Hot Water E-Book

Christopher Fowler

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

"Devilishly clever" Val McDermid on Strange Tide She sees everything, but can never tell anyone… a wickedly compulsive thriller from the bestselling author of the Bryant & May series. At a beautiful villa near Nice in the south of France, Hannah Carreras works as a maid. Under strict instructions never to speak to the guests, she blends into the background – but she sees everything. Including the mistress Summer, lounging by the pool awaiting the arrival of her married lover, Steve. When Steve finally shows at the villa – with his family unexpectedly in tow – Summer has vanished. Steve claims he never saw her. But Steve's wife is no fool: she knows there's something going on. Whose tiny bikini lies by the pool? Whose perfume is in the bathroom? Before long, the local police start asking questions, and the villa's occupants have something to hide. Only Hannah, always listening, watching, saw broken glass and blood on the patio the day Summer disappeared. Only Hannah thinks she knows what lies are being told…

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave Us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

One: The Girl

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

Two: The Guests

15.

16.

17.

18.

19.

20.

21.

22.

23.

24.

25.

26.

Three: The Proof

27.

28.

29.

30.

31.

32.

33.

34.

35.

36.

37.

38.

39.

Four: The Blame

40.

41.

42.

43.

44.

45.

46.

47.

48.

49.

Five: The Truth

50.

51.

52.

53.

54.

55.

56.

57.

58.

59.

60.

61.

62.

Acknowledgments

About the author

“I loved this book. A group of entitled, comfortable Brits bring about their own destruction in the heat of the French sun. Witty, brooding and highly entertaining. I loved that simmering, relentless tension between apparently civilized people. A fable for our time.”Ann Cleeves

“A wickedly clever mystery – tense, atmospheric and laced with Christopher Fowler’s pitch-black humour. Will keep you guessing to the very last page.”Antonia Hodgson

PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR

“I’ve loved everything of his I’ve ever read.”Peter James

“Devilishly clever.”Val McDermid

“Atmospheric, hugely beguiling and as filled with tricks and sleights of hand as a magician’s sleeve.”Joanne Harris

“I’ve followed Christopher Fowler with admiration and raw pleasure.”Harlan Ellison

“The most consistently brilliant, entertaining and educational voice in contemporary British crime fiction, the utterly fabulous Christopher Fowler.”Cathi Unsworth

“A first-class thriller, but don’t expect any sleep.”Sunday Telegraph

“Christopher Fowler is an award-winning novelist who would make a good serial killer.”Time Out

“The writing is as ever fluid and pacey, the characterization deft and the plot fresh and ingenious.”Independent on Sunday

“Fowler is a seasoned, prolific, and extremely talented author.”D Harlan Wilson, Los Angeles Review of Books

“How many locked-room puzzles can the duo unlock before their Peculiar Crimes Unit is disbanded? Many more, one hopes.”Kirkus Reviews

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Hot WaterPrint edition ISBN: 9781789099843E-book edition ISBN: 9781789099850

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0U Pwww.titanbooks.com

First edition: March 202210 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Christopher Fowler 2022.

Christopher Fowler asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For Pete

Yesterday, upon the stair

I met a girl who wasn’t there

She wasn’t there again today

Oh how I wish she’d go away.

(With apologies to William Hughes Mearns, 1899)

ONE:

THE GIRL

1.

How do I know you’re telling the truth?’

Julia Martinez tapped the reference letter with a glitter-tipped nail that belonged on a teenaged hand. Tap tap tap ticked the fingers as she thought it over.

Hannah could see that after three weeks of doing the rounds her letter was starting to look over-handled, but it was all she had.

Julia made a sour face and slid the recommendation back in Hannah’s direction. ‘This is from your tutor. No use. You have never been a maid before. Not with those hands.’

Hannah sat on the other side of the desk, her fingers laced in her lap. She had dressed conservatively in winter greys. She tried not to let her nervousness show. Without thinking, she pushed her blonde hair back from her face and tucked a stray strand behind her left ear. It had fallen down ever since she was little.

‘You are too pretty for this work. Pretty always means trouble. This I know. Are you a sensible girl, Miss Carreras?’ Julia rolled her Rs spectacularly on the surname, turning it into something Venezuelan.

‘I think so.’ Hannah attempted to look trustworthy.

‘So when the men play their little games you know what to do, yes?’

