal. Their son was dead, but they still mowed the lawn. Something about that spooked her. She had not mown the lawn after Kes died. She’d let the garden go wild and the house turn into a tip around her. It was only for Tyler’s sake she eventually pulled herself together.
    Before she had a chance to change her mind, the front door opened and a woman emerged, unsteadily, dressed in a turquoise tracksuit and sparkly trainers. She had short, blonde hair, an attractive but hard face, and held a martini glass tilted at an angle in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Her whole demeanour was hostile.
    Carly took a few, faltering steps towards her. ‘Mrs Revere?’ She tried to put on the smile she had been practising, but it didn’t feel like it was working. ‘Fernanda Revere?’
    The woman stared at her with eyes as cold and hard as ice. Carly felt as if she was staring right through her soul.
    ‘You got fucking balls coming here.’ The words were slightly
slurred and bitter. ‘You’re not welcome in my home. Get back in your car.’
    The woman scared her, but Carly stood her ground. She had been preparing herself for a whole range of different responses and this was one of them, although she had not factored in that Fernanda Revere might be smashed.
    ‘I’ve flown from England to talk to you,’ she said. ‘I just want a few minutes of your time. I’m not going to begin to pretend I understand what you must be going through – but you and I have something in common.’
    ‘We do? We’re alive, that’s about all I can see we have in common. I don’t believe we have much else.’
    Carly had known all along this was not going to be easy. But she had nurtured the hope that perhaps she could get a dialogue going with this woman and find some common ground.
    ‘May I come in? I’ll leave the moment you want me to. But please let’s talk for a few minutes.’
    Fernanda Revere drew on her cigarette, snorted out smoke through her mouth and nose, then tossed the butt away with a contemptuous flick of her jewelled hand. It landed on the drive in a shower of sparks. With her drink slopping over the rim of her glass, she tottered back and gestured for Carly to enter, glowering hatred, only faintly diluted with curiosity, at her.
    Carly hesitated.