A Greater Evil (23 page)

‘That’ll only make it worse. I’ll be fine so long as I keep looking at the flames.’

‘Is it the thought of what Sam—’

‘No.’ Gina pinched the top of her nose, which made her look more like Cecilia than usual.

‘I find biting the tip of my tongue often works,’ Trish said, moving so that she could shield the other woman from the few people who were beginning to look curiously in their direction.

‘Thanks,’ Gina said a moment later. ‘I hadn’t tried that before. It does help. No, it’s not Sam that keeps making me do this. It’s knowing that Cecilia and Andrew knew all about each other for years, and I wasted … wasted the chance to …’ She gave up the attempt to say what she meant.

‘You’ve lost me,’ Trish said gently. One of the logs crackled, throwing sparks right out of the grate. ‘Look, I think we ought to move back if we’re not to burn holes in our clothes.’

‘What?’ Gina sounded dazed. Trish pulled at her arm and pointed to the embers glowing bright orange on the grey marble of the hearthstone. ‘Of course. Sorry. You’re not hurt, are you?’

‘No. Only puzzled.’

‘I assumed you’d know. I can’t think why. Sorry. I really am losing my mind in all this. I don’t know how I’ll concentrate when I have to start sitting again.’

‘Who is Andrew?’ Trish said.

‘Cecilia’s father. He lives in America. I never told him about my pregnancy. And I never talked to Cecilia about him. I thought the only bearable way of managing it all was to keep silent. But we spent Christmas together at his sister’s house in Dorset and although we didn’t talk much then we made contact of a kind. Which must be why he phoned the other day and came clean.’

Trish opened her mouth to ask a question, then shut it again when she saw Gina had no need of any prompt.

‘So now I know he wrote to Cecilia decades ago to introduce himself,’ she went on, almost tripping over the words in her haste to get them out. ‘Apparently he’d always known about her but thought I didn’t want to have anything to do with him.’ The tears welled again. ‘What a mess! She could have had a father; I could have … Instead, she’s dead and he and I have nothing. Except regret.’

‘I’m sorry.’ There was nothing else to say.

‘He was with her on the morning it happened. They met at Somerset House. Somehow that makes it worse. I don’t know why.’

‘Somerset House?’

‘Yes.’ Gina sounded impatient. ‘You know, the ice rink, where you and I had our hot chocolate that day.’

‘I know that. I did … I just don’t get the significance.’

Gina twitched as the firelight leaped, throwing shadows over her face, which made it look collapsed and crumpled, like a very old monkey’s. ‘It’s all so vivid in my head I assume you can see it too. Every winter since they first brought skaters into the courtyard, Cecilia and I have used the place to meet for coffee or a quick bite at lunchtime. We both loved it. I thought no one else knew we went there. Now I find it’s where she met Andrew too.’

Trish was still not quite sure what the significance of this was. Surely Gina didn’t suspect the man of killing their daughter.

‘Why did she lie, Trish?’ The tears were back. Trish found her own tongue clamped between her teeth in sympathy. ‘What else did she keep from me? I thought I knew her. Everything about her. But if she kept this secret, how much else? Like this man Chief Inspector Lyalt thinks harassed her. Why didn’t she tell me about him?’

Trish thought about her own relations with her mother, easy and communicative as they had always been. ‘There are always some things one doesn’t want to tell: sometimes out of protectiveness; sometimes just because there are times when one needs privacy.’

‘You’re right, of course. Trish, I’m sorry. What’s happened is making me question everything.’ Gina too looked around the room at the groups of impervious confident people. ‘I feel as though I don’t know anyone any more. As though they’re all strangers. I can’t reach anyone.’

‘You were doing pretty well with Benjamin Malton,’ Trish said, smiling.

‘It was a performance.’ Gina staggered slightly and covered her mouth with her hand. Above it, Trish could see yet more tears welling in her eyes. This time they overflowed. ‘I can’t do this any more. I need to go home.’

‘Have you got a car, or shall I come out with you and find a taxi?’

‘Would you?’

‘Of course.’

While Gina retreated to Liz’s bedroom to blot her tears and find her coat, Trish went in search of Antony to explain.

‘Good idea, Trish,’ he said, ‘but you must come back – and hang on until the midnight disposal of the decorations. You’ve never stayed that long before, but it’s worth it. Fun.’

