Chapter Twenty-one

I TRIED THE handles on two sets of french doors without success. The third one was unlocked, which meant that either the absent security people were very sloppy or there was somebody inside.

I took the small flashlight attached to my key ring, turned it on, stepped into the salon and closed the door. By the narrow beam of light I saw a beautiful room. Whoever decorated it had taste: Grace would have felt right at home, I thought. Most of the furniture was English antique – restrained, elegant and fabulously expensive. The mellow parquet floors were covered in large silk rugs and the ivory-coloured walls hung with half a dozen paintings by the biggest of the big-name Impressionists.

The thin beam of light swept past them and fell on a pair of tall doors that led into the library. In many ways it was a more beautiful room than the salon – it was smaller and that made the proportions better, and the rows of books gave it a warmer, more informal mood. I wasn’t surprised that Dodge had made it his headquarters.

A deep leather armchair had a side table next to it and, though the drugs had been removed, the paraphernalia was still there: the silver foils, a glass pipe, half a dozen bottles of Evian, cigarettes and an overflowing ashtray. Through a wall of French windows the chair commanded a panoramic view of the sea and sky – hell, if he had wanted to see the fireworks he wouldn’t have even needed to stand up. The effect in the room would have been even more remarkable thanks to two huge gilt mirrors on either side of the fireplace directly behind the chair.

They struck me as being incongruous in a library – I knew Grace would never have approved – but even the rich have their idiosyncrasies.

I stepped over the crime tape securing that side of the room – it didn’t matter, the Turks said the investigation was over – leaned on the back of the chair and looked out at the view. I tried to imagine what somebody could have said to him which would have made him leave the safety of his headquarters.

I reached down into my mind, holding my breath and trying to swim deeper. Once again, just like when I had stood in the room at the Eastside Inn and realized that it was a woman who was living there, I shut everything out … The answer was close … lying just the other side of knowing … if only I could touch it … a person he knew had come through the tall doors …

I didn’t hear it, but the concealed door behind me opened. It was one of those ones you find in a lot of old libraries – decorated with the spines of books to make it blend seamlessly into the rest of the shelves. Whoever stepped through it must have been wearing rubber-soled shoes, because I didn’t hear a footfall on the silk carpet. But there is a sound clothing makes when it moves – or maybe it’s not even a sound, more like a disturbance of the air – that is almost impossible to conceal. I felt it then.

Heart leaping into my throat, I reached behind me, drew the Beretta in one fluid motion, slipped off the safety, turned fast, crouched low to reduce my size as a target, spread my feet, raised the weapon as a direct extension of my right arm and crooked my finger round the trigger – exactly as they had taught me so many years ago when I was young and didn’t know yet what it was like to kill a man and see the faces of his two young girls in my dreams.

A different man, a less troubled man, would have shot. Instead, I hesitated and looked down the barrel and saw a barefoot woman dressed in black – which was appropriate, given that she was newly widowed. It was Cameron.

‘Who the hell are you? ’ she asked, trying to appear calm in the gloom, but the gun had scared her and she couldn’t stop her hand from shaking.

I holstered it. ‘My name is Brodie Wilson. I’m—’

‘The FBI guy? Cumali, the Turkish cop, said they were sending someone. ’

‘Yes. ’

‘The FBI always walks into people’s houses unannounced? ’

‘I apologize, ’ I replied. ‘I was under the impression it was empty. I came to look around. ’

Her hand had stopped shaking, but she was still rattled and she pulled out a cigarette. But she didn’t light it – it was one of those electronic jobs favoured by people trying to kick the habit. She let it dangle from her elegant fingers. ‘Does the FBI normally investigate accidents? Who asked you to come to Bodrum? ’

‘One of your husband’s lawyers or trustees, I believe. ’

‘That figures, ’ she said. ‘Who was it – Fairfax, Resnick, Porter? ’

It seemed from her list there were a lot of her husband’s circle who didn’t approve of a sales assistant – even if it was Prada – hitting the jackpot. ‘I don’t know, ’ I said.

She laughed, without any humour. ‘You wouldn’t tell me even if you did, would you? ’

‘No, ’ I replied.

She took a drag from the electronic cigarette. From anybody else, it would have appeared ridiculous. ‘The house looked deserted, ’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about the gun, but you surprised me. ’

She didn’t bother answering. I got the feeling she was sizing me up. ‘How did you get on to the estate? ’ I asked, trying to keep the question as casual as possible.

‘What do you mean? ’ she replied.

