Chapter 2
Chateau Marmont, West Hollywood, Los Angeles
Okay.
So this is impressive.
Like really impressive.
I stare up at the huge white building and blink a few times as I take it in. There might even be tears in my eyes.
This place.
The history.
It’s beautiful.
I can’t believe I haven’t actually been here before.
And where else could we possibly stay while in LA than here, a place renowned for two of the most important things for murder: privacy and discretion. After all, that’s why we’re here.
I turn to look at Antoinette to see the same stars twinkling in her eyes. But she just looks … underwhelmed.
‘Is this it?’ she asks me with absolutely no irony in her voice.
‘What do you mean, is this it?’
She shrugs and stares at the building. ‘I don’t know. I was just expecting something else. It looks like the Hollywood Tower ride at Disneyland.’
I stare at the building with her and, yes, okay, it does maybe look a little bit on the dilapidated side, but that’s part of its charm.
It’s the fucking Chateau.
‘It’s Hollywood history,’ I tell her. ‘So much has gone on in between those walls. Parties, affairs, deaths. It’s actually haunted.’
‘Urgh, imagine being stuck here for eternity,’ she says with a sigh as she grabs the handle on her suitcase and begins to wheel it towards the entrance where a concierge is waiting to greet us.
I stare after her.
How can a sister of mine be disappointed by the Chateau Marmont?
I suppose I’m only just getting to know her properly though. I actually know very little about this twenty-year-old who is suddenly my flesh and blood.
I only discovered she was my half-sister a few weeks ago, even though I’ve known her since she was born. Turns out she was the product of an affair between my father and her mother. Since then I’ve discovered that, while blood may well be thicker than water, it’s also very … different.
But it’s going to be fine.
I’m sure we’ll discover that we have loads of other things in common.
Apart from our father’s passion for killing.
And where better to build our sisterly bond than here, in Hollywood, tied by blood and our mission – to find Aidan Ward.
Inside, the lobby is elegant and dimly lit and I feel my heart quicken. It even smells of glamour. Like skin, the ghost of cigarettes and leather.
It’s perfect.
We’re booked into one of the (in)famous bungalows, which should give us the privacy we need.
Antoinette is looking around. ‘It’s a bit dingy.’
Dingy?
Dingy?
‘It’s the Chateau Marmont, Antoinette,’ I say. ‘It’s iconic.’
‘Beyoncé is iconic,’ Antoinette says, ‘but she is also old and in need of modernisation.’
I have no words. I am now just standing here, my jaw by my knees as she looks around the beautiful lobby like I’ve dragged her into a derelict woodshed.
She takes a big breath like she’s being very brave and moves forward, avoiding touching the furniture like it might infect her.
After we check in we make our way past the world-famous pool – which is surrounded by swimwear-clad people all pretending not to be checking each other out – towards our bungalow.
I slide the key into the lock, and as the door swings open, I feel the excitement that has been bubbling in my veins reach boiling point.
Antoinette touches my arm. ‘Kitty,’ she says in a whisper. ‘Are you short on money or something? I can cover accommodation if it’s an issue.’
While we both grew up in Chelsea, London, and are what would be called ‘trust-fund babies’, Antoinette’s family are quite a bit richer than mine.
Her dad – or the man she believed to be her dad – is, was James Pemberton, one of the biggest music producers in the world.
Meanwhile, my dad – our dad – owned a chain of abattoirs and meat-processing plants.
A bit of an empire actually. I have money.
Rather a lot of money. But Antoinette has more – ‘pedo island money’ as she once charmingly referred to it.
And, since James’s death last year, she’s inherited most of it.
I ignore her and take a step inside and it is like going back in time to the 1950s.
I feel like a Hollywood starlet. I take a deep breath in, wondering if some remnants of stardust are making their way into my lungs.
I wish the walls could talk so they could tell me some of the no doubt insane things that have happened in this room.
The parties, the secret trysts. Actually, considering what I’m planning on doing in this room, it’s a good thing the walls can’t speak.
There’s a private terrace and patio just outside the huge living area. I bet that’s seen some wild times too.
I turn to Antoinette, excited, but I feel my face drop when I see her expression.
‘It might have been nice if there was a spa here,’ she says.
‘You can get treatments in the room,’ I say, ‘if it’s that important to you.’
Antoinette just shrugs and wheels her suitcase through to the bedrooms. ‘I’ll be taking the master bedroom,’ she calls through to me. ‘Seeing as how you’re making me slum it.’
I stare after her, my jaw on the floor.
I can’t believe I’m related to someone who thinks the Chateau Marmont is ‘slumming it’.