Dead Man's Grip by Peter James Read Free Book Online Page B

it had been discarded.
    A tall, thin man with two cameras slung around his neck snapped her picture as she ducked under the tape. ‘I’m from the Argus newspaper. Can I have your name please?’ he asked her.
    She said nothing, the words ‘I’m arresting you’ spinning around inside her head. She climbed lamely into the rear of the BMW estate and fumbled for the seat belt. The officer slammed the door on her.
    The slam felt as final as a chapter of her life ending.

14
    ‘Dust. OK? See that? Can’t you see that?’
    The young woman stared blankly at where her boss was pointing. Her English wasn’t too good and she had a problem understanding her, because the woman spoke so quickly that all her words seem to get joined together into one continuous, nasally undulating whine.
    Did this idiot maid have defective vision or something? Fernanda Revere strutted angrily across the kitchen in her cerise Versace jogging suit and Jimmy Choo trainers, her wrist bangles clinking. A slightly built woman of forty-five, her looks surgically enhanced in a number of places and her wrinkles kept at bay with regular Botox, she exuded constant nervous energy.
    Her husband, Lou, hunched on a barstool in the kitchen’s island unit, was eating his breakfast bagel and doing his best to ignore her. Today’s Wall Street Journal was on the Kindle lying beside his plate and President Obama was on the television above him.
    Fernanda stopped in front of twin marble sinks that were wide enough to dunk a small elephant in. The vast bay window had a fine view across the rain-lashed manicured lawn, the shrubbery at the end and the dunes beyond, down to the sandy Long Island Sound beachfront and the Atlantic Ocean. On the floor was a megaphone which her husband used, on the rare occasions when he actually asserted himself, to shout threats at hikers who tramped over the dunes, which were a nature reserve.
    But she wasn’t looking out of the window at this moment.
    She ran her index finger along one of the shelves above the sinks and held it up inches in front of her maid’s eyes.
    ‘See that, Mannie? You know what that is? It’s called dust .’
    The young woman stared uncomfortably at the dark grey smudge on her boss’s elegant manicured finger. She could also see the almost impossibly long varnished nail. And the diamond-encrusted
Cartier watch on her wrist. She could smell her Jo Malone perfume.
    Fernanda Revere tossed her short, peroxide-blonde hair angrily, then she wiped the dust off the finger on the bridge of her maid’s nose. The young woman flinched.
    ‘You’d better understand something, Mannie. I don’t allow dust in my house, got that? You want to stay here working for me or you want to go on the next plane back to the Philippines?’
    ‘Hon!’ said her husband. ‘Give it a break. The poor kid’s learning. ’
    Lou Revere looked back up at Obama on the television. The President was involved in a new diplomatic initiative in Palestine. Lou could do with Obama’s diplomacy in this house, he decided.
    Fernanda rounded on her husband. ‘I don’t listen to you when you wear those clothes. You look too dumb to say anything intelligent in them.’
    ‘These are my golf clothes, OK? The same as I always wear.’
    The ones that made him look ridiculous, she thought.
    He grabbed the remote, tempted to turn the sound up and drown her voice out.
    ‘Jesus, what’s wrong with them?’
    ‘What’s wrong with them? You look like you’re wearing a circus clown’s pants and a pimp’s shirt. You look so – so …’ She flapped her hands, searching for the right word. ‘Stupid!’
    Then she turned to the maid. ‘Don’t you agree? Doesn’t my husband look stupid?’
    Mannie said nothing.
    ‘I mean, why do you all have to dress like circus clowns to play golf?’
    ‘It’s partly so we can see each other easily on the course,’ he said defensively.
    ‘Why don’t you just wear flashing lights on your heads, instead?’ She looked