Cold Heart

  Lynda La Plante was born in Liverpool. She trained for the stage at RADA and worked with the National Theatre and RSC before becoming a television actress. She then turned to writing – and made her breakthrough with the phenomenally successful TV series Widows.

  Her fourteen novels have all been international bestsellers. Her original script for the much-acclaimed Prime Suspect won awards from BAFTA, British Broadcasting and the Royal Television Society as well as the 1993 Edgar Allen Poe Writer’s Award.

  Above Suspicion and The Red Dahlia have been ratings winners for ITV in 2009 and 2010.

  Lynda La Plante has been made an honorary fellow of the British Film Institute and she was awarded a CBE in the Queen’s Birthday Honours list in 2008.

  Visit Lynda at her website: www.LaPlantebooks.co.uk

  Also by Lynda La Plante

  Blind Fury

  Silent Scream

  Deadly Intent

  Clean Cut

  The Red Dahlia

  Above Suspicion

  The Legacy

  The Talisman

  Bella Mafia

  Entwined

  Cold Shoulder

  Cold Blood

  Sleeping Cruelty

  Royal Flush

  Prime Suspect

  Seekers

  She’s Out

  The Governor

  The Governor II

  Trial and Retribution

  Trial and Retribution II

  Trial and Retribution III

  Trial and Retribution IV

  Trial and Retribution V

  First published in Great Britain by Macmillan, 1998

  This edition published by Pocket Books, 2010

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © Lynda La Plante, 1998

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

  The right of Lynda La Plante to be identified as author of this

  work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of

  the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  1st floor

  222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London WC1X 8HB

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  Simon & Schuster Australia

  Sydney

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-84983-266-3

  Australian trade paperback ISBN: 978-0-85720-140-9

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-84983-267-0

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

  incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are

  used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead,

  events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the UK by CPI Cox & Wyman,

  Reading, Berkshire RG1 8EX

  For my beloved father

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I sincerely thank Suzanne Baboneau, Arabella Stein and Philippa McEwan at Macmillan, and the real Lorraine Page whose name I borrowed. Thanks to Gill Coleridge, Esther Newberg, Peter Benedek, and especially to Hazel Orme. I’d also like to thank my team at La Plante Productions: Liz Thorburn, Vaughan Kinghan, script and book editor, Alice Asquith, researcher, Nikki Smith, Christine Harmar-Brown, and Ciara McIlvenny.

  With thanks for their contribution to:

  Geoffrey Smith

  East Hampton Police Department

  Sergeant Gilmore and Lieutenant Salcido of the Beverly Hills Police Department

  Dr Ian Hill, Department of Forensic Medicine, Guy’s Hospital

  George W. Clarke, San Diego District Attorney’s Office

  Tom Rowland of Thomas Rowland Associates

  Kathy Byrne of the Chicago Film Office

  J. B. Smith of the New Mexico Film Commission

  Kerstin Chmielewski from the Berlin Tourist Office

  Sotheby’s Press Office, New York

  But above all my thanks go to a very admirable lady who brought me the story of her life.

  THE BULLET blew off virtually his entire face. He was naked, but he appeared to be wearing swimming trunks because of the band of untanned skin which they usually covered. His arms and legs were spread open and his body floated face down. She watched with sick fascination as the blood continued to spread like the petals of a poppy, wider and wider; he was brain dead, but his heart still pumped, and continued for longer than she had calculated. Suddenly his outstretched arms jerked, his fingers clenched and unclenched, and he gave a strange guttural snorting sound, as if his throat were clogged with blood. A few seconds more, and she knew he was dead. Only then did she move away from the edge of the pool.

  The bentwood sun chairs were replaced neatly, his towel folded. His sunglasses she put back in their case, and his half-smoked cigarette she left in the ashtray to smoulder and die – slowly, as he had. She wrapped her hand carefully in the edge of her floating silk chiffon wrap to remove the glass she had used, slipped it into the deep pocket of her jacket, then walked soundlessly across the velvety lawn, past the sheets of lead and lumps of rock that Harry Nathan had considered to be sculpture, to enter the house through the garden doors. She took the glass from her pocket, rinsed it and replaced it in the kitchen cabinet. She was fast, meticulous, knowing every inch of the kitchen, even wiping the taps in case she had touched them inadvertently. She surveyed the immaculate kitchen, making sure nothing was left out of place, and then, still barefoot, she returned to the garden the way she had come. By now, Nathan’s cigarette had burned itself out, the ash extending for a curved inch and a half in front of the butt. She made her way round the edge of the pool, not even looking at the body, which still floated face down but was now drifting almost in the centre of the deep end. She looked round furtively before picking up the weapon, a heavy Desert Eagle, still wrapped in a silk headscarf. Then she hurried towards a small shrubbery, full of topiary trees clipped into strange geometric shapes that were clearly meant to echo the sculpture. She was careful not to step on the soil but to remain on the grass verge. She fired the gun into the shrubs then quickly tossed it free of the scarf, to land just in front of the first row of plants.