‘I came through the front gate – there weren’t any cars parked there and the cop on duty didn’t say anything about you being at home. ’

‘Our boat is moored in the bay – that’s where I’ve been staying since the accident. One of the dinghies brought me over and I walked up the steps. ’

She must have seen a shadow of doubt cross my face, because she shrugged. ‘The dinghy is in the boathouse. The crewman is still down there – go and ask him if you want. ’

‘Of course not, ’ I replied. ‘It’s your house, you can do whatever you like. That was you up on the terrace, was it? ’

She hesitated. ‘I didn’t realize you were watching. ’

‘I was down on the lawn – I couldn’t be sure, I thought I saw a shadow. ’

‘A shutter was blowing in the wind, ’ she replied.

I turned quickly – from somewhere far away, I thought I heard a door close. ‘Is there somebody else in the house? ’

‘No. Why? ’

‘I thought I heard …’ I listened harder, but I couldn’t catch it. Everything was silent.

‘It’s an old house, ’ she explained. ‘If the wind hits from the south it comes up through the basement. ’ She started to turn lamps on. I couldn’t tell whether it was to distract me or because she was genuinely tired of the dark.

In the soft light I saw her clearly. Jack Lemmon once said of Marilyn Monroe that she was lightning in a bottle. He could have been describing Cameron. Willowy and athletic, her skin so fine it seemed to reflect light, I realized it then – and saw it several times later: she had a way of tilting her head and sharpening her eyes that made whoever she was talking to think they were the only person in the room, if not the world.

She was smart too – I knew because I had read a transcript of the interview which the Bodrum cops had conducted with her on the night of the so-called accident. Told she wasn’t allowed to have a lawyer present, trying to understand a translator’s fractured English, exhausted and alone, she remained polite and helpful throughout the hours of questioning. Lose your temper in Turkey and – guilty or not – you could find yourself in a world of trouble. Intelligent and self-possessed – remember that, I thought.

Satisfied with the lights, she turned and opened one of the bottles of water.

‘The Turkish police told me you are the sole heir to your husband’s estate, ’ I said, with as much neutrality as I could summon.

She took a drink. ‘Is this a formal interview, Mr Wilson? ’ she asked sensibly.

‘No, but I can make it one if you want. ’

She shrugged. ‘There’s no secret to it. Yes, I’m the heir. ’

‘Was there a pre-nuptial agreement? ’

She hesitated, and I could tell she wasn’t going to answer. ‘Our New York office can subpoena the documents if you want. From what you said earlier, I’m sure the lawyer or trustee would be happy to assist us. ’

‘Yes, there was a pre-nup, ’ she said, sucking it down.

‘What were the terms of that agreement if you got divorced? ’

She took another drink. ‘For the first five years I got forty thousand dollars a year. After that, it rose by small amounts until I was fifty. Then – to use the lawyer’s term – I became “vested” and the pre-nup no longer applied. ’

‘Forty thousand a year for five years, ’ I said. ‘That must have been about what you were earning at Prada. ’

‘Pretty much. ’

‘And what do you get now that you are his widow? ’

‘It’s a trust … it’s complicated – I’m not sure anyone knows exactly—’

‘How much? ’ I repeated.

‘About one point two billion, ’ she said, and turned away.

The figure hung in the air for a moment – figures like that often do – then she turned and looked at me. To my surprise, she was shaking with emotion, her eyes alive with anger.

‘Do you know why I was closing the shutter on the terrace? Do you know why I was up there? That was the bedroom my husband and I shared. I come over here from the boat every night, I walk up the lawn and I go to that room.

‘If I lie on the bed, I can smell him, I can believe that if I were to roll over he’d still be there.

‘People can say whatever they want about the money – some sheets in a bedroom in a rented house are all that I have left of him. I loved my husband, Mr Wilson. ’

Her eyes welled up. She fought back the tears and, in that moment, she had such dignity and courage it was hard not to feel your heart go out to her. If it was an act, she needed to get her acceptance speech ready.

‘Now, I want you to leave. Any further questions, you can speak to the Turkish police. They’re in charge of the investigation, and they have a full record of the interview I gave. I’ve got nothing more to add. ’

As I crossed the terrace, heading towards the front gate, my inclination was to believe her but, of course, you never know. About to turn the corner of the building, I glanced back. She was standing on the terrace, alone in the shadow of the brooding house, barefoot and achingly beautiful, staring towards the gazebo and the spot where her husband had died. I thought for a moment she was going to turn and look at me, but she didn’t.

I entered the long driveway, the night engulfed me and the sinister house receded into darkness. I had arrived with doubts and I left convinced that somebody had induced Dodge to swap his drugs for binoculars and take that last walk.

It was a good theory, but it wouldn’t suffice, not if I was going to stay in the game. Leyla Cumali would make sure of that – she had developed her own version of events and burdened it with her professional reputation. She couldn’t afford to be wrong, and she would do everything possible to send the American intruder on his way.

What I needed was proof.