Lorraine Page.

Cold Heart.

Lynda La Plante.

Lynda La Plante was born in Liverpool. She trained for the stage at RADA and worked with the National Theatre and RSC before becoming a television actress. She then turned to writing and made her breakthrough with the phenomenally successful TV series Widows.

Her fourteen novels have all been international bestsellers. Her original script for the much-acclaimed Prime Suspect won awards from BAFTA, British Broadcasting and the Royal Television Society as well as the 1993 Edgar Allen Poe Writer's Award.

Above Suspicion and The Red Dahlia have been ratings winners for ITV in 2009 and 2010.

Lynda La Plante has been made an honorary fellow of the British Film Institute and she was awarded a CBE in the Queen's Birthday Honours list in 2008.

Visit Lynda at her website: www.LaPlantebooks.co.uk.

For my beloved father.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS.

I sincerely thank Suzanne Baboneau, Arabella Stein and Philippa McEwan at Macmillan, and the real Lorraine Page whose name I borrowed. Thanks to Gill Coleridge, Esther Newberg, Peter Benedek, and especially to Hazel Orme. I'd also like to thank my team at La Plante Productions: Liz Thorburn, Vaughan Kinghan, script and book editor, Alice Asquith, researcher, Nikki Smith, Christine Harmar-Brown, and Ciara McIlvenny.

With thanks for their contribution to:.

Geoffrey Smith.

East Hampton Police Department.

Sergeant Gilmore and Lieutenant Salcido of the Beverly Hills Police Department Dr Ian Hill, Department of Forensic Medicine, Guy's Hospital George W. Clarke, San Diego District Attorney's Office.

Tom Rowland of Thomas Rowland Associates Kathy Byrne of the Chicago Film Office J. B. Smith of the New Mexico Film Commission.

Kerstin Chmielewski from the Berlin Tourist Office Sotheby's Press Office, New York.

But above all my thanks go to a very admirable lady who brought me the story of her life.

THE BULLET blew off virtually his entire face. He was naked, but he appeared to be wearing swimming trunks because of the band of untanned skin which they usually covered. His arms and legs were spread open and his body floated face down. She watched with sick fascination as the blood continued to spread like the petals of a poppy, wider and wider; he was brain dead, but his heart still pumped, and continued for longer than she had calculated. Suddenly his outstretched arms jerked, his fingers clenched and unclenched, and he gave a strange guttural snorting sound, as if his throat were clogged with blood. A few seconds more, and she knew he was dead. Only then did she move away from the edge of the pool.

The bentwood sun chairs were replaced neatly, his towel folded. His sunglasses she put back in their case, and his half-smoked cigarette she left in the ashtray to smoulder and die slowly, as he had. She wrapped her hand carefully in the edge of her floating silk chiffon wrap to remove the glass she had used, slipped it into the deep pocket of her jacket, then walked soundlessly across the velvety lawn, past the sheets of lead and lumps of rock that Harry Nathan had considered to be sculpture, to enter the house through the garden doors. She took the glass from her pocket, rinsed it and replaced it in the kitchen cabinet. She was fast, meticulous, knowing every inch of the kitchen, even wiping the taps in case she had touched them inadvertently. She surveyed the immaculate kitchen, making sure nothing was left out of place, and then, still barefoot, she returned to the garden the way she had come. By now, Nathan's cigarette had burned itself out, the ash extending for a curved inch and a half in front of the butt. She made her way round the edge of the pool, not even looking at the body, which still floated face down but was now drifting almost in the centre of the deep end. She looked round furtively before picking up the weapon, a heavy Desert Eagle, still wrapped in a silk headscarf. Then she hurried towards a small shrubbery, full of topiary trees clipped into strange geometric shapes that were clearly meant to echo the sculpture. She was careful not to step on the soil but to remain on the grass verge. She fired the gun into the shrubs then quickly tossed it free of the scarf, to land just in front of the first row of plants.