Out on the street, it took ages for a free taxi to appear. Trish stayed with Gina until they saw one and waved him down, shivering as the icy wind blew through her thin clothes. The handle felt freezing as Trish opened the door.

With one foot on the step, Gina looked back to say: ‘You make it very easy to confide, Trish. It’s a dangerous skill. If Sam did kill Cecilia, he’ll tell you sooner or later. If he does, will you …?’

Trish held her breath, hoping Gina wouldn’t put the question into words.

‘Perhaps that’s not fair. But if he does, will you at least try to make him go to the police? I … I need to know who killed her.’

‘I know you do,’ Trish said, aching with sympathy as much as cold. She was still holding the door and longed for Gina to get in and go before she tried to extract any promises.

‘It’s not only for my satisfaction.’ Gina’s face quivered again and she visibly bit her tongue. ‘I need to know whether it’s safe to leave the baby with him.’

Nothing could have made Trish more uncomfortable. Her natural sympathies were torn three ways. Holding on to her belief in Sam was getting more difficult. If he ever did confess he’d killed Cecilia, she would have to make him tell Caro. Until then, she’d go on fighting for him as though she were sure he was innocent. There was no one else to do it.

Gina pulled herself into the taxi with an ungainly movement that made her seem much older. She didn’t look at Trish again, merely gave the cabbie her address and sat back in the seat, looking out of the far window. Trish was left on the pavement. The cold pressing against her skin had reached every bit of her body, and her blood moved as sluggishly as her mind.

‘What on earth are you doing out here?’ George’s voice pulled her out of her miserable dream.

She watched him pay off his own taxi and let him hug her.

‘You’re freezing. How long have you been out here? Was someone horrible to you?’

‘Quite the reverse. Everyone’s been incredibly kind, particularly Gina Mayford. I was out here to keep her company while she waited for a taxi. If I’d known how long it would be, I’d have got my coat. Come on in. I’m under strict instructions to stay until the pulling down of the decorations at midnight.’

Antony was right. The best bit of the party definitely came with the chimes of midnight signalling the end of the traditional twelfth day of Christmas. While Liz produced stout boxes for the crystal drops and golden balls, Antony noisily shook out extra-strong black bags for the ribbons and bigger swags of greenery, but he instructed Trish to lay the first three branches of fir across the logs in the fire. The smell of boiling, then burning resin burst out among the guests. Antony turned off the lights and they watched the flames surge up the chimney, casting flickering yellow light all over the room. Only when the last flames died down did he turn the lights on again.

With fourteen people at work, the decorations were quickly stowed. Four of the men wrestled the bursting black bags into shape, twisting their tops ready for wire ties. The bags, with prickly branches already bursting through the plastic, were slung down beside the bins outside the basement door. Dusting their hands the men came back. Liz produced a tray full of delicate china cups of old-fashioned beef tea, hot and savoury.

‘May this year be better for us all than last,’ Antony said.

‘And may we all be back here in twelve months’ time,’ Liz answered in what sounded like a familiar exchange.

Nearly everyone downed their beef tea, although Trish noticed Benjie Malton quietly putting his cup down on the mantelpiece, and they began to murmur about finding their coats. Malton stopped on his way to the door to tell her how glad he was he’d met her and how interested he would be in the outcome of the Arrow case.

‘It’s such an extraordinarily beautiful building it ought to be allowed to survive,’ he added.

She was so grateful she nearly kissed him and saw from the glint in his eyes that he could tell.

‘Fulham or Southwark?’ George said as they descended the steps.

‘Up to you. I’m happy.’

‘I can tell,’ he said, putting his arm around her shoulders. ‘Let’s go to Southwark. We don’t often have it to ourselves. Taxi!’

There was a message from David when they got back to the flat. To Trish’s relief he sounded happy, full of news of what he’d seen and what the cousins had said and how he’d been explaining some of the highlights of English history to them. Trish smiled, knowing how much he enjoyed telling other people things they didn’t know, and replayed the message twice to make sure there were no hidden undertones in any of it.

