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       CHAPTER ELEVEN

      Earlier that morning, Nikki Roberts sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath. Her sweat-drenched T-shirt clung to her body and she was shaking, shivering, as if she’d just been pulled out of icy water. Her bedside clock said 4.52 a.m. Wearily she sank back against the pillows.

      It was the same dream she’d been having for months, or a variant of it anyway: Doug was in danger, about to die, and was screaming out to Nikki, begging her for help. But she didn’t help him, and he died, and it was all her fault. Sometimes he was drowning and she stood and watched from the beach, letting it happen. Sometimes he was in a car, careening out of control, and Nikki held some sort of remote control that could activate the brakes, but she refused to use it. In tonight’s version, they’d been walking along the clifftop path at Big Sur and Doug had somehow lost his footing and slipped off the edge. He was reaching out to Nikki, pleading for her hand to pull him back to safety. But this time, instead of simply refusing or ignoring him, she’d actively peeled off his clinging fingers one by one and pushed him to his death, watching as he was dashed to pieces on the rocks below. She’d murdered him. And the worst part was, in the dream, the act had left her with a sense of elation, a tremendous feeling of power.

      A few hours later, an emotional Nikki met her friend Gretchen Adler for brunch on Melrose.

      ‘I had the dream again,’ she said as the two women sat down at Glorious Greens café.

      ‘The Doug dream?’ said Gretchen.

      Nikki nodded. ‘Only this time it was worse.’

      Nikki filled Gretchen in on her latest nightmare while a handsome waiter hovered over them. Nikki ordered her usual poached eggs, toast and triple-shot latte, while Gretchen went for a vile-looking kale-and-beetroot smoothie and a bowl of something involving sprouted grains. Gretchen was Nikki’s oldest friend – they’d known each other since high school – and a sweetheart of the first order, but for most of her adult life she’d been fighting an on-off battle with her weight. As far as Nikki could tell, she rarely got any thinner, but was always raving about some new diet or other. At the moment it was raw-vegan.

      ‘You look exhausted,’ Gretchen told Nikki. ‘You know, if you’re having sleep problems you should really think about going vegan, or at least only eating raw last thing at night. What did you have for dinner last night?’

      ‘A burger,’ said Nikki.

      ‘There you go.’ Gretchen sat back, satisfied she’d proved her point. ‘Red meat. That’s the worst thing for nightmares.’

      ‘Is it?’

      ‘Yup. Apart from cheese. Oh my God, it wasn’t a cheeseburger, was it?’ Gretchen gasped melodramatically.

      Nikki laughed and confessed that, unfortunately, it was, but that she really didn’t feel her diet was to blame for her night terrors.

      ‘Well, what do you think it is then?’ Gretchen asked.

      ‘I don’t know,’ said Nikki. ‘Guilt, maybe?’

      Gretchen didn’t buy it. ‘That’s baloney. What have you got to be guilty about? Doug’s death was an accident.’

      ‘I know.’

      ‘You were an amazing wife to him, Nikki.’

      ‘An amazing, infertile wife,’ Nikki added wistfully.

      Gretchen frowned. ‘Come on. You were the one who cared about that, far more than Doug ever did.’

      Was that true? Nikki couldn’t remember any more.

      ‘Maybe it’s anger, then,’ she said. ‘Maybe I’m still so damn angry at him, my subconscious is trying to ease the pressure by having me sadistically murder my already dead husband in fantasy?’

      ‘You know what I think?’ Gretchen said. ‘I think all you psychologists are full of shit. It’s a dream. It doesn’t mean anything. I mean, Christ, Nik, you’ve been under a hell of a lot of stress. No wonder your subconscious is going a bit haywire. What you need is a distraction.’

      ‘Such as?’ Nikki asked wearily.

      ‘Well,’ Gretchen leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I assume you’ve been following all the stuff about your poor murdered patient and Willie Baden?’

      Reaching down beneath the table for her pocketbook, Gretchen pulled out the latest copy of US Weekly. Paparazzi pictures of the Rams’ owner, looking paunchy and dreadfully old on the beach in Mexico, had been placed alongside glamour shots of Lisa Flannagan from her modeling days. Between these, and three pages of lurid prose about Willie and Lisa’s affair, under the headline ‘Baden’s Betrayal’, were a few pictures of Valentina Baden, Willie’s wife.

      Nikki studied them closely. Mrs Baden was an attractive woman for her age, which she guessed was probably early sixties. Slim and elegant with a neatly trimmed bob of gray-blond hair. But at the same time she looked haggard and hounded in all of the paparazzi photographs, using her sarong as a shield and cowering behind oversized sunglasses.

      Leafing through the feature, Nikki shook her head angrily. ‘Poor woman. Why don’t they leave her alone?’

      Gretchen shrugged. ‘They never leave anyone alone. You know that. And whatever else Valentina Baden may be, she’s not poor.’

      ‘You know what I mean,’ said Nikki.

      ‘I do, but I suspect you’re wrong about that too,’ said Gretchen. ‘My guess is she’s completely used to his affairs by now. I mean, it’s not as if this murdered girl was his first.’

      ‘Bastard,’ Nikki muttered under her breath.

      ‘Maybe they have an “arrangement”?’ said Gretchen jokingly. ‘Valentina might be a cougar with a string of young lovers for all we know.’

      ‘Don’t be facile,’ Nikki snapped. ‘This is what men do. This is his shit, not hers.’

      Gretchen recoiled at Nikki’s anger, white-hot suddenly. Neither of them knew the Badens personally, after all. This was just gossip, something the old Nikki would have enjoyed. Before Doug’s death knocked all the joy out of her.

      ‘I don’t understand you sometimes,’ she observed quietly.

      ‘What do you mean?’ said Nikki.

      ‘I thought you’d be outraged that the media are focusing on Willie Baden and the affair, rather than the actual murder. I mean, this poor patient of yours is dead. Shouldn’t that be the story? But instead you seem more worried about Baden’s wife, who isn’t dead, and who knew what she was signing up for!’

      ‘No one signs up for betrayal,’ Nikki said bluntly. ‘And besides, Lisa Flannagan is dead. She can’t be hurt any more. Unlike Valentina Baden.’ She jabbed a finger furiously СКАЧАТЬ