What did her employer want to hear? The plastic sign on the wall above Julia’s enormous mass of coppery hair read: Vacances Paradis. Julia arranged stays at holiday villas and hired staff for them. The agency was situated at the wrong end of the Promenade des Anglais, its posters bleached to baby blue in the windows. Her office, dark and not much bigger than a tabac, was overfilled with boxes of undistributed brochures advertising the season just ending, a testament to the failing company.

Julia was the agency’s manager, past her peak in property management, a living embodiment of what late nights, red wine and a lazy husband could do to an ambitious woman. She applied lipstick so thickly that cigarettes hung from her lip in a cheerfully slutty manner, so that she resembled the late-career Simone Signoret, which for some senior clients was no bad thing.

She tapped her nails again and jiggled a cheap-looking charm bracelet. ‘We don’t get many Englishes. You are very – how do you call this? English rose. Clients will like you. I can’t employ African girls, it makes our nice liberal renters feel like slave-owners. Or Muslims: pity because they work hard, but people think terrorists. I state this purely as a fact. Why do you leave England?’

The air-conditioned office was freezing. Hannah discreetly rubbed her arms. She wanted to answer honestly. She longed to say, ‘Because of Aidan and his mother and the police,’ but instead she said, ‘I speak French and know the region a little, so this seems the right choice for me.’

Julia was unimpressed. ‘You have a useless degree and no skills. Is this why you want to clean toilets?’

‘I need the money, Madame Martinez. And I work well alone.’

‘Okay, the last part I like. How old are you?’

‘Twenty-three next month.’

‘You’re staying in Nice, yes?’

‘I’m sharing a flat in the Old Town. I have to leave it by Saturday –’

‘Your problem, don’t care.’ Julia waved the information away with her polished claw. ‘You must know this. It’s not glamorous work. Changing beds is like lifting weights.’ She tapped a lurid purple cigarette out of its shiny sarcophagus and lit it. ‘The guests are pigs. They do drugs off the coffee tables and their children piss everywhere. The French are fussy. The Italians never shut up. The English drink like fish. The Russians, sometimes you have to call the police out. I pay over the going rate so you don’t steal from me.’

‘You mean I have the job?’

‘Maybe I regret this later but yes, you have the job.’ Julia raised her nicotined index finger, drawing a line in the smoky air. ‘There is only one rule I insist upon. You do not make gossip with the guests. I keep them happy, you keep them clean. Do the bathrooms, bedrooms, kitchens. Make sure the stairs are dry before you leave so they can’t slip and sue me. No extra ironing, no repairs. If a bulb goes they’ll ask you to replace it; not your job. I can’t afford accidents. If they want you to cook them breakfast or clear things away tell them you’ll be happy to do so. When you finish your villa, help a co-worker with another property. Seven days a week, three hours per villa, just a tidy-up on Sunday because the guests always leave a mess Saturday night. You can move your times but put down your hours; I need to know for the chargings. There are gardeners and pool boys. Don’t have funny business with them on my time.’ When she touched her spray-stiff hair with her cigarette hand, Hannah thought the place might go up.

‘I need a copy of your passport and a major credit card. Security because the girls steal things and run away. They never save and get into debt. I am not a bank. I can advance only two weeks. If you’re in trouble maybe I can help, maybe not. I don’t involve the police. I can handle most things. I have a gun.’ Julia flashed a brisk smile. ‘Maybe you could do better than this, but then you pay taxes.’

Hannah knew she was right. There was nothing else legal that paid as much. Cleaning didn’t bother her. She had looked after her grandmother, wiping up after accidents, answering questions that made no sense, dealing with the old lady’s constant shame. She tried not to sound desperate. ‘When could I start?’

Julia did not need to check her screen but it looked more professional to do so. She pecked at the keyboard and squinted. ‘The Villa Lavardin has just been rented for two weeks but maybe is only going to be occupied for one, I don’t know, some confusion there, let me sort out. The client is English so it could be a good way to start.’ She took up her ridiculously long cigarette and sat back. ‘Do you drive?’

‘I can, but I don’t have a car.’

‘I will arrange for you to get a lift with Daniela. She is very religious, good worker, bad driver, pray to Jesus before you get in the car with her. You wear our standard uniform, nylon, cheap so I don’t make you buy it. It’s so the guests don’t mistake you for an intruder and shoot you. When you’re inside your villa turn your phone off. I don’t pay for talk.’