A bird screeched as the sound echoed of the weapon firing, and she thought she heard someone scream in the house, but she didn't go to investigate, didn't even glance back, intent on getting out of Nathan's estate and knowing it would take her at least five minutes to reach her car, parked further down the avenue. She did not put on her shoes until she was standing beside the Mitsubishi jeep. She bleeped it open with the alarm key and gave only a brief, guarded look around to make sure she had not been seen by anyone before she got inside and inserted the key, her hands rock steady as she turned it. The engine sparked into life and she drove off. Harry Nathan was dead and she was now a wealthy woman, about to regain everything he had taken from her and more. She would savour for ever the look in his eyes when he had seen her take out the heavy gun, seen him step back, half lifting his hands in submission, and then, as she pulled the trigger, there had been a second when she saw fear. She would relish the fear, because she believed that, without doubt, she had just committed the perfect murder.

CHAPTER 1.

12 August 1997.

LORRAINE PAGE of Page Investigations had not, as yet, moved into a new office, though she had already used part of her cut of the million-dollar bonus from her last case to move from the tiny apartment in Los Angeles she had shared with her former partner Rosie, who had now married Bill Rooney, the ex-police captain who also worked with them. The couple had recently departed for an extended honeymoon in Europe.

The lost feeling hadn't happened for a few days. She had been so caught up in making plans for the wedding, choosing what they would both wear, and the laughter when they forced Rooney to splash out on an expensive suit that had made the rotund man look quite handsome. Everything had been 'fun', particularly now that they had money to spend.

It was not until Rosie and Rooney had departed for their honeymoon that it really hit home: Lorraine missed them. Waving goodbye at the airport had almost brought the tears that didn't come until a few days later. She had been sitting in Rosie's old apartment, now hers, looking at the wedding photographs, and she had no one to share them with, no one to laugh and point out how funny it had been when Rooney spilt champagne on his precious new suit. There was no one who would understand the three of them standing with solemn faces and their glasses raised. Rosie's and Lorraine's had, of course, contained non-alcoholic champagne, but they had raised their glasses for a private toast to their absent friend, Nick Bartello, who had died on their last case.

The photographs, like the small apartment, held such memories, some sweet, some so very sad, but they had made Lorraine decide to buy another place. It had not been an easy decision but she couldn't stand the ghosts it made the loneliness even worse.

Lorraine's new apartment was on the upper floor of a two-storey condominium built on an old beach-house lot right on the ocean front in Venice Beach, one of four or five blocks where the little houses were so closely packed together that there was no room for front or back yards. Walking round the kooky old bohemian neighbourhood, she found she had already fallen for its lively energy and charm, and she loved the close proximity of the beach. Lorraine didn't think of herself as 'kooky' or 'bohemian'; in fact, in her neat suit and blouse she looked slightly out of place, but the neighbourhood reminded her of when she had been married. It had been tough, trying to juggle her job as a rookie cop and bring up two young kids while her husband studied at home and worked nights in the local liquor store. Money had always been tight, but friends had not, and there had been so much love. Lorraine had money now and she wanted, needed, more friends like Rosie and Rooney. Deep down she ached for all the love she had lost.

While viewing the new apartment, she had caught a glimpse of herself in a full-length mirror. Staring at her image, from the well-cut blonde hair down to her slim ankles in low Cuban heels, the ache had suddenly surfaced, making her gasp. It didn't matter how long ago she and Mike had been divorced, how long it had been since she had seen her daughters, the pain was still raw. In the past she had obliterated it by getting drunk but she was stronger now. She could still feel the dreaded dryness in her mouth and feel herself shaking, but she forced herself to follow the real-estate agent round the rest of the apartment.

'I'll take it,' she announced. 'Just one thing, though. Do the other residents allow dogs?' She lit a cigarette. Tiger, the wolfhound/malamute crossbred canine who had belonged to poor dead Nick Bartello, was now Lorraine's responsibility, and she needed to be near an open space where she could exercise him clearly, the beach would be perfect.

'I don't think that would be a problem. I presume-'

'Tiger,' Lorraine interjected, using her right hand to indicate with a patting motion that Tiger was about the size of a toy poodle.

'I presume he's house-trained. The landlords of the head lease do have a proviso with regard to animals.'

'Oh, yes, he's the perfect gentleman indoors, professionally trained, exceptionally obedient.' Crossing her fingers behind her back, she hoped that this would soon be true. She didn't want to risk losing the apartment: it felt right, it felt safe.

