40. NICO
40
NICO
T he air conditioning in the car is blasting. Outside, it’s swelteringly hot. One of those London summer days we’re not equipped to deal with. The city is melting.
I’m parked on the street outside Matt’s Kensington house. Behind us, in a dark-windowed sedan, is Elliot Maxwell.
“I’m not coming in,” I say. “Gemma’s going to have more than enough to handle without me, too.”
“Fuck’s sake,” Matt curses. “Come. You’re the one that wants the dirt on her boyfriend and this Curtis chap.”
“You should confront her about the cheating first.”
Matt closes his eyes and hangs his head for a second before he rubs his temples and mutters something under his breath. “Give me five minutes, then bring Elliot in.”
My niece pops into my mind. "What about Lucie? Is she home?" If there's anything a three year old kid shouldn't witness, it's whatever's about to go down between her parents.
Matt checks his watch. "Not now. She's at playgroup." He snaps into action, opening the car door and getting out. He chucks a spare key at me, slams the door and marches up to his house like he’s going to war.
He disappears inside and I make a note of the time. I’ll give him ten minutes, not five. Who the hell can confront their wife and say what they need to say in five? Matt’s efficient, but he’s not that good.
When the time is up, I use the key fob to open the iron gates and make my way to the door of the large white Palladian style house. Everything is perfect. There’s not a crack in the paintwork, no weeds in the window boxes.
Behind me, I sense Elliot Maxwell’s presence. He keeps his distance, but I know he’s there, emanating a dark, threatening energy. He’s a man I wouldn’t want to cross, and I’m always pleased he’s on our side. He slides like a shadow through the gate, easing it closed so it doesn’t clang.
I open the front door and step into the grand hallway. It’s sleek and modern in here, because Matt and Gemma ripped out the original interior when they moved in. There’s a two-level basement with an indoor pool, gym, and cinema room, and a lift beyond the staircase. In case they’re too tired to walk to the top floor.
It’s gorgeous. Not my style, but for a family home, it’s the top of the market.
Unfortunately, the pristine interior is surface level only. The yells coming from the drawing room indicate a turbulent family life. Phrases meet my ears that don’t sound new; they run in well-worn grooves. They’ve had these arguments before.
“You’re never here.” Gemma’s voice is high and screechy, making me grind my molars. “You don’t give a shit about us. When did you last spend time with your kids?”
“This isn’t about the kids. This is about you fucking another man. In my house.”
Something smashes and I wince.
“Our house,” Gemma yells. “And if you ever came home, maybe I wouldn’t need to fuck anyone else.”
“Don’t you dare put this on me.”
“It is on you. You’re a shitty husband and a shitty father.”
“I’m not the one getting caught screwing a stranger on the kitchen table by my teenage son.” Matt’s voice strains with the effort of holding back an unwieldy amount of rage. “That alone is going to cost a fuckload in future therapy.”
Something else smashes, and a tiny splinter of white porcelain shoots out across the hall, landing near my foot.
“Therapy?” Gemma screeches. “Maybe if you’d gone to therapy once in your God-damned life, we wouldn’t be here.”
Shit . Ten minutes definitely wasn’t enough.
Beside me, Elliot’s face is completely blank, as though he can’t hear the conversation at all. I’m thankful for his professionalism because this is way too personal for the staff.
“When was the last time we had sex, Matt? When was it? Can you even remember? Do you even care?” Gemma is screaming even louder now. If the house wasn’t so big, I’d be concerned the neighbours could hear. “You don’t want to fuck me anymore. Admit it. We don’t even like one another. This marriage is fucking bullshit. ”
Matt is quiet for a moment. “Something we agree on, then.”
“Sir,” Elliot says, his voice low as he gives me an uncertain glance. “Should we come back later?”
“No. Don’t fucking go anywhere,” Matt barks, striding out into the hall. His eyes are wild and his chest is heaving. This is seriously fucked up. “Get in here,” he demands, pointing down the hall to the room he just came from.
Elliot marches forward as instructed, the size of his muscles causing his gait to roll.
I hang back.
“Is this the right moment?” I caution Matt.
“Do you want to get that fucker Brooks, or what?” Matt hisses, and I’m suddenly struck by Matt’s capacity to remember my concerns, even in the midst of his own turmoil. His question propels me to action, and I give a terse nod before following Elliot.
The drawing room floor is littered with pieces of broken ceramic. A teal lampshade sits on the floor like a discarded hat, the stand shattered, the side table conspicuously empty.
Gemma stands in the middle of the room, still immaculate. Her hair is full, her makeup excessive for a morning at home, and she’s elegantly dressed in a pale yellow linen suit. She wrings her hands, twirling her wedding band.
Matt barks at her to sit. She glances at me before obeying, as if hoping I might intervene. But she’s getting nothing from me. I hate cheating as much as Matt does, and regardless of how much my brother’s behaviour may be at fault, he’s still exactly that. My brother .