Julia leaned forward confidentially, shrouding them in smoke. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Hannah.’ She pronounced it with a hard H. ‘I don’t have good experience with English girls. Too much learning, no initiative. They don’t want to hold a toilet brush. Give me Slovakians, Romanians, Latvians. They know how to work.’

‘I know how to work,’ Hannah said defiantly.

Julia squinted at her through the smoke. ‘So there’s nothing I need to know about you that’s going to come and bite me in the ass.’

Hannah widened her eyes.

Julia had seen that innocent look before. ‘Nothing?’

‘No.’ She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘No.’

‘Hm.’ She stared through the grey haze as if trying to pinpoint a fault. ‘Just make sure you know how to keep your mouth shut. Some of the guests think they can do whatever they like.’

‘What do I do if they try to make conversation?’

Julia shrugged. ‘Act stupid. That way there will be no trouble. You can start on Monday. So… your first guest will be Steven Ells… berry, is that how you pronounce?’

Hannah took a look at the page on the desk. ‘Elsbury. Steven Elsbury.’

‘Englishes,’ said Julia with a sigh. ‘Always with the crazy names.’

2.

Summer was trouble. He’d known she would be from the moment he saw her. It was in the way she moved, the way she studied the room before moving in. It hadn’t stopped him from becoming involved.

Steve had not planned to start seeing someone behind his wife’s back. He and Jennifer had been together for seventeen years and married for twelve of those. Their son was now sixteen and had entered his morose period, but in every other way Jamie reminded Steve of himself. He couldn’t remember the last time the three of them were away together as a family – maybe to that awful cat-filled villa in Tuscany when Jamie was twelve?

Setting up the company had consumed all of his energies since then. He was away two weeks in four. During that time he had not been faithful but he had been careful. He made sure that Jennifer never had cause to know and get upset. Nothing disturbed their orderly home life. Everything was neat and tidy.

So how had this happened? An eighteen-year-old had come along with her cigarettes and gin and eye-watering perfume and upset everything. She was the kind of girl his son would fancy, which made her all kinds of wrong for him. First they were chatting online, then they agreed to meet, which made the fantasy real.

As far as he could tell Summer Farrow’s parents were divorced and she lived with her aunt – there was a frustrating elusiveness in her details – and because he had nowhere to take her they mainly sat in station bars and talked. It was silly, flirtatious, inconsequential chatter. How could there be any harm in that?

Sometimes their fingers interlocked across tables and counters. On two occasions he had demurely kissed her in public. Nothing was planned. She smoked and the smell transferred to his shirt, so he kept aftershave in his bag. Whenever he met up with her he switched his phone to airplane mode. Summer insisted she was planning to study theatre design but who knew what went on in the brains of girls? She had been privately educated and was confident far beyond her years, but changed her mind about everything every few minutes.

Jennifer did not have a suspicious nature because the idea of cheating was as alien to her as learning to fly. After five weeks his relationship with Summer, such as it was, became strained. It needed to be taken to the next level or halted altogether.

He arranged to meet her in a Henrietta Street wine bar, which in retrospect was always a risk given that his office was in the same street. Even so, he did not expect his newest employee to come wandering in and see them together.

Which he did.

Steve had made Giles his number two in a company of seven because he needed someone to accompany him around Europe. Giles spoke French and Spanish, albeit with a horrendous schoolboy accent, and was unambitious but naturally chatty, so he could deal with the vintners.

During their honeymoon period the pairing had worked well, so long as Giles’s puppyish enthusiasm could be periodically dampened. The cracks began to appear on their first business trip abroad together, when Giles turned up drunk for their meeting in Lyon. It turned out he was terrified of flying and always went to the bar before a flight. People in the hospitality industry were notoriously heavy drinkers, but the wine trade considered itself a venerable and noble profession far above those who merely sold alcohol. Giles had been hired for his contacts, not his opinions, which was just as well, for he possessed no critical faculties whatsoever. So far, though, the yield from his supposedly famous address book had been of alarmingly low quality.

Steve was well aware that the wine trade had its shady side, especially when it came to the lax labelling laws that allowed regions and alcohol percentages to be fudged. Working these weaknesses had lately become his speciality, so he needed someone to give the company a sheen of class. Unfortunately, it was starting to look as if Giles was not the man to provide it.

