Sidney Sheldon’s The Silent Widow. Тилли Бэгшоу

stations illuminated by old-fashioned oil lamps that made each shed glow softly in the moonlight. Charlotte watched as her lover got out of his car and moved from shed to shed, overseeing the work. It was all quite fascinating, but Charlotte couldn’t see what the men were actually doing from where she was parked. With a boldness she didn’t know she possessed till that moment, she’d got out of her car and walked over towards the shed where he was. She’d got to within about ten yards of the door when two men armed with machine guns leapt out in front of her.

      Charlotte screamed so loudly they could probably hear it back in the city. ‘Don’t shoot! Please!’

      Her lover turned around, a look of shock and anger on his face. But it quickly softened to a smile, and then a laugh.

      ‘Cara!’ he chuckled indulgently. ‘You followed me?’

      ‘I … I wanted to know,’ stammered Charlotte, her long legs still shaking involuntarily at the sight of the guns. ‘You wouldn’t tell me anything.’

      He gestured for the men to let her pass, opening his arms wide and pulling her into a tight hug. ‘I never would have thought you had it in you,’ he grinned, ruffling Charlotte’s hair as if she were a disobedient but adorable puppy. ‘You’re a brave little thing, aren’t you, hm? I see I underestimated you.’

      Charlotte swelled with pride and relief. He wasn’t angry. He was pleased! She’d been right to take the risk, right to show him she was more than some silly little girl, some au pair he was having a summer fling with.

      ‘Come.’ He took her hand. ‘As you’re here, let me show you around.’

      She’d seen it all then, all the workings of his empire.

       Cocaine.

      Even the word sounded dangerous to Charlotte, like something from an episode of Miami Vice. She’d never been offered coke in her life, never even seen it. And now, here she was, in the eye of the storm, actually watching the stuff being produced. It was fascinating, and he showed her around with pride, as if this were any other factory or business he’d built. It was also extraordinarily complicated.

      In one of the sheds, sheaves of dry coca leaves were being finely ground and dusted with lime before going under a misting machine like a weak garden sprinkler to be moistened with water. From there, the mixture was taken to another shed where it sat in giant vats like cement mixers, into which kerosene was added. The third shed was the ‘extraction plant’, where cocaine was first separated from the leaves, and then subjected to a complicated process of heating, filtering, pressing, siphoning and mixing with sulfuric acid, before being transferred to yet another building where eventually a gummy, yellow solid emerged that he identified as ‘coca paste’. The paste was then carried to a purifying shed, where it was mixed with diluted ammonia and filtered to produce cocaine hydrochloride.

      All the while Charlotte listened, and nodded, holding his hand, acting as if this entire experience were perfectly normal, the sort of thing she did back in San Diego all the time.

      ‘Are you shocked?’ he asked her at the end of the tour. ‘Do you still want me, now you know I’m a criminal?’ He grinned as he said the word, tongue in cheek. But it was true, Charlotte thought. He was a criminal.

      ‘I’ll always want you,’ she told him, gazing up adoringly into his mesmerizing eyes. He took her back to his car then and made love to her, more passionately than ever before. Then he drove slowly back to the city, with Charlotte following.

      Afterwards, she didn’t hear from him for almost a week. She was starting to panic that something had happened, that he’d decided to end things, when she’d finally got his text this morning: I’ve missed you, cara. Meet me here at 7 p.m., he wrote, sending her a link to a map as well as written directions. I have a surprise for you!

      Charlotte’s heart soared. He’d never written anything like this to her before. I’ve missed you. That wasn’t his style at all. Nor were little maps and romantic surprises. Something had shifted between them since she’d learned the truth. He sees me as an equal now. As a partner.

      A feeling of deep happiness surged through her. This, then, was love.

      She was almost at the meeting spot, a place so remote and isolated there couldn’t possibly be anything there. Maybe he’s set up a picnic? Charlotte thought, imagining a soft blanket laid with silver and crystal, and buckets of champagne on ice. It was the sort of thing she could see him doing. Private but luxurious. Different, special, like he was. She felt sure now that her future lay with this man, despite his wife and the age difference and the dangerous things he did for a living. She couldn’t see yet exactly how this future would come to pass. How she would ever reconcile her parents to this new life she’d found. But she trusted, somehow. She was Charlotte Clancy, Charlotte the brave. He’d underestimated her, but only because she’d underestimated herself.

       I can be whatever I want to be.

      Frederique didn’t understand. ‘Don’t go, Charlotte. Or at least don’t go alone,’ her friend had begged her, when Charlotte showed her the ‘secret’ map. Frederique Zidane was an au pair too, and Charlotte’s only close girlfriend in Mexico City. She knew about Charlotte’s older, married boyfriend, but not enough to piece together who he was or what he did. ‘These places aren’t safe in the daytime, never mind at night. Anyone who lives here knows that. He must know it.’

      ‘Stop being such a scaredy-cat,’ Charlotte giggled. ‘I’ll be fine.’

      But Frederique wasn’t laughing. ‘There are bandits out there. I’m serious. People get robbed, kidnapped, murdered. People disappear.’

      ‘Well, I’m not going to disappear,’ Charlotte replied robustly.

      ‘And you know this because …?’

      ‘Because I won’t be alone,’ Charlotte said. ‘He’ll be there, won’t he? He’ll protect me.’

      It was the last conversation Frederique Zidane and Charlotte Clancy ever had.

       CHAPTER THREE

       LISA

      ‘So, Lisa. How has your week been?’

      Dr Nikki Roberts leaned back in her faded black leather armchair and smiled warmly at her patient.

       Lisa Flannagan. Twenty-eight years old. Former model and long-term mistress of Willie Baden, septuagenarian billionaire owner of the LA Rams. Recovering Vicodin addict. Narcissist.

      ‘Pretty good actually,’ Lisa smiled back and, pressing her palms together, leaned forward in a little bow of gratitude. ‘Namaste. I’m really feeling at peace about moving on from Willie. Like, I’m in a place of light, you know?’

      ‘That’s great.’ Nikki nodded encouragingly. Raindrops were tap-tapping against the window. This was her last session of the day, thank God. All she wanted was to get home. Switch off. Let the rain lull her to sleep.

      ‘I know, right?’ Lisa beamed. ‘Your advice in our last session helped me soooooo much.’

      Lisa talked like this a lot: in clichés and exclamation points, like a teenage girl who’d swallowed her first self-help book whole, and now considered herself ‘a spiritual person’. As a psychologist, and a highly successful one at that, Nikki didn’t judge. She merely observed, and offered techniques to help her patient modify harmful behaviors and break destructive cycles.

      As a person, however, it was a different story.

      As a person, she judged plenty.

      Lisa Flannagan was a user. A homewrecker. A baby-killer. A slut.

      Sinking back into Dr Roberts’ soft, over-stuffed