Matt glares at Gemma, who’s now perched on a neat armchair. “Elliot has some questions for you, about your…” Matt grits his teeth and a muscle feathers in his jaw before he adds, “Lover.”
Gemma’s eyes are lit with fire and she scowls at Matt like she wants to tear out his insides and watch him bleed.
“Do I need a lawyer?” she asks.
“No. But tell the truth, because we believe your little fuck-buddy”—Matt’s mouth twists with disdain—“is involved in criminal activity. He may even have targeted you specifically, probably because you’re married to a Hawkston.”
A small gasp escapes her lips. “Oh, don’t make out no one would want me unless it was about you, you piece of shit.”
Matt snorts. “I’m sure you’d like to think you’re irresistible, but—”
“Fuck you.”
“Let’s keep it civil for now,” I demand, and they fall silent as I shift my focus to Elliot, motioning for him to start. He places a recording device on the coffee table. A red light blinks on it, which Gemma eyes with suspicion. I’m surprised she doesn’t demand he turn it off.
I sit down, ready to observe as Elliot questions her, but just as he’s about to begin, the doorbell rings.
Gemma jumps up, both hands fisting at her sides. Her alarm is disproportionate to the sound. She’s expecting someone.
All three of us realise at the same moment, and we move as a unit out into the hall. Matt’s closest to the door. He runs, and Elliot follows.
Gemma pushes forward too, but she hasn’t a hope in hell of getting past all of us.
“Curtis!” she screams. “Run.”
Curtis? What the fuck? I thought we were looking for a Daniel.
Elliot grabs Gemma, holding her back as Matt opens the door to a surprised-looking man, who’s already backing down the steps.
Dark, lank hair, skinny black jeans. Gold trainers. There in front of us is Curtis Bellamy, Mrs. Lansen’s boyfriend.
Fuck me.
“Shit,” he cries, taking in the sight of us all standing in the doorway. Behind him in the driveway is a white van, with the ghost of an enormous penis on the side. He trips over himself to get away, but Matt grabs him, hauling him into the house by the neck of his shirt.
“Oi!” Curtis yells, staring bug-eyed, at Matt. “You can’t do this. Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“Who the fuck are you, more like?” Matt booms, throwing Curtis to the floor where he skids along the polished wood floor, landing in a heap at Gemma’s feet.
“Babe,” Curtis pleads, only getting one word out before I step forward, and it’s clear from the way his cheeks pale and his mouth gapes that he hadn’t registered me until this moment.
“Curtis,” I mock, watching him squirm. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Gemma’s chin dimples, bottom lip quivering.
Curtis curls up like a dog expecting a beating.
Elliot gets down on the floor beside him and searches him, rough hands patting down his flailing body.
“Get your hands off me,” Curtis roars.
Elliot flips him so he’s face down, rams a knee into his back to hold him in place, and triumphantly tugs a wallet from Curtis’s back pocket. He flips it open and removes a driving licence, flashing it for us to see. “This is your man. Daniel Hunter.”
Gemma’s fingers are hovering over her lips. “Daniel? Who’s Daniel? Curtis, what’s going on?”
Matt takes the driving licence from Elliot, scans it and holds it out to his wife. “This is the guy you’ve fucked up our marriage for. Hope it was worth it.”
Gemma begins to cry, and Matt side-eyes her dismissively.
“Start talking,” he barks at Curtis, who strains to look up at Gemma from where he’s pinned to the floor.
“Babe, I fucked up.”
“Not to my wife,” Matt snarls.
Curtis glares at him. “I don’t have to tell you anything. I’ll go to the police.”
Elliot slams Curtis’ head down on the tile floor. The skin splits and a trickle of blood runs down his forehead and drips onto the floor beneath him. “You better do what you’re asked,” Elliot instructs. “Or this won’t end well.”
“Oh, please, don’t hurt him,” Gemma begs, dragging her palms down her cheeks.
Matt holds up a hand, urging Elliot to back off. He shakes his head like he’d rather smash Curtis’ brains out than obey Matt, but he eases his hold on Curtis, or Daniel, or whatever the fuck this con-artist’s name is.
“Tell us about the art collection. Mrs. Lansen’s art,” I demand.
“Debbie Lansen. What a bitch.” Curtis scowls, then looks at Gemma and his expression softens. “Honestly, babe, it’s only you I want to bone.”
Bone ?
If Seb was here, he’d laugh. I grimace and Gemma bleats, her legs trembling like she’s going into shock.
I glance at Matt, who looks like he’s about to lose his shit, but I hold out a hand to warn him off. I want to hear this.
“When I saw you at that party, you were so sad, so beautiful,” Curtis continues. “I knew I could love you… Nothing like what I had to do with Debbie. I never would’ve fucked her if I didn’t have to.”
