Even though Michael Sloane had agreed to see her, Helen Hibbert hadn’t thought it would be this simple. Just walk up to the gate, announce herself, walk in. But as she approached the house, the gravel crunching beneath her heels, she began to remember that dealing with the Sloanes was never straightforward. Her previous experiences with them had been exhausting. Countering their lies, dodging their deceits had taken all her skill and concentration. Trying to get anything from them had been a nightmare.
But at least she was in and they were going to meet with her. That was the first step. Now all she had to do was make sure she didn’t lose her nerve. Got what she came for.
No pressure, then.
She walked up to the front door, ready to ring the bell. Before she could, the door opened. The housekeeper stood there. Silent. Expectant.
Helen cleared her throat. ‘I’m here to see Michael Sloane. He’s expecting me.’
‘Mr Sloane is unavailable at the moment.’
‘You mean he’s out?’
‘He is unavailable.’
Helen felt anger rising with her. The Sloanes up to their old tricks. Messing her around again. ‘No,’ she said, speaking slowly so that this foreign woman could understand. ‘I phoned him. He said he would be here. He is expecting me.’
‘He is unavailable.’ Her voice, her face flat, unreadable. ‘Miss Dee is available to meet with you.’
Oh God, thought Helen. The weird sister. Brilliant.
She sighed. ‘OK. She’ll have to do.’
The housekeeper ushered her in, shut the door behind her. Once inside, Helen looked around. She had been in the house a couple of times before. Rare occasions, when Jeff – with Helen as his plus one – had been invited to the odd party. The Sloanes had tastes that overlapped somewhat with the Hibberts’. She had felt the place then to be cold and empty; even with all those people mingling, drinking and enjoying each other’s intimacies, it hadn’t seemed like a warm place. Now, with just echoing blank walls and the odd little piece of angular furniture, the interior of the house looked even more severe. Like a boutique hotel, to be admired rather than stayed in.
Helen was led into another room. It had two sofas facing each other. All black leather and chrome. A glass and metal table between them, the top polished and bare. And not much else. It was like a private doctor’s waiting room. Or a very high-priced psychiatrist.
Helen had been in some posh places before. Plenty of them when she was still with Jeff and they used to make a habit of trying to enjoy themselves in the flashiest way possible, but there was something different about this house, this room. It wasn’t flash and it wasn’t posh. Although in its way it ended up being both of those things. It was designed to intimidate. Yes, it said, we’re rich. Richer than you. But we’re harsher than you. Colder than you. And because of that we could crush you. So don’t you forget it. At least that was how it made Helen feel. And she was sure she wasn’t the only one.
The housekeeper left the room quickly, as if she couldn’t bear to be in it either. Helen wasn’t alone for long. She glanced up and saw Dee Sloane standing in the doorway. She jumped.
‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
‘I’m light on my feet.’
Dee Sloane walked into the centre of the room. She was right. Helen hardly heard her. She sat on the sofa opposite. Helen appraised her. Hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. No make-up. Her small, lithe body covered by a pink velour tracksuit. She curled her legs beneath her, stared at Helen.
‘You wanted to see us.’
‘I wanted to see your brother.’
‘He’s not available.’ Eyes dark, unreadable.
Silence fell.
Helen felt uncomfortable. Dee looked perfectly composed. Anger started to resurface in Helen once more. She could feel her breathing speed up, her body vibrate.
‘You wanted to see us,’ Dee said again.
‘Yes,’ said Helen, controlling her temper, ‘I did. And I’m sure you know why.’
Dee waited.
‘Jeff’s dead.’
Dee nodded. ‘Very sad.’
‘He was murdered,’ said Helen, the words spat out. ‘You know that.’
Dee frowned. ‘Why should I know that?’
‘Because you killed him.’
Dee’s eyebrows raised themselves in surprise. ‘Me?’ Her face all innocent.
‘No,’ said Helen. ‘Not you personally. You would never get involved. Never dirty your hands. Your style is to get someone to do it for you.’
Dee leaned forward slightly, as if genuinely interested, frown still in place. ‘And why would I do that?’
Helen leaned forward too, opened her mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come out. She sat back. Looked round. A thought had occurred to her. ‘I’m not saying.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’ve probably got this room bugged. And you’ll use my words against me in some way if you get the chance.’ She leaned forward once more. ‘But you know. So drop the Little Miss Innocent bullshit. Let’s talk.’
Several emotions seemed to pass over Dee’s face. Quick, fleeting and unreadable to Helen. Like coal-black crows flapping behind her eyes. Eventually she smiled. The effect was as though her body had suddenly become possessed by a human being.
‘We can talk in here,’ she said, head and shoulders dropping. ‘It’s safe.’ A sigh escaped from her like a dying breath. ‘It’s … Michael.’ She looked up at Helen, eye to eye. ‘He did it. He killed Jeff.’
It was what Helen had wanted to hear, but now she was unsure of what to say next.
And that was when she saw the tear roll down Dee’s cheek.