'I think I could be happy here,' she said softly, and flushed with embarrassment: it sounded stupid. But the agent smiled warmly, eager to do the deal but rather surprised that this elegant, if rather nervous, woman hadn't even asked to see the kitchen. Lorraine insisted they drive to the real-estate office to finalize the sale. She required no mortgage, and arranged a banker's draft for the full amount.

'I'd like measurements of all the rooms so I can order furniture, curtains . . .' She wafted her hand and, as she did, the agent noticed there was no wedding ring in fact, she wore no jewellery at all. As Lorraine stood up and bent forward to pick up her purse, her silky blonde hair slid forward, revealing a jagged scar that ran from the corner of her eye, a scar that make-up couldn't hide.

Driving back to Rosie's, she recalled her assurances about Tiger. It had proved impossible, to date, to house-train or instil any kind of normal dog behaviour into him. Rooney and Rosie had both tried, but he had become a liability during the pre-wedding arrangements. He would either attack anyone who came into the house, or disappear for days on end, and no matter how long they all cajoled him and fed him biscuits, he point-blank refused to wear a collar. Eventually, Lorraine had booked him into a kennel for extensive schooling with a former police-dog handler. If this failed it was unanimously decided that he would be joining his old master Nick Bartello nobody had been able to train that son-of-a-bitch either.

When she got back to the apartment, Lorraine contacted the kennels. Tiger was progressing but they suggested an extra two weeks' training. They did not elaborate and Lorraine was quite pleased she needed time to furnish the new apartment. She decided not to take anything from Rosie's place but to start from scratch and buy everything new. At the same time she had resolved to do something about her scar, the scar that reminded her of who she had been, of what she had been. She no longer needed to force herself to look at the ugliness it represented. She wanted to put her past behind her, once and for all.

Lorraine felt as if she was high she could hardly sleep. The shopping trips to the Beverly Center to buy furnishings and fittings were like stepping back in time. She selected everything she thought she would need, from a bed, dining table and large white sofa to wineglasses, lamps, dishes and silverware, and arranged for it all to be delivered to the apartment. She wanted everything to be ready for her release from the clinic and she didn't want to lift anything, carrying anything or move so much as a book.

The surgery was extensive. She had decided to have a full face-lift, which was done at the same time as the operations on her scar, which was deep and required skin grafts. She decided to remain at the clinic, pampering herself with beauty treatments, until the wounds had healed. She was still paying for Tiger's 'rehabilitation' and the kennels were beginning to worry that he would become a permanent fixture, but Lorraine assured them that she fully intended to take him back.

When the surgeon, who had not allowed her to look at herself, finally held up a mirror to her face, she wanted to celebrate, to kiss and hug everyone close by.

'You're a very beautiful lady, Lorraine,' the surgeon said softly, as she cocked her head from side to side, drinking in her smooth, scarless cheek, her perfect eyes, the taut skin beneath her chin. He leaned in close. 'Mind you, I can't take all the credit. You have a wonderful bone structure. I just did a little suction beneath your cheekbones, ironed out the laugh lines,' he continued, pointing out what his magic knife had done, taking pride in his work. He asked the nurses their opinion, but Lorraine didn't hear: she felt as if she was looking into her soul and it made her gasp.

'Happy?' the surgeon asked, lifting his funny bushy eyebrows.

'I used to look like this,' she whispered, wishing Rosie could be there to see the new Lorraine.

While in the clinic, Lorraine had worked out and eaten well and, on her release, she felt fitter than ever before. She gave her entire wardrobe to charity and hit the designer shops with a vengeance. She had never spent so much, so fast. She had always had good taste but now she went for quality, and for the first time in her life she never looked at the price tag. Next she bought a brandnew Cherokee truck and a second-hand Mercedes, the car she had always dreamed of owning. It was in perfect condition, with only twenty thousand on the clock, immaculate leather upholstery, CD player and telephone. As she flicked open the make-up mirror it lit up and she sat smiling at herself, her new beautiful self, as the salesman hovered.

'Yep, this'll do nicely.'

