‘Given you a key to his place, has he?’ His tone was light.
Layla looked at him as he pulled up at the traffic lights. ‘No. No, he hasn’t.’
There was no point in trying to deny it. Will knew. Of course he knew.
God, she’d make a terrible international spy.
‘Want to tell me what’s going on?’ He paused. ‘I wouldn’t say anything to anyone. I’m good at being discreet.’
‘I don’t trust Harry as much as I used to.’ Layla’s neck prickled with shame; it wasn’t a comfortable admission. It made her feel like a failure.
‘What’s in the box?’
‘I don’t know, but I think it might have something to do with me. And he keeps it well hidden, so he definitely doesn’t want me to see it.’
Will nodded. ‘All the more reason to find out what it is, then.’
Since she might as well tell him the rest, Layla said, ‘Didi thinks she saw him in a car in Elliscombe on Saturday night. But Harry told me he was up in Sheffield for the whole weekend.’
‘Right.’ A hedgehog was ambling across the road and Will veered around it. When they were safely past, he said, ‘When we were in the café and you asked me if I’d seen him with someone else, I said no. But I’m pretty sure I saw him in the upstairs window of a flat overlooking the market square.’
‘Really?’ Layla’s heart sank. Incriminating details were piling up at a rate of knots.
‘Sorry.’
‘How sure?’
‘It was him. He could have been with a client, though.’
‘Did he look as if he was with a client?’
‘I don’t know. But his top half was bare.’
‘What about the bottom half?’
‘Couldn’t tell.’
‘Oh fuck. Which flat?’
‘The one above the hairdresser’s.’
Layla took out her phone.
‘Mum?’ she said when Rosa answered. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m at Hillcrest with Red. I told you I’d be over here this morning.’
‘How is he?’
‘Not too bad. Better than yesterday.’
‘If I drop by, could he help me do something slightly illegal?’
‘I don’t know, let me ask him.’ Muffled whispers, then Rosa was back. ‘He says if he can do it sitting down, fine. He’s not up to breaking and entering.’
‘Great. I’ll be there in two minutes.’
Red was on the sofa, looking through an old photo album and drinking tea. His eyes went instantly to the security box she was carrying like a baby in her arms.
‘Sorry, I don’t know who else to ask. And I’m a bit desperate.’ She placed it on the coffee table in front of him. ‘Do you think you could get into this?’
‘No problem.’
‘Really? It’s a hefty padlock.’
‘Padlocks might look hefty, but they’re often simple enough to open.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘When you know how.’
‘OK, I have a confession to make.’ Rosa looked at him. ‘I threw away those lock picks of yours. I just thought you didn’t need them any more.’
‘I don’t need them. Lock picks are for the tricky ones.’ Resting his hand on the metal security box and giving it a fond pat, Red said, ‘This one’s straightforward. All I need is a couple of paper clips.’
Rosa found them and Red fashioned them into the necessary shapes; he might no longer have much strength but he was still capable of bending a paper clip.
Within ninety seconds, the padlock clicked open.
‘This is a life skill I need to learn.’ Layla’s air of flippancy was an attempt to conceal her rising dread. Red handed her the box and she lifted the lid.
There was the blue notebook she’d seen on the bed. As soon as she turned the first few pages, it was apparent what it was.
‘Oh darling.’ Rosa’s hand was on her back, rubbing comforting circles.
‘Even I never did this,’ said Red.
Harry was thorough, she’d give him that. Each of the women he’d targeted was described in meticulous detail. How and when they’d met, the tricks he’d used to make them feel special, the stories he’d told them about his life. Then there were the amounts of money they’d lent or gifted him and the estimated potential for further gifts. There were details of each woman’s age, assets and earning ability.
Layla paused when she came to her own page. There was her name, in his handwriting, and her relevant details. Aged thirty-one, single, no car, two-bedroom flat in the centre of Elliscombe. Accountant, own business, embarrassing clothes, pretty but needy. Contribution to motorbike – zero. Bed, seven out of ten. Hastily she turned the page before either Red or her mum saw. Seven out of ten? How mortifying. Her face burned with shame; how dare he? Worse still, all this time she’d told herself how great he was and it wasn’t even true. He might look fantastic, but in bed he was actually very average. More like a five than a seven. Bastard.
Oh well, that was all in the past now. She forced herself to concentrate on the next entry. Molly Kendrick was forty-one and lived in a five-bed detached house in Shipton under Wychwood worth – according to Harry – megabucks. She’d been divorced for the last three years, had twin seventeen-year-old sons and drove a brand-new red soft-top Mercedes. Lucky old Molly.
Determined not to look at the rest of Molly’s details in case she scored ten out of ten in bed, Layla flipped to the next page.
Angel Black, twenty-eight, single, silver BMW, one-bed flat (rented), senior hairstylist, new to Elliscombe, fantastic body, designer outfits, rich grandmother died in February. Gifts: £2K so far. Had promised more when the inheritance came through. £50K??
OK, this wasn’t funny. Within the space of a minute, Layla realised, she was feeling sorrier for the girl called Angel than she was for herself.
‘Oh sweetheart, you don’t deserve this.’ Rosa had leaned across to look at the page.
‘None of us do.’ Flicking back through the notebook, Layla found a dozen or so women who lived in other parts of the country and evidently pre-dated Harry’s move here. She said to Red, ‘Thanks for opening the box. If it hadn’t been anything bad, I’d have put everything back where I found it. But I don’t think I need to do that now.’
‘Good girl.’ Red nodded his approval as she rose to her feet.
Rosa was looking worried. ‘Where are you going? What are you going to do?’
‘I think other people might be interested to see this.’ Layla slipped the book into her shoulder bag.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘I’m OK.’
Will was waiting for her outside the house.
‘Where to?’ He put away his iPad and started the engine, then glanced sideways at her. ‘The place where I saw . . .?’
‘Yes.’
Chapter 39
There were three people working in the salon. One was a middle-aged woman in a cardigan and a flowered frock, one was a snake-hipped man in white jeans and a fashionably ripped Freddie Mercury T-shirt, and the third was Angel, tiny and beautiful with spiky white-blonde hair, and wearing a truly microscopic pink Lycra dress.