When Giles entered the wine bar and saw the incongruous couple holding hands at the counter, Steve wondered how he would react. Summer was wearing a short white dress, something only a girl like her could get away with, so she was hard to miss. Typically Giles made an elaborate pretence of not having seen them before stumbling off to the other end of the room and theatrically looking for a friend who did not exist. He had been caught sneaking in alone for a drink, so at least they both had something to hide.

Summer was smart and cynical, far too knowing for someone born when he was twenty-four and on his third serious girlfriend, although she was not as clever as she thought she was. He knew he would have to talk to Giles about what just happened. Summer caught his furtive look and flicked a coaster at him. ‘This bar is full of old drunks. What are you doing?’

‘Someone from work just came in.’

‘What, you want me to hide under a table or something?’

‘No, but he saw you. He couldn’t miss you in that dress.’

‘I’m not sure I take that as a compliment. You know, it would be nice not to hide for once.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that.’ He looked back at her. ‘We could go away somewhere for a weekend. I can get a good deal through the company.’

She hesitated, and for the first time he could see that he might soon lose her. ‘I’m not sure I want to be seen going into a hotel with a much older man. It might not work out and I’d be stuck there with you.’

‘If you knew me better, Summer, you’d know I’m not the kind of person who turns weird. I’m civilised and sensible. And I’m ruthlessly organised.’

She ran a coral nail through some spilled wine on the counter. ‘I’d like to get a tan. I went to Ibiza last year: it was mad. I want to work at a club there next summer: not a superclub, just a beach bar with a good sound system. Or maybe Phraxos. There’s a book called The Magus that was set there. Did you read it?’

‘I don’t read fiction,’ he replied distractedly.

‘I could go there and stay for the whole season.’

‘Loud music and men pawing at you.’

‘Men like you, you mean. Not such a bad prospect. Of course, they’d be a lot younger.’

He was starting to get fed up with her constant references to his age. ‘What about your studies?’

She gave a carefree shrug. ‘School of life, darling. Studies can wait until I’m ready. I could bum around the beach clubs for years until my looks start to go, then marry some horrible old man with a yacht and let him watch while I make love to beautiful girls. What do you think?’

‘I never know when you’re joking,’ he said uneasily.

She had a way of looking that stripped him naked. ‘It’s very simple,’ she told him. ‘I’m never joking. If I say I’ve changed my mind about having sex with you and will burn your house down instead, you need to be scared.’ She show perfect bright teeth when she smiled. ‘Cheers.’

3.

Shortly after Giles Sutherland blundered into the bar and saw them together, Steve took his manager on a two-day trip to Spain. He hired a black A-Class Mercedes and drove them to Priorat, in the turquoise hills west of Tarragona, where the vista looked like a backdrop from an old spaghetti western.

He was hoping to strike a deal with the collective of local vineyards that sat on the sun-washed slopes, a small high-end appellation with 1,700 hectares of vines and just over sixty bodegas but growing fast. It was still largely undiscovered, so the prices were competitive.

At lunchtime they headed for a brightly painted village square devoid of tourists, and found a café that cooked for the vineyard workers. They sat outside and ordered the special, conejo con ciruelas, and sampled a 2013 Finca Dofi.

‘That was a nice bit of theatre the other day,’ Steve said as the wine arrived, ‘you doing a double-take in the wine bar and walking into a pillar.’

‘I was surprised to see you, that’s all.’

Shame and apology were never far from Giles’s features. He was a baby-faced man with thin sandy hair and an unset look, short and rotund, as pale as mist. On a hot bright day he was wearing cufflinks and a tie-pin because he thought they gave him an air of authority, but they made him look like a kitchen salesman. Giles was from an old-money Winchester family, high Church, high Tory, high command. Unfortunately, his mental fabric was not of the highest thread-count and his career choices had been limited to auction houses and property development. He was jovial, old-fashioned, grateful and pliable, and knew all the right people if only because he had once played rugby with them.

‘You caught me in a bar with a young lady.’ Steve mentioned it with studied lightness. ‘Don’t tell me it’s never happened to you.’

‘Actually it hasn’t. And she was very young.’ Giles snorted dubiously.

‘In some countries girls can get married at fourteen. She’s perfectly legal and very mature. Besides, I wasn’t coercing her. She was totally in charge of the situation.’

‘Well, it’s nothing to do with me, obviously. Chatham House rules.’ Giles laid his index finger along the side of his nose in what was intended to be a gesture of amiable conspiracy.