By mid-September, she had found a comfortable office in a small three-storey complex on West Pico Boulevard. Los Angeles had its rapidly changing fashions in office buildings, as it had in pizza toppings and nail extensions, and although the building had only been erected five years ago, the gleaming mirrored exterior was already considered behind the times. But as far as Lorraine was concerned this was an advantage, as it brought the rental more within the range she felt justified in paying. There was a smart lobby and a pleasant Filipino doorman, good security and the biggest advantage right across the street was Rancho Park with acres of grass for Tiger to run in. She thought about him, but kept putting off calling the kennels to say she would collect him.

The air-conditioned office, tastefully decorated and filled with plain ash furniture, also boasted an en suite bathroom and kitchen, plus a reception area furnished with sofas and coffee table. 'Page Investigations' was printed in letters of gold leaf on the main entrance door by the electronic, security-coded entryphone. The letter-headed paper, cards and office equipment were chosen with meticulous care. Only the old computer hardware from her last office was retained.

Ready to begin work, Lorraine deliberated over the wording for newspaper and magazine advertisements before committing to six-month runs. She then contacted three secretarial agencies, and asked that applicants should send their CVs before she interviewed them.

By October, appointments had been scheduled with the three applicants she felt were most suited to the job. Still running high on her own adrenalin, she didn't see them all: midway through the first interview she decided to offer the job to Rob Decker, even though she had really wanted a woman.

Decker was about twenty-eight, tanned, blond and good-looking, had worked mostly for television executives, had even tried acting himself, and his account of his unsuccessful thespian attempts made her laugh. He had a top shorthand speed, understood computers, and had a deep, laid-back voice that harked back to his theatrical endeavours. He was fit, with a tight, muscular body, and was wearing an expensive fawn linen suit, pale blue shirt and suede shoes with no socks. He had a Cartier wristwatch but, thankfully, no other jewellery. He carried his CV and other details of his varied career knowledge of weapons and shooting skills in a soft leather briefcase, with his karate certificates and gun licence. With her history, Lorraine would have found it difficult to acquire a licence, but it wasn't the fact that she would have a gun-toting secretary that impressed her she just liked him.

Decker was relaxed but not too relaxed, respectful but not obsequious, and when she asked why he had applied for the job he shrugged, admitting without any embarrassment that it sounded better than working tables at a bar and that money was short. His last employer had refused to give him references which had made it difficult to get a decent job since. Lorraine was confused: she had references from his last employer in front of her on her pristine desk. Rob nodded towards the paper, and said he had typed it himself. When she asked why he had no references from his last employer, he told her that he had refused to go down on him and, equally candidly, that he was homosexual. Then he had laughed and added that she probably knew that already, and probably he had not got this job either.

'Yes, you have.' Lorraine surprised even herself. She hadn't given it as much thought as she should have.

Decker's handshake was strong and he assured her that he would not let her down.

'I hope not, Rob. This is very important to me I want the agency to succeed more than you will ever know. Maybe when you get to know me better you'll find out why, but in the meantime, when can you start?'

'Why not right now? We need some plants in here, and I have a contact in a nursery I get the best, half-price.'

Lorraine arranged salary and office keys, discussed hours, and then, almost as an afterthought, asked if he liked dogs. He told her another anecdote, about when he had worked in a poodle parlour, and she said that Tiger was not exactly a poodle and needed firm handling. Just before Decker left he seemed suddenly vulnerable, and Lorraine liked him for that too. She knew Rob Decker would become a good friend.

The following morning, Lorraine looked over her office. As promised, Decker had bought two ficus trees in copper buckets, a mass of pink and white impatiens in a glazed terracotta planter, and a deep square plain glass vase, which he had filled with Casablanca lilies and placed on the little table in Reception. The whole place seemed to have come alive. He had left on her desk a note of the cost of each plant and a receipt, plus watering instructions. He had also bought coffee, tea, cookies and skimmed milk, and a new percolator, which he insisted was his own, so that not only was there a sweet fragrance from the blooms but a wonderful smell of fresh coffee.

There were no calls and no work on offer, so at lunchtime Decker and Lorraine went off to buy some exhibition posters and prints from the Metropolitan Museum of Art shop, as the office walls were bare. He also talked Lorraine into stopping off to pick up an elegant up lighter to put in Reception, a swing-arm graphite lamp, a violet glass ashtray for her desk, and having divined her sweet tooth as though by magic a jar of jelly beans. By three o'clock their new purchases were on display. The advertising had, as yet, failed to generate any work, but she was not disheartened, she knew things would take time, and during the afternoon they had been able to get to know each other better.

