A Room Swept White (11 page)

‘Laurie Nattrass.’ Proust jabbed the list with his finger. ‘He’s already been interviewed and swabbed. You’re not usually sloppy, Waterhouse. Fixated, deluded, yes, but not sloppy.’

‘I’d like to talk to Nattrass again myself. I’d like to ask him about the sixteen numbers, ask if anyone he’s come into contact with through JIPAC has threatened him or acted out of character, if anything’s made him feel uncomfortable recently.’

‘Like perishing what?’ Proust pushed his chair back from his desk. ‘A lumpy chaise longue? A boil on his backside?’

Simon stood his ground, didn’t even blink at the volume. ‘Those numbers mean something,’ he said. ‘I’m no psychological profiler, but I’m pretty sure one thing they mean is that this killer’s going to kill again.’

‘I warn you, Waterhouse . . .’

‘He’ll leave a similar card next time – either the same numbers or different ones. Either way, it’ll mean something. Helen Yardley and Laurie Nattrass represented a lot of the same things to a lot of people. It’s possible that whoever killed her might target him next. How about I interview Nattrass, Sarah Jaggard and Rachel Hines, and if none of them can move us forward, if they haven’t been harassed recently, if the sixteen numbers mean nothing to any of them, we’ll forget
the rest of the names on the list and go back to the stranger killer theory.’

‘And if Sarah Jaggard was shouted at in the street last week by some alcopop-swilling lowlife, what then?’ Proust bellowed. ‘We start swabbing Justices Geilow and Wilson for gunpowder residue? Where’s the connection? Where’s the logic?’

‘Sir, I’m trying to be reasonable.’

‘Then try, try and try again, Waterhouse!’ The inspector’s hand shot out as if to grab something. He clenched it into a fist and held it still for a moment, staring at it.
It’s gone, knobhead
. Even the Snowman couldn’t smash a mug twice.

‘There’s one person on this list to whom your obsession theory might apply,’ Proust said with exaggerated weariness. ‘Judith Duffy. She’s made it her life’s work to ruin innocent women’s lives. That smacks of a level of obsession and . . . detachment from reality that ought to give us pause for thought, however professionally eminent she is, or has been. We should make it a priority to eliminate her, at least.’ Proust rubbed his forehead. ‘The truth is, I can hardly bear to utter the woman’s name. You think I’m unaffected by all this? I’m not. I’m a person just like you, Waterhouse. You’ve read Helen Yardley’s book. Put yourself in my place, if you can.’

Simon stared at the floor. He wasn’t foolish enough to confuse an accusation of insensitivity with a confidence.

‘There’s a lot the book leaves out,’ Proust went on. ‘I could write a book of my own. I was at the hospital when Helen and Paul gave their consent for Rowan’s life support to be switched off. Didn’t know that, did you? Little Rowan was brain-dead. There was nothing that could be done for him, nothing at all. Do you know what I was doing there?’

I don’t care. Tell someone else, someone who doesn’t hate your guts
.

‘I was sent to collect the Yardleys, bring them in for questioning. Barrow’s orders. A nurse from the baby unit had phoned us within an hour of them bringing Rowan in, accused Helen of attempted murder. Rowan had stopped breathing, not for the first time in his short life. When he was admitted to hospital, he had a Modified Glasgow Coma Score of 5. They put him on a drip and got it up to 14.’ Proust glanced at Simon, as if suddenly remembering he was there. ‘15 is normal. For a while it looked as if he might be all right, but then he deteriorated. Helen and Paul weren’t even in the room when his score started to drop again. Helen was too upset – Paul had to take her out. She wasn’t even in the room,’ he repeated slowly. ‘If that’s not reasonable doubt, I’d like to know what is.’

‘Did the nurse have any proof Helen had tried to kill Rowan?’ Simon asked. The only way he could deal with this was practically, by trying to fill in the gaps in the story, focusing on the Yardleys instead of on the Snowman.
He’s not baring his soul, he’s filling you in on the background. Relax
.

‘Paul and Helen were known at the hospital,’ said Proust. ‘First Morgan and then Rowan had several ALTEs – apparent life-threatening events. Both boys stopped breathing every now and then, for no reason that anyone could identify. Some sort of biological deficiency, I suppose – the most obvious explanation, but it didn’t occur to the troublemaker who called the police. She called twice, the second time several hours after the first. Anonymously – no doubt she was ashamed of her despicable behaviour, and worried we’d taken no notice of her first attempt to spread poison.’

