It took fifteen, twenty seconds for Diana Masters to pinpoint the sound. Being roused from a deep sleep didn’t help her disorientation and the ring tone was unfamiliar, the phone had never been used before. She groaned when she registered the time. The clock’s glowing green digits showed 02.17. Jesus this had better be worth it. Her fingers scrabbled on the bedside table, as she homed in on the mobile. It was a recently acquired pay-as-you-go, and the number was known to only one other person.
“Sam?” Sleepy, still confused, she ran a hand through her hair.
“Diana, we have a problem.”
She bolted upright, instantly alert, goose bumps not entirely down to the temperature. “What do you mean – a problem?” It was nothing trivial. His tone told her that, and he rarely called her Diana.
“Someone saw me leaving the Redwood place tonight.” She heard him swallow, detected incipient panic in his voice.
“Someone saw you?” Incredulous. Concealing her censure was a huge effort. She swung her legs out of bed, paced the room, thoughts swirling – none of them good. She waited for Sam to elaborate, not willing to make it easier for him, not keen to learn more, knowing ignorance wasn’t an option.
“It’s worse. He recognised me.”
Her legs almost gave way, she sank on to the edge of the bed. “But the mask?”
“He followed, watched me take it off.” His voice cracked. She sensed he was on the verge of tears. Tough. His stupidity bordered on criminal negligence. Criminal! Christ. That would be funny – if they weren’t neck-deep in ordure.
“How the hell did you manage that, Sam?” Cold, clipped, mentally clutching for even the shortest damage-limitation straw.
“I’m sorry, babe. I didn’t see anyone around. I thought I was in the clear.”
“Thought?” Had she badly misjudged the guy? They were supposed to be equal partners. OK, she was older and had the intellectual edge, but he was sharp, a quick learner and they shared the same dream and drive to realise it. Not drive. Ruthlessness. She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror, surprised how good she looked given how shit she felt. Not that it gave her any pleasure. Not with Sam whingeing on like a wuss. She recalled the last time he’d been here, preening in front of the same mirror, titillating her with the same bloody mask. She tapped a finger against her lips. Please let this flaky state be a temporary aberration. If he went to pieces they’d be well and truly fucked. She took a calming breath, injected warmth she didn’t currently feel into her voice. “Come on, Sammy, we can work it out.”
“There’s more.” Another swallow. “He’s been on the phone. He wants a cut.”
Blackmail. Her scalp pricked. Thank God for that. It meant the greedy oik wouldn’t go running to the cops. “A cut?” She stroked her slender neck, gave a lazy smile. “I’m sure we can manage that.”
“Diana. He’s not talking peanuts.” She knew Sam well enough to suspect he was holding something back. And he wouldn’t be saving the best till last. “He knows about us.” Diana closed her eyes: could it get any worse? “He wants you to make the drop. He knows how much your old man was worth. He wants half a million.”
She snorted. Like that was going to happen. Then frowned. They’d been so careful. Who could have found out? And how? And what the hell were they going to do? God, she needed time and space to think this through. Sam wasn’t going to come up with an answer. She had to be strong, or Sam would fall apart. They’d come a long way, they were on the home stretch and she’d be damned if some bastard was going to stop them reaching the finishing line. Feline eyes narrowed as she worked on the seed of an idea. It would need a lot of nurturing but there was too much at stake not to give it their best shot.
“Darling.” There was a teasing smile in the endearment. “When I say cut... I’m not necessarily talking cash. After all, the Sandman’s a dab hand with a knife... is he not, Sammy?”
When she ended the call ten minutes later he sounded calmer, which was lucky. Until the blackmailer made contact again, it was a waiting game and they’d need nerves of steel. Duplicity and cunning they already had in spades. She’d told Sam to drop by tomorrow. She knew a guaranteed way to help him unwind. Diana lay back on the bed, reached out a hand to switch off the light. It would be OK. And she’d missed enough beauty sleep for one night.