Lorraine never divulged everything about her background, but Decker knew she had been a cop, and knew she had had a drink problem. In fact, he was such a good listener she felt that she had told him more than she really should have, but he was equally forthcoming about his life and his partner, with whom he had lived for eight years Adam Elliot, late forties, a writer for films, TV or washing-powder commercials, still hoping to crack the big time before he turned fifty.

They left the office at six. Not one phone call had come in: it was Thursday, 26 October. Decker had asked Lorraine if she would like to have dinner over the weekend at his place, but despite the offer of masala chicken and chocolate pie, she had declined. She felt that perhaps she should keep a little distance between them.

Friday was just as silent, telephone-wise and job-wise, and they had talked even more, had lunch together again and discussed how they should rethink the adverts. Decker suggested they use Adam to reword them in a way that might grab a potential client. Again Lorraine refused his offer of lunch or dinner over the weekend. The initial buzz of her getting her new life together began to dry up. She didn't feel so confident any more and even her new face began to annoy her: she was so used to flicking her hair forward over her scar, but there was nothing to hide any more. She began to wonder if it had all been make-believe and that the old Lorraine still lurked ready to pull the new one down.

She wished she had accepted Decker's invitation, as she was alone the entire weekend, going over her accounts, totting up her bank balance. She was still in good shape financially as well as physically, but she had spent a lot of money on pampering herself and seeing it in black and white made her a little scared at her foolishness. Maybe she should have taken her time, but it was too late now the money was gone. She had just over two hundred thousand dollars in her account, a lot, but at the same time she knew that, realistically, she could not keep the office and Decker running without some finances coming in: the outgoings would drain her savings. Still, any new venture needed time. But despite her forced optimism, something was eating away at her. She awoke one night with a faint voice in her head, telling her over and over she didn't deserve this new life. As if on cue, the phone rang. It was three o'clock in the morning.

'Hello,' Lorraine said suspiciously.

'Hi, blossom, how's things?'

'Rosie?'

'Yeah, guess where we are? No, I'll tell you, Vienna! My God, Lorraine, it's unbelievable!'

Lorraine lay back on the pillow as Rosie listed, at full volume, the restaurants and sightseeing tours. It was so nice to hear her voice, even if it was ear-splitting. She sounded so close, as if she was in the next room. 'Eh! How's life? You found a guy?'

'Nope, not yet, but I'm looking.'

'Well, you make sure you don't get one that snores!'

Lorraine smiled as Rosie continued to fill her in on the trials of sleeping with Rooney, never once pausing for breath. 'Hey, you there? Or I did I just bore you off the phone?'

'No, Rosie, I'm still here, making notes in case I meet my Mr Right.' She could feel Rosie's smile. She gave her the new address and phone numbers, and she could hear Rosie repeat them to big, bulbous-nosed Bill Rooney. Then she put Rooney on the phone and he complained about the cost of the call and then said, so softly, in a voice she would never have expected from the old, hardened cop, 'You know, Lorraine, I've got a lot to thank you for. Not just for making us a load of money, but if it wasn't for you, I'd never have met the woman who's made me happier than I ever thought possible.'

There was a long pause and Lorraine could hear his heavy breathing at the other end of the line.

'I love her so much,' he mumbled, and then repeated it, sounding almost in tears.

Rosie grabbed the phone, laughing. 'He's drunk but he tells me that every day. Nice, huh? Hey, I better go. We'll send you postcards, bring you presents and . . . Oh, yeah, can't wait to see your new place.'

Lorraine said goodbye. It didn't matter that Rosie had shown little or no interest in what was happening in her life because right now it didn't feel too wonderful and she couldn't see anyone in her future saying they loved her. Lorraine was lonely deeply lonely.

The following morning she went to her local AA meeting, the only social life she had. She still couldn't rid herself of the feeling of isolation: it didn't make her want to drink, but it made her think, and face the fact that she had no friends. She started thinking about her ex-husband and his family. She had not seen her two daughters for a long, long time, and though they knew where she was, they had made no contact. She often thought about going to see them, but always talked herself out of it. She didn't want to disrupt their lives any more than she knew she had already.