Pushing aside his luncheon plate, Steve leaned forward on his elbows, inducing confidentiality. ‘It doesn’t mean I don’t love my wife, Giles. Jennifer is everything to me. She’s a wonderful woman. There’s no reason why it should put you in an uncomfortable situation. Recreational sex is the opening of a pressure valve, nothing more. Like a sport. I play squash; it’s the same thing. We’re all adults. I’ve been thinking, I have a lot of meetings in Europe. I could take Summer away somewhere –’

‘Her name is Summer?’ Giles stared at him in wonder.

‘– take her somewhere, do the job and get it out of my system.’ He spoke with clarity and confidence, even though he sounded like a foreman planning to unblock a drain. ‘It’s September, the month with the most travel because of the harvests. So, why not combine business with a little pleasure?’

‘I don’t think you should tell me anything more.’ Giles placed his palm over his wineglass as Steve went to refill it, as if nobly refusing a bribe. ‘I’m absolutely crap at keeping secrets. Melissa sees right through me. I’m an open book to her. She’s not to be trifled with.’

Steve ran a nail idly across the tablecloth. ‘It’s just that I may need your help to cover for me at some point.’

Giles blinked. ‘I can’t do that, Steve. What you do is your own business.’

Steve had always made bold choices that frightened other people. An element of risk made life more interesting. ‘I have to go to Nice to see the Bandol managers, and you’ll need to come out at some point. I might take Summer with me.’

‘No, no –’ Giles actually raised his hands to his ears. ‘Please don’t say it.’

‘It’s just so you know I’ll be out of the office a couple of days longer than I’m telling people, okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘I’m merely being practical.’

‘I said okay.’ Giles drank from necessity rather than pleasure, sipping continuously until his glass was empty.

‘I’m not going to get you into any kind of trouble. If you follow my lead nothing will go wrong, I promise. This is just between you and me.’

Giles looked at him dubiously. ‘Right ho,’ he said, glancing anxiously at his empty wineglass.

4.

Daniela was small and dark and thirtyish but could have been any age really, with an odd skew to her ruddy face and hands as rough as a ropemaker’s, but she was sweet and flustered and prepared to drive Hannah anywhere in her little silver Fiat with three missing hubcaps.

She displayed her devotion to Christ by pulling over when they passed the Church of Maria St Martin just outside the village so that she could whisper thanks, touch her rosary and genuflect before crunching gears and taking off again.

‘I clean a villa called the Champs D’Or a kilometre past the Villa Lavardin so I can take you there in the mornings,’ she explained, smashing another gear change and turning sharp right without looking. ‘I have to pass right by you on my way.’ Her English was surprisingly good although she had a habit of mixing it with idiomatic French. ‘You also have the keys to Villa Caprice, which is a few hundred yards beyond Villa Lavardin. Nobody lives there so you can choose your own times to do that one.’

‘Why does it need to be cleaned if no one’s there?’ Hannah asked.

‘The owners are rich Russians, they like the place to be ready in case they decide to visit, but I’ve been here two years and they never come. They pay for a gardener and a pool girl every Saturday too.’

‘Why would they do that?’

‘It’s a place to bury cash. They all do it up here. Form a company, build a villa, buy a boat, clean the dirty money. These are not nice people. It’s best to, you know, aller se faire cuire un oeuf.’

Boil yourself an egg, that’s got lost in translation, Hannah thought. She considered the Riviera towns. The peninsular of Cap Ferrat was expensive because it got two hours’ more sunlight each day and was as dull as only a wealthy neighbourhood could be. Safe havens, financially sound, cunningly protected, reassuringly timeless. The Chinese had arrived to replace the Russians, who filled the hotels vacated by the Americans and the English. The French just shrugged; whoever came, it was all just money.

As Daniela dipped her head to read a road sign, Hannah realised that her co-worker was incredibly short-sighted, not a reassuring discovery when they were driving just a few feet from a sheer drop into the valley.

‘Are there ever any road accidents up here?’ she asked.

‘Oh all the time, it’s terrible, especially in bad weather. The Champs D’Or is a very grand house. It’s further up the mountain. We should finish around the same time, so maybe we can take our lunch breaks together some days. I drive home to my mother’s house in Fabron every night to collect Theo, my little boy, so I can drop you all the way.’