It wasn’t exactly hidden, but Bev missed it during her increasingly tetchy sweep of the bedroom. Maybe she’d been expecting something bold and in-your-face, given whoever it was had taken a hell of a risk coming here. Who’d the bastard think he was? How dare he invade her space? Hot and dusty after crawling under the bed, her temperature as well as her temper was rising. She was at the bedroom door, unclenching a fist so she could switch off the light when she spotted it: a new item on the summer holidays cheesy tat shelf.
Eyes creased, she walked towards the far wall where she kept her tacky knick knacks. Her mate Frankie had a collection, too. They’d been amassing the gross and garish since they were kids, trawling tourist dives from Blackpool to Benidorm seeing who could bring back the winning gewgaw. Harmless fun, teenage kicks – the egg-timer was an impostor, though. And had a sting in the tail.
Tight-lipped, she took it from the line-up where it was tucked between a lime-green T-rex and a day-glow pink guppy with Barbara Cartland eyelashes. The egg-timer wouldn’t qualify for a place; it wasn’t kitsch enough for one thing. The hourglass in a wooden frame was a traditional design, not trashy rubbish. Secondly, it wasn’t totally useless: an egg-timer had a purpose – presumably this one also had a message.
She perched on the bed, timer nestling in her palm, slowly she inverted it, watched the sand trickle down. She tried to read beyond the obvious, and not to read too much. But if this was from the Sandman, he’d made it personal. The suggestion? That time was running out?
It was past midnight before Bev hit the sack, knackered, drained and still grappling with thorny thoughts. Was it the Sandman who’d been in her home? Was the timer a warning, or a challenge? She’d kept the find to herself during the subsequent two hour session with Sumi and Fareeda. The talk had dragged on and on, going nowhere slow: Fareeda stone-walling at Olympic level, Sumi sincere but ineffectual in getting her cousin to divulge who’d inflicted the injuries. Bev had gone through coax and cajole mode to bribery and coercion. Nothing worked. The girl was adamant, she just wanted a few days to get her head straight. And her nose and teeth, presumably. Bev had it in mind to pay a house call on the Saleems, nothing heavy, just a quiet word. She’d take advice on that from the one person she knew who might be able to give her a decent steer. Assuming Oz was still talking to her. She’d know soon enough, she’d left a message on his answer phone.
Throughout the discussion, the pregnancy kit had burned a hole in Bev’s mental pocket. But by the time Sumi called it a day, it was too late to bring up the issue. Too late. And Bev was too distracted and if truth were told not feeling particularly well-disposed towards the girl. Jeez. Bev was only human. Mañana would do. Fareeda wasn’t going anywhere, and was under strict instructions to bolt every door and window in future to stop further unauthorised entries.
Bev lay on her back, gave a jaw-breaking yawn. So much for an early night. The egg-timer was on the bedside table; she reached for it now, held it in both hands and watched the slow trickle of sand. Was it a challenge from the killer? This is your mission should you choose to accept. The line from the Cruise movie had sprung to mind unbidden. She gave a thin smile. If she was honest, hadn’t she instinctively made the decision the instant she picked up the timer knowing she risked destroying prints?
A personal challenge she could take. No doubts on that score. With a black belt she was more than capable of kicking ass, going too far even; inflicting – and taking – serious damage. She’d been there more than once; the danger since last year’s attack was willingly going there again. Having been through the worst – she had no fear, little restraint. Personal risk wasn’t a factor. But the professional?
She turned the timer again, watched the sand glisten in the lamplight. If she went out on a limb over this, played the Maverick card, she could kiss goodbye to the cops, never mind the stripes. Teflon Girl they’d called her after the last disciplinary. Mind, there were times she still felt like telling the suits to stuff it anyway. On the other hand if she told the guv what was going off, he’d put a 24/7 tail on her. He’d done it once before behind her back; she’d hated it then, wouldn’t tolerate it now. Baby-sitting she didn’t need. And the last thing she wanted was to scare off the perp.
Anyway, what had she got to lose? Metaphorically or actually everything she valued had already gone. Her babies. Byford. Oz. Bring on the sodding violins, Beverley. She snorted, gave a wry smile. The sand had run out. She placed the timer back on the table, turned off the lamp, snuggled under the duvet. “Bring it on, sunshine. Any time...”