Whenever he heard the phrase ‘no doubt’, Simon doubted. Couldn’t a baby’s health go rapidly downhill as a result of damage previously inflicted by a parent, even if the parent wasn’t present when the deterioration took place? He wanted to ask if there was anything else, apart from Morgan and Rowan Yardley’s ALTEs, that had given the hospital staff cause to suspect their mother. Instead he said, ‘Everyone working this murder ought to know all this.’ A desperate attempt to block intimacy. Simon couldn’t stand Proust telling him anything he wouldn’t as readily have told Sam Kombothekra, or Sellers, or Gibbs. ‘When we’re not on shift, we should all be reading up on the background: Helen Yardley’s trial, the appeal . . .’

‘No.’ Proust stood up. ‘Not when there’s no reason to assume her death is linked to any of it. It could have had as much to do with her physical appearance as with her imprisonment for murder. Judith Duffy, Sarah Jaggard, Rachel Hines, Laurie Nattrass – talk to those four, but no one else on your list, not yet. If we can avoid swabbing Elizabeth Geilow and Dennis Wilson for gunpowder residue, let’s do that. Come to think of it, let’s make it six: interview Grace and Sebastian Brownlee too. I’ve yet to come across a juror murderously obsessed with a case he heard thirteen years ago, but adoptive parents, paranoid their daughter might one day want to have a relationship with her biological mother, when the mother is someone as admirable and inspiring as Helen Yardley?’ Proust nodded, as if making up his mind.

At what stage did he decide she was innocent? Simon wondered. The first time he met her? Before that, even? Was his staunch support of her a kind of contrariness, two fingers in the face of Superintendent Barrow’s assumption
that she was guilty? Could Proust have been in love with Helen Yardley? Simon flinched; the idea of the Snowman as an emotional being was repulsive. Simon preferred to think of him as a problem-making machine, human in appearance but in no other respect.

He held out his hand for his list of names. If he left it in here, it would end up in the bin.

‘First thing I did when I got to the hospital and saw what was happening, I rang Roger Barrow,’ said Proust, settling back in his chair. He hadn’t finished with Simon yet. ‘He wasn’t Superintendent then, and nor should he be now. I rang him, told him I couldn’t bring Helen in for questioning. “She’s just signed a consent form for her boy’s life support to be switched off,” I said. “She and her husband are about to watch their son die. They’re in pieces.” Helen was as innocent of murder as any person I’d ever met, and even if she wasn’t . . .’ The Snowman stopped, pulled in a deep breath. ‘Bringing her in for questioning could wait until Rowan had passed on. Why couldn’t it wait? What difference was an hour or two going to make?’

Simon was aware of his own breathing, the stillness in the room.

‘ “You want her brought in now, get someone else to do it,” I said. “No, no,” said Barrow. “You’re quite right. Go and have something to eat, get yourself a pint, simmer down,” he said. As if I’d lost on the horses or something – something trivial. “You’re right, bringing the mother in can wait till later.” He wanted me out of the way, that was all. When I got back to the hospital, the doctors told me Helen and Paul had been taken in for questioning by two bobbies, minutes after I’d left them – hauled out screaming, like some kind of . . .’ Proust shook his head. ‘And Rowan . . .’

‘He was dead?’ Simon blurted out, his discomfort starting to spin into panic. He needed light and air. He needed not to be hearing this, but couldn’t find the right words to make it stop. It felt like an assault. Had Proust planned it? Had he watched Simon become hardened to his derision over the years, and decided that enforced intimacy was to be his new weapon?

‘Rowan died with neither of his parents there,’ said Proust. ‘Alone. Doesn’t that make you proud to be human, Waterhouse? Assuming you are.’ A dismissive hand gesture indicated that he didn’t expect an answer.

Simon exited as quickly as he could, giving no thought to where he was going.
The khazi
; his feet knew even if his brain didn’t. He went in, headed for a cubicle and just had time to slide the lock across before a wave of nausea bent him double. He spent the next ten minutes spewing up black coffee and bile, thinking,
You make me sick. You make me fucking sick
.

5

Thursday 8 October 2009

I’m in Laurie’s office when I hear someone yelling my name. I think of Rachel Hines and freeze, as if by keeping still I can make myself invisible. Then there’s more shouting and I recognise the voice: Tamsin.

I get to reception in time to catch the end of what looks like a strange dance. If I didn’t know better, I might think Maya and Tamsin choreographed it together: each time Tamsin takes a step forward, Maya blocks her path or puts out an arm to stop her.