She explained to Hannah that Julia wanted her to go in a couple of times before the renters arrived. ‘You could do today and tomorrow, then help me with the other villas. There’s a maid’s room in the pool house but don’t be tempted to stay over, because Julia will find out if you do. There’s a security camera in the porch, so they know when everyone comes and goes.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll stick to the schedule. And I’m not to gossip with the guests.’

‘Oh, you had the talk. Obviously introduce yourself and answer their questions, just don’t get involved. Think of them as troops of monkeys. Interfere with their social patterns and they will bite you. I hope you know how to cook breakfast. They’ll ask you to help because when people go on holiday they –’ she thinks for a moment ‘– devenir chêvre, you know this?’

Become goats, Hannah thought. I get the gist. ‘How many other rentals do we have to cover?’ Julia had been a little vague on the details, probably because she didn’t want to put her off.

Daniela braked unnecessarily. ‘There are four rental apartments on the Baie des Anges – two of those are occupied at the moment. Of course, it changes all the time but the properties are generally either waterside or mountainside. It’s easy money. Although,’ she gave Hannah an appraising look, ‘you’ll have to be careful.’

‘Why?’

Daniela gestured vaguely. ‘Oh, the men. They’ll look at you and get the wrong idea.’

‘In this?’ She glanced down at her blue T-shirt and jeans. She was dressed as she would dress at home.

‘It’s better not to be provocative.’

‘They won’t think I’m provocative when they see me in Julia’s uniform. I just want to be left alone.’

‘They may not see it that way. You’re the maid.’

‘So what?’

‘It means they are in charge.’ Daniela drove her to the turning and stopped. ‘Don’t look so worried, you’ll be fine. Before you, Julia had a girl from Kazakhstan, bad-tempered, face like a cow but a good worker. One day she cut off the top of her thumb and was only worried about bleeding on the carpet. You’ll soon get the hang of it. Villa Lavardin is just down the path. After that, go across to the Caprice, call me when you’ve finished and I’ll show you all the exciting things to do in the village. That’ll take five minutes, even including the Spar grocery. If you don’t want to get the bus there’s a good taxi service nearby. Gerard robs the tourists blind but tell him you’re working here and you’ll get the local rate.’

Hannah took a deep breath. Monday morning, her first day. She thanked Daniela and headed for the Villa Lavardin.

She had trouble with the front door before realising that French keys needed to be turned several times in the lock before opening. Pushing her way inside, she peered around the corner and sniffed the air. A cloying floral perfume with bitter undertones, the smell of burnt toast coming from the kitchen.

There was no one around but nor was the place empty. Someone had certainly been here. She could see a coffee mug on a table, an opened magazine, a girl’s sequined denim jacket hanging on the back of a chair, cigarette ends tossed in a saucer.

Following the page of instructions Daniela had given her, she hunted for her cleaning supplies. In a windowless room off one of the maze-like corridors she pulled the cord on a bare bulb and found everything neatly stacked on shelves.

She dragged out a new vacuum cleaner, cloths, a dustpan and brush, bleach, a mop bucket and several bottles marked Alcool A Brüler, which she had been instructed to use neat on the marble surfaces downstairs because it dried fast, so no one would slip over and sue the agency.

Heading upstairs, she found more signs of occupancy. The biggest bed had been explosively unmade and was surrounded by makeup, moisturizer, a T-shirt, hair gel and deodorant. A beer can and an empty cigarette packet lay on the floor.

Steven Elsbury was obviously here with his wife. No, his daughter. It was the kind of mess someone young would make.

Descending the curving staircase to the terrace, she headed down to the acre of terracotta tiles that made up the poolside patio, on a great stone ledge built out over the valley. At the bottom of the staircase she stopped and lowered her bucket.

The girl had white plastic buds in her ears and was asleep on a yellow striped sun lounger. She was impossibly slender and completely naked, save for a pair of huge black sunglasses with diamante rims.

5.

When Steve got home from work he shook out his umbrella and went straight to the tiny office he had installed next to their bedroom. Closing the door, he opened his laptop and looked for a property rental company based in Nice.

He had been recommended one called Vacances Paradis, a chi-chi little outfit that had villas in the Alps Maritimes priced at end-of-season rates. He bookmarked a villa with a pool, an open-air kitchen and no close neighbours, and called to enquire about dates.

‘It is available, you have it, it is yours,’ Julia Martinez told him. He heard the click of a cigarette lighter and a relieved exhalation.

‘So, do I give you a deposit now?’ he asked.

