I Spy. Claire Kendal
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Thankfully, if Jacinda Molinero’s uber-designer bag ever had a lock, it was missing. The brass zipper moved with satisfying smoothness, and I laid the two halves of the bag carefully on the floor. Each half was covered by a mesh divider, so I unzipped those too. There was nothing beneath them.
One of the dividers had a small zipped pocket built into it, so I undid this and slipped a hand inside. My fingers bumped against something stiff and square, and came up clutching a black card with silver lettering and a foil edge. Albert E. Mathieson, International Tax Law.
I tried another Internet search, this time for Albert E. Mathieson. There were pages of hits, including a link to his business website, multiple articles in professional tax journals, and blog posts that I could see were genuinely informative as well as extremely scary, because they seemed to suggest that it was very easy to be a criminal tax evader and not even know it. He specialised in high-net-worth clients who were in trouble with America’s Internal Revenue Service, and though his office was in Malibu he represented clients in more than fifty countries.
‘Going somewhere, Holly?’
I screamed, and fell backwards, sitting hard on the floorboards, my stomach plunging even faster than the rest of me.
‘Oh my God. I think I had a heart attack.’
‘Lucky I’m here then.’ Zac held out a hand. I reached for it and he pulled me up. He plucked something from my hair. ‘Cobweb.’ He brushed my cheek with a finger, frowned and wet it in his mouth, then tried again. ‘Dust smear.’ He took a miniature bottle of sanitising gel from a pocket and rubbed some on his hands.
‘Don’t ever sneak up on me like that again.’
‘I didn’t sneak, Holly. You were clearly absorbed.’ His voice, as usual, was ironic and light, but his face was pale, his dual-coloured eye extra bright against his skin.
‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’
He shook his head to deny this absurdity. ‘What are you doing?’
I tried to swallow as I thought, but it was difficult. I surprised myself by telling the truth, which was sometimes easier than a lie. ‘I – I wanted to know about you. See your things. See your history, who you were. Are.’
He laughed. ‘Clearly someone whose taste in suitcases has improved.’
‘Why are you here, Zac? You should be on your way to London.’
‘Why are you here, Holly? You should be on your way to the hospital.’ There was a tension in his lips, as if he was trying not to let them move. But there were still occasional twitches.
‘I called in sick. The morning sickness is so bad. I hardly slept last night.’
‘My poor Holly. I had to come back because I forgot my phone. I’ll still make it – my talk isn’t until late this afternoon.’ He smiled slowly. ‘So we’re both here when we should be somewhere else.’
One of my hands rose to his caress his head, which was damp. ‘Is it raining?’
‘No.’
My heart was still beating fast, but he was sweating. I was struck by how controlled he kept everything in the house, as if in contrast to a body he couldn’t perfectly regulate, though he mostly managed to. ‘Are you angry at me?’ I asked.
‘Why would I be?’ He pulled me into his arms.
‘For looking in your suitcases.’ My forehead was against his chest. He smelled soapy and clean and woody and lovely, when the smell of everything else for the past two months had made me want to be sick.
‘Were you telling me the truth about what you’re doing, Holly?’
I pulled away and looked up at him. He was studying me so intently. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, if you wanted to see my history, as you say, you could have asked. So I can’t help but wonder if you were dragging out those suitcases so you could pack them and run away.’
‘No. Of course not.’ I was shaking my head at the irony of my telling the truth but not being believed. ‘How could you think that?’
‘It’s happened before.’ I could feel him playing with my hair again. ‘Dead fly.’
I shuddered. ‘Have you got it?’
‘Yes.’ He walked quickly to the front door to flick it away, then applied more gel to his fingers. ‘This is your house too. You can go anywhere you wish. Touch anything you find. Open whatever cupboard or drawer you want. I’d never stop you.’
‘Really?’
He took a step away, still with a hand on each of my upper arms, as if needing to evaluate me from different vantage points to make his assessment. ‘Really. I have no secrets from you.’ He leaned over to lift something from the floor. The tax attorney’s card, which I must have dropped when Zac walked in. ‘So you found my good friend Al.’
I cleared my throat, feeling caught out again. ‘Yes. Who is he?’
‘American. We were at UCL together – he read international law. Obsessed with tax but an interesting, funny guy. As smart as they come.’ He glanced towards the beautiful suitcase. ‘Was Al’s card in that?’
‘Yes. Did you give the card to Jane?’
‘Could have been Al – he visited us in London once, several years ago. Might have been me – hard to remember. Anything else you want to know before I leave?’
‘Was the suitcase Jane’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘A gift from you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why do you still have it?’
‘I didn’t know I did. She didn’t leave anything behind when she went. Was her suitcase inside one of mine?’
I nodded, then confirmed it with a quiet, ‘That one,’ as I pointed to his medium-sized suitcase.
‘She must have stored it there, so it was a kind of stowaway when I moved here from London – I didn’t know she’d done that. Would you like it?’
‘Wouldn’t that be weird?’
‘Why would it be? It should be used.’
‘Why does the tag say “Jacinda Molinero”? Molinero’s Miller. Right?’
‘It was my nickname for her. Did you look up the Spanish on your phone?’
I nodded. I’d never told him about my ability to speak Spanish, probably because I never wanted him to know about my failed aspiration to be a spy, and my language skills were bound up with that.
‘Jane loved Spanish.’ He looked so fond, even proud, as he talked about her. ‘She seemed to be able to learn any language she wanted, as soon as she stepped into a new country. It’s a rare gift, but some people have it. She loved to travel.’ He had never spoken about her before. So normally. Using her name.
Maxine could fuck off. He wasn’t behaving like a man with anything to hide. Tears were running down my cheeks.
‘What is it? Holly? – You cry so easily these days.’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t deserve you.’
‘Yes you do.’
‘I don’t. You should be with someone who’s accomplished – some clever doctor or barrister.’
‘They’re boring. And that would be predictable.’
‘A supermodel.’
This made him laugh. ‘Even more boring. And I’m already with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’
‘I’m