A Room Swept White (41 page)

‘The choice of victims for the violent behaviour also makes sense: Helen Yardley and Sarah Jaggard were picked for a reason, though not the most obvious one. The Brain wanted to show us that we’d underestimated him. That’s why Judith Duffy was the next victim, not Ray Hines.’ Simon was sure he was right about this. ‘We forced his hand. On Saturday, Sam here was quoted in every national newspaper as saying that our working assumption was that the killer was a self- appointed punisher, attacking guilty women he thinks have got away with their crimes. But that’s
not
his motivation, and later that same day he proved it to us by killing Judith Duffy – I’m using “he” as shorthand for “he or she”, remember.’

‘Sexist,’ a female voice mumbled.

‘He may have had no reason to kill Duffy whatsoever,
other than to demonstrate to us that we were wrong about his motivation,’ said Simon. ‘Just as he’s meticulous – writing his number fours and number sevens the same every time – he’s also objective, or so he thinks: fair and clear-thinking. He wants us to notice that about him. He’s probably someone who associates vigilantism with extreme stupidity – unwashed, tabloid-reading hang-em-and-flog-em proles. He wouldn’t like the symbolism of that, because he’s clever, and if I had to guess, I’d say he’s middle-class. He wants us to realise that any justice doled out by him, or by Baldy on his orders, is exactly that: noble justice, not grubby revenge. By murdering the leaders of the two warring armies – Helen Yardley and Judith Duffy – he’s showing us he’s fair and impartial.’

Everyone stared. No one wanted to be the first to react. Proust stood with his arms folded, staring up at the ceiling, his neck almost at a ninety-degree angle. Was he meditating?

‘Well, if no one else wants to jump in, I will,’ said Tina Ramsden, after nearly ten seconds of silence. She held up her notes so that everyone could see them, and tore them in half, then in half again. ‘You have no idea how annoying it is to have to do this, after I sat up most of last night cobbling all this together, but I’m no use to you if I’m not honest,’ she said. ‘I defer to DC Waterhouse’s superior analysis.’

‘His what?’ Proust turned on her.

Ramsden looked at Simon. ‘I prefer your profile to mine,’ she said.

‘So you think his plan was to sweep you up in his arms and give you a good rogering?’ said Olivia Zailer enthusiastically. She’d dropped everything and come to Spilling to take care of her sister after her ordeal, having first checked Charlie had no
injuries that would necessitate any heavy lifting or staunching of bodily fluids.

‘No idea,’ said Charlie. ‘All I know is, he sent me a love letter – well, a love scrap of paper – and told me to get back as early as I could on Saturday.’

‘But then, when he next saw you, he didn’t make a move.’ Olivia wrinkled her nose in disappointment.

‘The next time he saw me was just after I’d had a gun held to my head by Judith Duffy’s killer. I was too shaken up even to remember that sex might have been on the cards, and Simon was more interested in interrogating me about the man they’re calling Baldy.’

Liv snorted. ‘His work-life balance is like a seesaw with a concrete rhinoceros strapped to one end. Still, at least he sent you a sweet letter – that’s a big step forward, isn’t it?’

Charlie nodded. She and Olivia were sitting at her kitchen table, drinking tea, though Liv had brought a bottle of pink champagne. ‘To celebrate you not getting shot,’ she’d explained.

The sun was shining as if it couldn’t tell the difference between summer and winter; Charlie had had to lower her kitchen blind. Since Simon had sent her those eleven words, the sun had shone almost constantly, even though whenever she caught the local news there were big grey clouds covering the Culver Valley. Charlie trusted her own senses; the TV people had got it wrong.

‘I nearly didn’t tell you about the love letter,’ she said.

‘
What
?’ Nothing horrified Olivia Zailer more than the thought of not being told something.

‘I thought you’d think it was pathetic – not even a proper sheet of paper, the word “love” missing . . .’

‘Please! How hard-hearted do you think I am?’

‘We’re having a bit of a feud over the honeymoon,’ Charlie told her. Was she so used to scrapping with Olivia that she had to find something for her sister to attack, so that she could assume her customary defensive position? ‘Simon’s parents are scared of flying, so he started off saying we had to go somewhere in the UK.’

‘Please tell me Simon’s parents aren’t going with you on your honeymoon.’

‘Joking, aren’t you? They get palpitations if they go as far as the bottom of the garden. No, they’re scared of
Simon
flying. His mum told him she wouldn’t sleep or eat for a fortnight if she knew he was going to be “going on those aeroplanes”, as she calls it.’