She was glad when Tiger's trainer, Alan Pereira, called to say that the dog training was now complete, he would bring Tiger home. Lorraine perked up, even put on some make-up, then laughed at herself. Some weekend date, the return of Tiger.

Tiger was returned, subdued, wearing a collar in rainbow colours, his coat freshly washed, and his teeth cleaned. She had not realized how big he was, or how thick and beautiful his coat. She'd also forgotten his piercing large blue eyes.

'You got one stubborn son-of-a-bitch here,' Alan said, and Tiger's blue eyes were doleful as he first sat, then went through sit, stand, stay and heel. Lorraine was even more impressed when, on the command 'Bed,' Tiger slunk to a flower-printed foam basket and lay down.

He remained quiet, head on paws, as she cooked her supper, came like a lamb and sat when she slipped on his lead to take him for his evening walk. He performed his necessary functions, returned, ate his meal and even returned to his bed. It was about twelve o'clock when Lorraine was woken up by something tugging at her sheets. She sat bolt upright to be met with Tiger's face, and to see his two massive front paws on her bed. 'Bed. Go to bed now.' He slunk to the door, tail between his legs, nosed it wider open and disappeared.

In the morning she woke to find the dog's prone body stretched out beside her, with just six inches between them, comatose and snoring gently. Lorraine nudged him and, still with eyes firmly shut, he gave a low growl, his jaw opening a fraction to reveal his cleaned white fangs. She thought of Rooney snoring, and smiled, but then said with great authority, 'Bed, go to your bed. Now.' The tail thumped, just a fraction. 'I mean it, you're pushing your luck. Step out of line, pal, and it's the big kennel in the sky, you understand me? You're only on remand, Tiger.'

He was motionless, eyes closed, just a flicker of his tail. 'Okay, you can stay . . . just for a few minutes, you hear me?' She lay there, feeling the huge weight of him beside her, then squinted at the bedside clock. It was six o'clock. 'You know what time it is?' she said, turning on her side. She went back to sleep and at some point between the hours of six and seven thirty, that six inches closed. When she next opened her eyes, he was sleeping nose to nose with her, one paw gently resting across her chest.

'I don't believe this . . .' But she couldn't resist rubbing his ears. Cleverly, he never opened his eyes, just gave a long, satisfied sigh.

Before they went out for a morning jog, Lorraine discovered that Tiger had chewed two of her new shot-silk cushions and destroyed his floral bed. On returning, he was not interested in dog food, but devoured her cereal, nuts and fruit with natural yogurt. He followed her into the bedroom, nosed open the shower door, and padded after her while she dressed. He remained at her heels throughout the day, sat close to her on the sofa watching TV, and no amount of loud yells made him return to the living room when she got into bed. He wasn't a fool, and instead of climbing onto the other side of the king-size bed, he lay down beside it. But he was right next to her in the morning, his breath hot on her neck.

'Hey, this has got to stop, pal,' she said, but then blew it by hugging him close, and he knew he had got her. She just could not resist his love, because that was what she felt from the giant animal love, pure, unadulterated love and by Monday morning they had, although she hated to admit it, already got into a routine. All his training, with the exception of allowing her to slip on his collar, had gone out of the window. Tiger had moved in on Lorraine as no man would have dared to, and he loved her with a passion. He sat in the passenger seat of the Cherokee, his nose out of the window and his ears blown back by the wind.

Decker was overwhelmed by Tiger, who growled at him, teeth bared, until Lorraine shouted at him, 'Shut up! This is friend, this is Decker.'

'Jesus Christ, Mrs Page! He's enormous. What on earth kind of breed is he?'

'Mixed, wolfhound and-'

'Donkey?'

Tiger was not too sure about Decker or the office. He made a slow tour of each room and cocked his leg on one of the ficus trees.

'You sure as hell aren't a poodle,' Decker said warily, but when the telephone rang his attention was distracted. He snatched it up this was the first call that had come in.

'Page Investigations,' he said coolly, as a pair of ice blue eyes stared him out across the desk top. 'May I have your name? Mrs Page is on the other line right now.' Decker jotted down 'Cindy Nathan', glaring back at Tiger.