‘You can pay up front in full if you like,’ said Julia, pushing her luck.

‘And I can give you a deposit now, over the phone,’ he replied. He read her the number on his Mastercard.

After the charge had been approved she told him, ‘One small point, Monsieur Else-barry, it is a two-week rental.’

‘What do you mean? I only want it for one week.’

‘Trust me, it works out cheaper than taking a small villa for one week. The owner is fussy, only accepts two-week bookings.’

‘But why?’

‘Because that is how it works here. It is a big villa, for families really.’

How very fucking French, he thought. ‘Fine,’ he said aloud, wondering if he should search for another property before deciding no, he liked the look of the place and had made up his mind. Besides, it was a company cost.

As Jennifer served dinner and Jamie sat with his headphones on, waiting to be passed a bowl, Steve worked on his plan.

‘So, what’s happening with Nice?’ Jennifer asked, as if she could read his mind.

‘We sell a lot of Provence rosés,’ Steve said vaguely. ‘It’s really about next year’s prices. It’s going to be a problematic harvest this year, and late because of the changeable weather. Some chateaux lost most of their crops. Bordeaux is likely to be especially bad.’

‘Jamie, headphones off. If it’s climate change they’ll have to get used to the different weather patterns, won’t they?’ She pushed a bowl of potatoes at him.

He tried to stop imagining Summer Farrow lying by the pool, tanned and naked. Jennifer was holding a serving spoon, waiting for his answer. ‘Yes, I suppose they will,’ he said absently.

‘It’s not climate change, it’s the global heating emergency.’ Jamie removed his headphones. ‘People say “change” because it doesn’t sound as bad.’

‘Well some people say “change” because they missed the memo on revised terminology.’ Jennifer caught her husband’s eye, then continued serving.

‘I’ll be gone for a week or so,’ Steve ventured.

‘I haven’t been to Nice in years.’ His wife looked wistful.

‘The world is shit,’ said Jamie.

* * *

The next day, he called Summer Farrow from the Henrietta Street office. Whenever he spoke to her there always seemed to be loud music in the background.

‘I have a surprise for you,’ he said. ‘How would you like a villa in the South of France, all to yourself? I have to go there on business.’

‘What do you mean, all to myself?’

‘I had to book it for a fortnight but I’m not due out until Thursday. You could get yourself a base tan, ready for when I arrive.’

Giles looked up from his screen at the opposite desk, a question on his lips. ‘It’s her, okay?’ Steve whispered. ‘Don’t look so worried all the time.’

Giles had a way of shifting about in his chair that made it seem as if his clothes were too tight. ‘I’m not sure you should bring her out on the Nice trip. There could be complications.’

‘The booking is for two weeks so why waste the first one?’ It’s like talking to a child, Steve thought, turning back to the phone. ‘Summer, stay a few days and I’ll join you toward the end of the week,’ he said.

It was a very simple plan, but then it got a little more complicated.

‘I’m going to invite Jennifer out for the second week,’ Steve announced. ‘Summer and I will be able to spend some time together before my wife arrives.’

‘But that’s –’

‘Crazy, I know.’

‘You’d have to get her out before –’ Giles stalled, suddenly unsure of himself.

‘The young lady will have a return ticket, Giles, a flight back from Nice to Gatwick on Saturday night. What part of that is confusing you?’ He could tell Giles was aching to say, I think it’s wrong, but was too well bred to do so.

* * *

‘A villa in the hills works out cheaper than a hotel,’ Steve told his wife that night. He stood before the garden windows with his hands in his pockets, watching the rain patter into the laurel tree. ‘I thought you might like to come out and join me.’

Jennifer dismissed the idea before thinking it through. ‘I couldn’t do that. I’m going out with the girls on Wednesday. I have all kinds of appointments.’

‘I’m sure there’s nothing that urgent. Move them.’ He made it sound like the easiest thing in the world. Jennifer knew he had already won the argument, but hesitated.

‘God, Jennifer, it’s a free week in a villa in the South of France. You won’t even have me under your feet because I’ll be working most of the time.’

She put down the plate she was holding. ‘What about Jamie? I can’t just leave him here.’

‘Then bring him along. I’ll clear it with his teachers.’

‘They won’t be happy about that. He’s in enough trouble as it is. And he has a hygienist’s appointment. Don’t you have lots of meetings? We wouldn’t see anything of you.’