‘Stupid mad bint,’ said Olivia crossly.

‘Trouble is, she means it. Simon knows she
wouldn’t
eat or sleep until he was safely back, and knowing he’d return to find a withered death’s head where his mother used to be would spoil his fun. Though the difference, it has to be said, would be marginal.’ Charlie stopped to check her guilt level: zero. ‘I didn’t want to spend my honeymoon in the Rawndesley Premier Inn, which is a suggestion my future father-in-law made in all seriousness . . .’

‘Unbelievable!’

‘. . . so we compromised. Simon agreed to go anywhere that’s less than three hours’ flight time, and I agreed to lie to his parents and pretend we’re going to Torquay – close enough to sound safe, but far enough away that Simon can legitimately tell his mum he can’t pop back for Sunday lunch.’

‘I assume Kathleen and Michael know cars sometimes crash,’ said Liv.

‘Ah, but we’re going to Torquay by train.’ Charlie couldn’t help laughing. ‘Because people die on motorways. It’s so ridiculous – Simon’s in his car every day, but because this time he’d be venturing out of his mum’s comfort zone . . .’

‘People die in train crashes,’ Olivia pointed out.

‘Please don’t tell Kathleen that, or we’ll be forced to spend our honeymoon fortnight in her front room.’

‘So where are you going?’

‘Marbella – flight time just under three hours. Two hours and fifty-five minutes.’

‘But . . .’ Olivia’s eyes narrowed. ‘If you’re lying to Kathleen and Michael, you could go anywhere: Mauritius, St Lucia . . .’

‘I said all that to Simon, and do you know what he said? Go on, have a guess.’

Liv closed her eyes and bunched her hands into fists, muttering, ‘Hang on, don’t tell me, don’t tell me . . .’ She looked about six years old. Charlie envied her sister’s uncomplicated enjoyment of all life had to offer. ‘He’d be too far away if his mum got ill and he suddenly had to fly back? I wouldn’t put that sort of ruse past her, you know.’

‘Good guess, but the truth is even madder: the less time Simon spends in the air, the less chance there is of him dying in a plane crash and being caught out in a lie by his parents.’

‘Which would obviously be the worst thing about dying in a plane crash.’ Liv giggled.

‘Obviously. Without having referred to any statistics, and completely ignoring the fact that most plane crashes happen on take-off or landing, Simon’s decided short-haul flights are less lethal than long-haul.’

‘Can’t you try to persuade him? I mean,
Marbella
?‘

‘I’ve found this amazing villa on the internet. It’s—’

‘But you’ll have to fly to Malaga. The plane’ll be full of people with “love” and “hate” tattooed on their knuckles, singing “Oggie, oggie, oggie”.’ Liv shuddered. ‘If it has to be less than three hours, what about the Italian lakes? You’d fly to Milan . . .’

‘Is that better?’

‘God, yes,’ said Liv. ‘No tattoos, lots of linen.’

Charlie had forgotten to factor in her sister’s colossal snobbishness. ‘I thought you’d disapprove of the lying, not the destination,’ she said. ‘Part of me’s tempted to sack it and make the lie true. I do love Torquay, and I don’t want there to be anything negative or complicated connected with our honeymoon. In an ideal world, I’d like to be able to tell the truth about it.’

‘You can, to everyone but Kathleen and Michael. It’s not as if they ever meet or speak to anyone.’ Olivia unzipped her bag and pulled out four books with creased spines. ‘I brought you these. I hope you’re grateful, because they’ve bent my new Orla Kiely handbag out of shape.’ She poked the bag’s side with her index finger. ‘I wasn’t sure how long you’d be off work, but I brought enough . . .’

‘I’m going back tomorrow.’ Seeing her sister’s crestfallen expression, Charlie said quickly, ‘I’ll have them anyway, though. Thanks. I’ll read them in Marbella.’

Olivia adopted her strict schoolmistress expression. ‘You’re not planning to read a novel until next July?’

‘Are they good? Are they ones you’ve reviewed?’ Charlie asked. She picked one up. The cover picture was of a frightened- looking woman running away from a dark unidentifiable blur behind her. Liv tended to bring her novels about women who ended up leaving the useless and frequently psychotic
men they’d been wasting their lives on, and going off into the sunset with better men.

‘I’ve got a book I want you to read,’ said Charlie. She nodded at the copy of
Nothing But Love
on the table.

‘A misery memoir?’ Olivia slid it towards her, then made a show of wiping her fingers on her trousers. ‘Did you buy it shortly after booking your flight to Malaga?’