  A bird screeched as the sound echoed of the weapon firing, and she thought she heard someone scream in the house, but she didn’t go to investigate, didn’t even glance back, intent on getting out of Nathan’s estate and knowing it would take her at least five minutes to reach her car, parked further down the avenue. She did not put on her shoes until she was standing beside the Mitsubishi jeep. She bleeped it open with the alarm key and gave only a brief, guarded look around to make sure she had not been seen by anyone before she got inside and inserted the key, her hands rock steady as she turned it. The engine sparked into life and she drove off. Harry Nathan was dead and she was now a wealthy woman, about to regain everything he had taken from her and more. She would savour for ever the look in his eyes when he had seen her take out the heavy gun, seen him step back, half lifting his hands in submission, and then, as she pulled the trigger, there had been a second when she saw fear. She would relish the fear, because she believed that, without doubt, she had just committed the perfect murder.

  CHAPTER 1

  12 August 1997

  LORRAINE PAGE of Page Investigations had not, as yet, moved into a new office, though she had already used part of her cut of the million-dollar bonus from her last case to move from the tiny apartment in Los Angeles she had shared with her former partner Rosie, who had now married Bill Rooney, the ex-police captain who also worked with
them. The couple had recently departed for an extended honeymoon in Europe.

  The lost feeling hadn’t happened for a few days. She had been so caught up in making plans for the wedding, choosing what they would both wear, and the laughter when they forced Rooney to splash out on an expensive suit that had made the rotund man look quite handsome. Everything had been ‘fun’, particularly now that they had money to spend.

  It was not until Rosie and Rooney had departed for their honeymoon that it really hit home: Lorraine missed them. Waving goodbye at the airport had almost brought the tears that didn’t come until a few days later. She had been sitting in Rosie’s old apartment, now hers, looking at the wedding photographs, and she had no one to share them with, no one to laugh and point out how funny it had been when Rooney spilt champagne on his precious new suit. There was no one who would understand the three of them standing with solemn faces and their glasses raised. Rosie’s and Lorraine’s had, of course, contained non-alcoholic champagne, but they had raised their glasses for a private toast to their absent friend, Nick Bartello, who had died on their last case.

  The photographs, like the small apartment, held such memories, some sweet, some so very sad, but they had made Lorraine decide to buy another place. It had not been an easy decision but she couldn’t stand the ghosts – it made the loneliness even worse.

  Lorraine’s new apartment was on the upper floor of a two-storey condominium built on an old beach-house lot right on the ocean front in Venice Beach, one of four or five blocks where the little houses were so closely packed together that there was no room for front or back yards. Walking round the kooky old bohemian neighbourhood, she found she had already fallen for its lively energy and charm, and she loved the close proximity of the beach. Lorraine didn’t think of herself as ‘kooky’ or ‘bohemian’; in fact, in her neat suit and blouse she looked slightly out of place, but the neighbourhood reminded her of when she had been married. It had been tough, trying to juggle her job as a rookie cop and bring up two young kids while her husband studied at home and worked nights in the local liquor store. Money had always been tight, but friends had not, and there had been so much love. Lorraine had money now and she wanted, needed, more friends like Rosie and Rooney. Deep down she ached for all the love she had lost.

  While viewing the new apartment, she had caught a glimpse of herself in a full-length mirror. Staring at her image, from the well-cut blonde hair down to her slim ankles in low Cuban heels, the ache had suddenly surfaced, making her gasp. It didn’t matter how long ago she and Mike had been divorced, how long it had been since she had seen her daughters, the pain was still raw. In the past she had obliterated it by getting drunk but she was stronger now. She could still feel the dreaded dryness in her mouth and feel herself shaking, but she forced herself to follow the real-estate agent round the rest of the apartment.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ she announced. ‘Just one thing, though. Do the other residents allow dogs?’ She lit a cigarette. Tiger, the wolfhound/malamute crossbred canine who had belonged to poor dead Nick Bartello, was now Lorraine’s responsibility, and she needed to be near an open space where she could exercise him – clearly, the beach would be perfect.

  ‘I don’t think that would be a problem. I presume—’

  ‘Tiger,’ Lorraine interjected, using her right hand to indicate with a patting motion that Tiger was about the size of a toy poodle.

  ‘I presume he’s house-trained. The landlords of the head lease do have a proviso with regard to animals.’

  ‘Oh, yes, he’s the perfect gentleman indoors, professionally trained, exceptionally obedient.’ Crossing her fingers behind her back, she hoped that this would soon be true. She didn’t want to risk losing the apartment: it felt right, it felt safe.

  ‘I think I could be happy here,’ she said softly, and flushed with embarrassment: it sounded stupid. But the agent smiled warmly, eager to do the deal but rather surprised that this elegant, if rather nervous, woman hadn’t even asked to see the kitchen. Lorraine insisted they drive to the real-estate office to finalize the sale. She required no mortgage, and arranged a banker’s draft for the full amount.