“Debbie? Debbie Lansen?” Gemma squeaks, spots of red appearing on her cheekbones. “You’ve been sleeping with Debbie Lansen?” She wails and gives a full body shudder. “But she’s so old.”
Matt catches my gaze, his expression halfway between fury and disbelief. I can practically hear his words in my head, What a pair of fucking idiots .
“It’s you I wanted. I only did Debbie for the cash,” Curtis explains.
He was being paid? My head explodes with the admission.
“Let’s not tell Mrs. Lansen that tidbit,” Matt says. “At least he was fucking my wife for free.”
How he can find humour in this situation, I have no idea. I suspect it’s a front, more for everyone else’s benefit than his own.
Gemma whimpers and hides her face in her hands.
Elliot hauls Curtis to his feet and shakes him. In Elliot’s grip, Curtis looks weak and small.
“Who paid you to liaise with Debbie Lansen?” I ask.
Curtis shakes his head, his lank black hair flapping around his head. He presses his lips tightly together as though he intends to share nothing else, but there’s more going on here than I had anticipated, and I’m determined to understand the connection.
“Do you know a man who goes by the name of Martin Brooks?” I say.
A flame of recognition burns in Curtis’ eyes. I don’t need to hear him confirm his guilt, but I have no doubt it won’t be long before he breaks.
“Don’t know him,” Curtis says, his voice quivering now.
“You’re going to tell the truth, or I’ll crack your skull in my hands,” Matt threatens.
“You couldn’t,” Curtis whimpers.
Elliot, a good three inches taller than Matt at six foot six, and much wider, steps forward, hands the size of dinner plates raised. His lips part in a menacing smile. “I could. And if that doesn’t work”—Elliot flips back his leather jacket, revealing the Glock in a holster at his hip. He pulls it out and presses it to Curtis’ temple—“this will.”
Curtis’ eyes widen, then he slumps, his body giving in.
And that’s when I know we’ve got him. This whole charade is about to come crashing down. First, we’ll nail Curtis, then we’ll get Martin.
I focus on Elliot. “I need you to get every scrap of evidence that connects Martin and this scumbag.” I point at Curtis.
Elliot releases an exhausted-looking Curtis, who promptly flops face-down on the floor, allowing Elliot to rest one huge booted foot on his lower back as he gives me a salute. “Yes, sir.”
“And Curtis?” I say. “Or Daniel or whatever the fuck your name is?”
He groans in response.
“If you don’t want to end up in jail, you’re going to do exactly what I want.”
Curtis peels his face off the ground and gives me a begrudging, but convincing, nod.
Forty-five minutes later, Elliot’s taken Curtis off to I-don’t-want-to-know-where for questioning, and I’m back in the car with Matt. His laboured breathing fills the small space as he stares out the window. We haven’t moved from outside his house.
He strikes the passenger door with a clenched fist. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him not to destroy my car, but I know the comment would sink like a tank in the ocean. He’s wound so tight I don’t know what to do with him.
He hisses out a long sigh and leans back in the seat, his head on the headrest, eyes closed and face tilted to the roof. “I only came back for the kids,” he says. “I don’t care if I never see that woman again. I fucking hate her—” He strikes the door again.
I grab his shoulder. “I’m sorry. Truly.”
He shakes me off. “I tried to make it work. That’s why we had another child. Lucie was supposed to save us.” The muscles up his neck and along his jaw are hard ropes and his eyelids, though closed, flicker rapidly as though he barely has control over the thoughts running through his mind. “Didn’t fucking work, did it?”
He forces the words out, choking on the sorrow spilling from under the bitter veneer. Never in my life have I seen Matt like this—on the cusp of breaking. He’s normally angry, and that I can handle. I’m used to it. But seeing him like this feels like an invasion of his privacy. If we weren’t sitting in my car, I’d give him a moment alone, but instead I offer what little support I can.
“You want to stay with me?” I offer.
He shakes his head.
“Seb, then? Charlie’s there. You can see him. Talk to him.”
“No.” Matt opens his eyes. “Mandarin Oriental. Take me there.”
“You don’t want me to drop you at one of our hotels?”
“No. I need to be alone. Somewhere no one knows me.”
I start the engine, relieved to be able to do something.
When we arrive, I park off Knightsbridge in a quiet residential square and get out. Matt does the same, getting his bag from the boot.
He looks completely wrecked. We stand opposite one another on the pavement and the moment swells. I don’t know what to say to him.
He closes the gap and draws me into a massive hug. He holds me for a moment, squeezing tight. I don’t want to leave him alone, but I know he doesn’t want to be with me. He’s keeping his shit together by a thread.
He slaps a hand on my back and pulls away. “Thanks. I mean it. For everything.”
“Anytime.”
He nods, but just before he turns away, he says, “We’ll get the fuckers. You know that, right?”
I give him a half-smile because I fucking know it.