‘You can’t say no,’ Charlie told her. ‘I’ve just been nearly killed – you have to be nice to me. I’d be interested to know how you think Helen Yardley comes across – as a genuine miscarriage-of-justice victim or as someone playing a part.’

‘Why, do you think she might have killed her kids after all? I thought it turned out that she hadn’t.’

Turned out
. Liv had trouble distinguishing between real life and fiction. She opened the book at a random point in the middle and held it up close to her face. The optical effect was surreal, as if she was wearing the back cover of
Nothing But Love
as a mask.
Hello, my name’s Olivia, and I’ve come to this party dressed as a misery memoir
.

‘There are exclamation marks in it – not inside quotation marks, in the narrative,’ she said, horrified. She turned another page. ‘Do I really have to—’

Charlie grabbed the book. Her hands trembled, then the shakes spread to the rest of her body. ‘Oh, my God. I don’t believe this.’ She flicked through the pages as quickly as she could. ‘Come on, come on,’ she muttered under her breath.

‘I was reading that,’ Liv protested.

The adrenaline pumping through Charlie’s body made her fingers too stiff and too wobbly at the same time. She couldn’t get them to work properly, and ended up turning too many
pages. She flicked back and finally found the page she was looking for. This was it. It had to be.

She stood up, knocking her chair over. Yelling, ‘Sorry,’ over her shoulder, she grabbed her car keys and ran out of the house. As she slammed the door behind her, it occurred to her that she must look like the frightened running woman on the cover of the novel Liv had brought her, the one whose title she had already forgotten. Her brain only had room for one book’s name at the moment.

Nothing But Love. Nothing But Love. Nothing But Love
.

17

Monday 12 October 2009

An hour and a half after leaving Marchington House, I’m standing outside the Planetarium, as instructed. I’m not sure if Laurie’s late or if he’s thought better of meeting me and not bothered to inform me of his change of mind; all I know is he isn’t here. After twenty minutes, I start to wonder if he might have intended for us to meet inside. I check the text he sent me, which is full of his usual warmth and intimacy: ‘Planetarium 2 p.m. LN.’

I’m about to go and look for him inside when I spot him walking towards me, head down, hands in his pockets. He doesn’t look up until he has to. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbles.

‘For being late, or for ignoring my calls?’

‘Both.’

He’s wearing a pink shirt that looks new. As far as I know, Laurie has never worn pink before. I want to bury my face in his neck and smell his skin, but that’s not what I’m here for. ‘Where have you been?’ I ask him.

‘Around and about. Let’s walk.’ He nods at the road ahead, then sets off.

I follow him. ‘Around and about isn’t an answer.’ I harden my heart, and my voice. ‘I rang the JIPAC office this morning – no one there’s heard from you for days. I’ve been to your house more than five times – you’re never there. Where are you staying?’

‘Where are
you
staying?’ he fires back. ‘Not at home.’

‘You’ve been to my flat?’
Don’t dare to cave in, Felicity. This has to be done
. ‘I’m staying with Ray Hines in Twickenham, at her parents’ place.’

Laurie snorts dismissively. ‘Is that what she told you? Ray’s parents live in Winchester.’

I think back over our conversations. I assumed Marchington House belonged to her parents because of the photo in the kitchen, of her two brothers punting down a river. Maybe the house belongs to one of the brothers.

‘I’m camped out at Maya’s place,’ says Laurie.

‘Maya?’ I’m not the only one lying to the police, then. She neglected to mention that Laurie had moved in with her, when they asked her if she knew where he was.

Maya’s keen on pink.

‘Is something going on between you?’ I ask before I can stop myself.

‘Is this what was so urgent that you had to talk to me immediately?’ Laurie stops walking and turns on me. ‘Look, I don’t owe you anything, Fliss. I gave you an opportunity at work because I thought you deserved it. End of story. We had a fuck the other day, but do we have to make a meal of it?’

‘Of the sex? No, we don’t. There are a couple of things we do have to make a meal of, though. Three things, to be precise – three meals. Think of them as breakfast, lunch and dinner.’

‘What things?’

‘Let’s walk,’ I say, setting off in the direction of Regent’s Park. I know what this means: I’ll never be able to go there again after today. ‘Have you been reading the papers?’ I ask Laurie. ‘Turns out that card someone sent me – remember the one I showed you, with the numbers on it? Whoever killed
Helen Yardley and Judith Duffy put cards exactly like it on their bodies. I’ve spoken to Tamsin. I know you got one of those cards too. She saw it on your desk long before Helen Yardley was killed.’