‘He’s fine,’ George said, lifting the red woollen scarf from around her neck and kissing the soft skin of her neck. He unbuttoned her heavy black overcoat and flung it on the nearest sofa with his own. ‘It’s a long time since we’ve had a shower together, Trish …’

‘Sex maniac!’ she said, pulling down the knot in his tie so that she could lift the whole thing over his head. She felt his thumbs stroking her nipples through the soft material of her camisole and the flimsy bra beneath.

‘That makes two of us,’ he said, gasping as she moved against him. ‘D’you think we’ll make it upstairs?’

She laughed and, hooking her fingers into his belt, towed him towards the spiral staircase.

Later, lying with his head between her slight breasts, idly stroking his hair, she tried to keep her mind quiet, but the questions Gina Mayford had planted in it wouldn’t stay down. And with them sprouted a whole lot more about the true reasons for Malcolm Jensen’s campaign against George.

Chapter Fourteen

Caro found a note from the chief superintendent on her desk on Monday morning.

This has to be wound up, fast. If there’s no progress by the end of the week, I’ll have to give in to pressure and bring in the Murder Review Group to oversee your work.

‘Shit!’ Caro said in an unaccustomed burst of rage. Her landline phone rang and she grabbed it, shouting, ‘Yes?’

‘Hey, Caro. What’s up? This is Trish.’

‘I can still recognize your voice, you know. What do you want?’

‘This is obviously a bad moment. I was phoning to offer you a pair of alternative suspects. May I come and explain? Or would you rather come here? It would be easier face to face.’

‘Is this a joke?’

‘Don’t be silly, Caro. Both are still only hypotheses because I don’t have the facilities to gather evidence. You do. So I want to offer you what I’ve got.’

‘Give it to me now.’

‘Too complicated. We need to be face to face and I need to be able to show you something.’

‘The evidence Sam Foundling was trying to hide in the studio?’

‘This has nothing to do with Sam,’ Trish said through her teeth. Forcing herself to relax, she added more calmly: ‘I told you, they’re
alternative
hypotheses.’

‘All right. But I’ll come to you. I’ve got a meeting in five minutes. It shouldn’t take much more than an hour. I’ll be with you after that.’ Caro was determined to keep Trish well away from the incident room and any secrets she might pick up from it.

Putting down the phone, she nodded to her sergeant, Glen Makins, who was beckoning from the other side of the glass partition, and moved through her industrious team, all heads down and working as hard as anyone could, on to the interview room. There one of the force’s approved psychologists had been watching the CCTV films taken outside Sam Foundling’s studio, and the video tapes of Caro’s interviews with him.

‘Hi,’ she said, closing the door behind her. The shrink, an intense-looking woman in her early thirties, glanced away from the screen for a moment to smile. ‘What have you got for me?’

‘There’s nothing definitive,’ the other woman said in the west country accent that seemed out of kilter with her thin face and sleek dark hair and made her sound as warm as a batch of farmhouse baking. ‘But the artificiality of the body language outside the studio is interesting. Look at this section.’ She pushed the remote control towards the television and wound the film back. ‘Here.’

Caro watched the unmistakable figure of Sam Foundling emerge from the studio’s double front door, look up towards the camera, as though making sure it was recording his features, then down at his watch.

‘Now.’

Sam looked up again and slapped the flat of his right hand against his forehead, before turning back the way he’d come.

‘I haven’t seen anyone acting out that kind of “how silly of me” moment since I watched the film of
The Day of the Jackal
,’ said the psychologist. ‘Have you?’

‘I don’t know. But you’re right: it does look theatrical. What else?’

‘Moving on to the video of your interviews with him, there are several moments when he displays marked aggression and hostility. Both would be characteristic of your killer.’

She switched the tapes and showed Caro what she meant over and over again, until Caro’s restiveness got the better of her discretion.

‘As you say, none of this is definitive.’

‘I was invited to express my opinion about your suspect,’ the psychologist said with an unexpectedly patient smile, which ratcheted up Caro’s own impatience by several notches. ‘My opinion is that you have a man here whose violent impulses are not well controlled, who is probably frightened by his own anger and what he knows it might make – or may already have made – him do. You also have him giving an exaggerated show of his departure from the building and re-entry, which goes to support your idea that he could have been setting up confusion in order to distract you from the imprecision of his alibi. That’s all I’ve got. If you haven’t anything else for me, Chief Inspector, I ought to go. I’m on a tight schedule today.’