‘Fliss, will you tell her I’m supposed to be here? I’m getting the imposter treatment.’

‘Don’t do this, Tam,’ says Maya gravely. ‘You’re embarrassing all of us. We agreed yesterday would be your last day.’

‘I asked her to come in,’ I say. ‘I need someone to get me up to speed on the film, quickly. There was no sign of Laurie when I came in this morning and I can’t get hold of him on any of his phones, and anyway, he’s . . .’ I break off, wondering what I was about to say. He’s leaving? He’s crackers? ‘I needed a reliable expert, so I rang Tamsin.’

‘I’m offering my services for free,’ Tamsin says cheerily. She’s wearing a figure-hugging pink and orange dress that looks new and expensive. I wonder how to check, tactfully,
that she’s not planning to blow all her remaining money on luxury items as a prelude to driving off a cliff. I know Tamsin: she’ll chicken out of the cliff part, but get as far as running up massive debts before latching on to her next faddy idea.

‘Look, I’ve even brought my own refreshments,’ she says. ‘An old mineral water bottle from the days when I could afford it, full of nice cheap tap water. Yum.’ She waves it in front of Maya’s face. ‘See? No concealed weapons.’

‘Thanks
so
much, Fliss, for letting me know.’ Maya twitches her nose like an offended rabbit, taking backward steps in the direction of her office. She’s been arsey with me all morning. I keep giving her my best, most radiant ‘hello’s and getting only grunts in response. Binary Star is a different company today. Everybody’s keeping themselves to themselves, trying not to meet anyone else’s eye. It’s like an office in mourning.

For Laurie
.

I grab Tamsin’s arm and drag her along the corridor to the room I need to start thinking of as my new condensation-free office, muttering, ‘Thanks for your contribution.’ I slam the door, lock it and put the chain across. If Laurie comes back and wants to get in, tough. He told me I could be him from Monday; all I’m doing is moving the new arrangement forward by two working days. Let him come back and catch me.

Let him come back
.

‘You’re welcome.’ Tamsin plonks herself down in Laurie’s chair and puts her feet up on his model globe. Her face clouds over. ‘You’re being sarcastic, aren’t you?’

‘I could have done without the too-poor-for-mineral-water quip. I have to work here, Tam.’

‘I thought you were handing in your notice first thing this morning.’

‘I changed my mind.’

‘How come?’

There’s no reason not to tell her, though I’m not sure it’ll make sense to anyone but me. ‘I rang my mum this morning. I told her I was worried about being paid more than I’m realistically worth, Maya and Raffi resenting me, stuff like that.’

‘She told you not to be an idiot?’ Tamsin guesses.

‘Not quite. She suggested I say to them that I wouldn’t feel comfortable earning so much, and perhaps we could agree a salary that was somewhere between what I’m on now and what Laurie was on, something we could all feel happy with. I listened to her and I swear I could hear myself saying it, sounding ever so reasonable and timid – sounding like
her
, mousey and modest and unassuming and . . .’ I shrug. ‘Laurie was right. No one asks for less money. I don’t care what Maya and Raffi think of me, but . . . I’d lose all respect for myself if I didn’t try to make this work.’ I feel obliged to add, ‘Even though, secretly, I don’t think I’m worth anywhere near a hundred and forty a year.’

‘You’re suffering from Reverse L’Oréal Syndrome,’ says Tamsin. ‘ “Because I’m not worth it”. So, you’re going to make the film?’

‘You don’t think I can do it, do you?’

‘If it can be done, you can do it,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘Why wouldn’t you be able to?’

I consider telling her what makes me different from her or Laurie or anyone else at Binary Star, why I can’t hear the names Yardley, Jaggard and Hines without feeling a cold dragging in the pit of my stomach.

I didn’t tell my mother about Laurie’s film. I mentioned
the promotion and the pay-rise, but not what I’d be working on. Not that she’d have tried to stop me. Mum would be more likely to dance naked in the street than say anything that might lead to an argument.

Tamsin’s the only person at work I’ve ever been tempted to tell. Trouble is, she’s never silent for long enough. This time’s no different. ‘The question is, do you still have a film to make after Ray Hines left you stranded on the pavement? Have you spoken to Paul Yardley? Talked Sarah Jaggard back on board?’

‘I haven’t done anything yet.’

‘Apart from spreading the contents of five box files randomly across the room,’ says Tamsin dubiously, eyeing the papers on the floor and on every available surface.