  ‘I’d like measurements of all the rooms so I can order furniture, curtains . . .’ She wafted her hand and, as she did, the agent noticed there was no wedding ring – in fact, she wore no jewellery at all. As Lorraine stood up and bent forward to pick up her purse, her silky blonde hair slid forward, revealing a jagged scar that ran from the corner of her eye, a scar that make-up couldn’t hide.

  Driving back to Rosie’s, she recalled her assurances about Tiger. It had proved impossible, to date, to house-train or instil any kind of normal dog behaviour into him. Rooney and Rosie had both tried, but he had become a liability during the pre-wedding arrangements. He would either attack anyone who came into the house, or disappear for days on end, and no matter how long they all cajoled him and fed him biscuits, he point-blank refused to wear a collar. Eventually, Lorraine had booked him into a kennel for extensive schooling with a former police-dog handler. If this failed it was unanimously decided that he would be joining his old master Nick Bartello – nobody had been able to train that son-of-a-bitch either.

  When she got back to the apartment, Lorraine contacted the kennels. Tiger was progressing but they suggested an extra two weeks’ training. They did not elaborate and Lorraine was quite pleased – she needed time to furnish the new apartment. She decided not to take anything from Rosie’s place but to start from scratch and buy everything new. At the same time she had resolved to do something about her scar, the scar that reminded her of who she had been, of what she had been. She no longer needed to force herself to look at the ugliness it represented. She wanted to put her past behind her, once and for all.

  Lorraine felt as if she was high – she could hardly sleep. The shopping trips to the Beverly Center to buy furnishings and fittings were like stepping back in time. She selected everything she thought she would need, from a bed, dining table and large white sofa to wineglasses, lamps, dishes and silverware, and arranged for it all to be delivered to the apartment. She wanted everything to be ready for her release from the clinic and she didn’t want to lift anything, carrying anything or move so much as a book.

  The surgery was extensive. She had decided to have a full face-lift, which was done at the same time as the operations on her scar, which was deep and required skin grafts. She decided to remain at the clinic, pampering herself with beauty treatments, until the wounds had healed. She was still paying for Tiger’s ‘rehabilitation’ and the kennels were beginning to worry that he would become a permanent fixture, but Lorraine assured them that she fully intended to take him back.

  When the surgeon, who had not allowed her to look at herself, finally held up a mirror to her face, she wanted to celebrate, to kiss and hug everyone close by.

  ‘You’re a very beautiful lady, Lorraine,’ the surgeon said softly, as she cocked her head from side to side, drinking in her smooth, scarless cheek, her perfect eyes, the taut skin beneath her chin. He leaned in close. ‘Mind you, I can’t take all the credit. You have a wonderful bone structure. I just did a little suction beneath your cheekbones, ironed out the laugh lines,’ he continued, pointing out what his magic knife had done, taking pride in his work. He asked the nurses their opinion, but Lorraine didn’t hear: she felt as if she was looking into her soul and it made her gasp.

  ‘Happy?’ the surgeon asked, lifting his funny bushy eyebrows.

  ‘I used to look like this,’ she whispered, wishing Rosie could be there to see the new Lorraine.

  While in the clinic, Lorraine had worked out and eaten well and, on her release, she felt fitter than ever before. She gave her entire wardrobe to charity and hit the designer shops with a vengeance. She had never spent so much, so fast. She had always had good taste but now she went for quality, and for the first time in her life she never looked at the price tag. Next she bought a brandnew Cherokee truck and a second-hand Mercedes, the car
she had always dreamed of owning. It was in perfect condition, with only twenty thousand on the clock, immaculate leather upholstery, CD player and telephone. As she flicked open the make-up mirror it lit up and she sat smiling at herself, her new beautiful self, as the salesman hovered.

  ‘Yep, this’ll do nicely.’

  By mid-September, she had found a comfortable office in a small three-storey complex on West Pico Boulevard. Los Angeles had its rapidly changing fashions in office buildings, as it had in pizza toppings and nail extensions, and although the building had only been erected five years ago, the gleaming mirrored exterior was already considered behind the times. But as far as Lorraine was concerned this was an advantage, as it brought the rental more within the range she felt justified in paying. There was a smart lobby and a pleasant Filipino doorman, good security and – the biggest advantage – right across the street was Rancho Park with acres of grass for Tiger to run in. She thought about him, but kept putting off calling the kennels to say she would collect him.

  The air-conditioned office, tastefully decorated and filled with plain ash furniture, also boasted an en suite bathroom and kitchen, plus a reception area furnished with sofas and coffee table. ‘Page Investigations’ was printed in letters of gold leaf on the main entrance door by the electronic, security-coded entryphone. The letter-headed paper, cards and office equipment were chosen with meticulous care. Only the old computer hardware from her last office was retained.

  Ready to begin work, Lorraine deliberated over the wording for newspaper and magazine advertisements before committing to six-month runs. She then contacted three secretarial agencies, and asked that applicants should send their CVs before she interviewed them.

  By October, appointments had been scheduled with the three applicants she felt were most suited to the job. Still running high on her own adrenalin, she didn’t see them all: midway through the first interview she decided to offer the job to Rob Decker, even though she had really wanted a woman.