Concealment (31 page)

He reviewed the story as they’d understood it. Ryan’s car had been caught on CCTV several times that fateful evening. He’d first driven over to Chiswick around seven pm and, finding Greg out, he’d enjoyed a few drinks before driving back home at around ten-thirty pm. Within half an hour, Ryan had killed Isabelle, whereupon he’d bundled her body into his car and made his way back to Chiswick. He’d visited Amy, leaving in the dead of night to dispose of Isabelle’s body in the canal.

If someone else had taken Ryan’s car, first they would have had to locate it. They couldn’t have known he would be in Chiswick. That meant following the car or, less likely, putting a tracker on it. Second, they would have to steal his car keys and then replace them after. Frankly this seemed like a ridiculous amount of effort. Why hadn’t they grabbed Isabelle on her walk home? Why frame Ryan? Wouldn’t it have been easier to stage an unplanned attack by a stranger?

Amy had exhibited more paranoia than ever at the hospital—whatever she’d discovered about JJ had only fuelled her fears. But it was even more ludicrous to accuse Greg than Ed Smithies. Why, the guy had bent over backwards to help him understand Amy’s delusions.

Maybe he should let it go. Yet Amy’s parting words rang in his ears.

‘
Why don’t you use your brains instead of acting like PC Plod?’

And in that instant, he saw what he’d been blind to before.

No other visitors came. I’d half expected Greg to show up, full of false solicitude as he evaluated the prospects for another murder attempt. But it seemed that even Greg’s chutzpah had its limits.

I longed for a friend who cared enough to bring me grapes and sympathy, but I only had myself to blame for my isolation. However, according to the senior nurse, my mother was threatening to visit.

‘She sounded ever so guilty about what a struggle it was for her to come over after her broken hip. But if you’re still here on Monday she’ll do her utmost. And she wanted to tell you she forgives you for everything. What a sweet lady she is.’

She forgives me
—outrageous.

The need to avoid seeing my mother would in itself have been sufficient motivation to pass the psychiatric evaluation with flying colours. But other, stronger impulses spurred me on too. It incensed me that Greg had hoodwinked Carmody into accepting his story without question, while everyone always mistrusted me, whatever I said. On Monday afternoon, Greg would sit down at the JJ completion meeting, his squeaky-clean image intact and unsullied.

I had no doubt he would try to kill me again, unless I got in first. Quite simply, it was him or me.

Little Amy popped up at the end of the bed.

‘
You have to lie on the test,’
she said baldly. ‘
Just tell them everything’s OK now. Come on—you can do it!’

I didn’t reply. With an upcoming psychiatric evaluation, I had no wish to be observed speaking to a hallucination.

If only it was possible for Little Amy to take the test for me. She was supremely accomplished in sustaining the illusion of her normal middle-class life in that pebble-dashed Croydon semi. This was the girl who’d gone swimming five times a week to use the shower at the pool, who wore fashionable clothes all immaculately clean and pressed. If no one had intervened to save her, it was due in large part to her consummate ability to pretend she didn’t need saving.

But if Little Amy had been capable of that then logically, passing the evaluation must be within my own grasp. Especially as failure was not an attractive option.

‘
Yeah—you escape and kill the bastard,’
she said.

And on that, we were both in total agreement.

***

It was no different from preparing for any other meeting. Do the research, keep your head straight and act the part.

After googling ‘psychotic episode’, I concurred with the medical student’s provisional diagnosis, although there was a certain irony in the diagnosis being made on the basis of my “delusions” of being persecuted, rather than the hallucinations I’d carefully avoided mentioning.

The psychiatrist was a delicate Indian woman with compassionate eyes who nodded sympathetically at everything I said, but spoke little herself, maybe because I didn’t let her get a word in edgeways. She wore impeccably tailored trousers and a lightweight cashmere sweater, with gold bangles and red patent peep-toe shoes—not a white coat in sight.

I read the jottings on her pad upside down. ‘High-functioning alcoholic’. ‘Psychotic episode?’ At least the high-functioning part seemed encouraging.

‘OK, so why don’t you start off by telling me a bit about yourself, Amy.’

There was a balance to be struck here, between being crazy and in denial. So my strategy was to make such a full disclosure that she would never guess I was holding anything back. We covered the hoarding—my father’s death—the breakdown of my marriage—workaholic tendencies—hostile atmosphere at work—Isabelle—Ryan—my mother’s illness.

I noticed, with mixed emotions, that she’d added ‘Complex PTSD?’ to her list. Ah well, that figured—nothing was ever simple with me.

She listened carefully to my confession, smiling slightly by way of further encouragement. But I needed no prompting—the words flowed freely.

I admitted I’d been drinking too much because of the stress at work. I even suggested that the alcohol and stress might have triggered my delusions of persecution.

‘And how do you feel now?’ she asked.

‘OK, except I’m a bit embarrassed about having made such a fool of myself. I realise now that everything was in my head … but it felt so real, and so scary…’

And especially scary because it
was
real.

‘Do you ever take any recreational drugs?’

‘Never.’

‘Odd because your urine sample tested positive for ketamine.’

I was about to suggest that Greg had used the drug to spike my drink, but checked myself at the last moment. I’d already conceded that the spiked drink was part of my delusions.

‘Look, I know have a few mental health issues which need to be addressed…’

Little Amy sat calmly on the end of my bed, wearing a gold lamé dress (where the heck had that come from?) and smoking a Sobranie cocktail cigarette. She worried me—was anyone who could conjure up that image in any position to judge between real and imaginary?

But obviously I hid her from the shrink, together with my murderous plans to stop Greg in his tracks.

‘That was interesting,’ she said when I’d finished.

‘So what’s your diagnosis?’

‘I think you’ve had an acute psychotic episode—do you understand what that means?’

I denied all knowledge, so as not to alert her to my pre-meeting research. She explained it in terms of being disconnected from reality for a spell. She agreed that it had likely been brought on by a combination of stress and misuse of alcohol, possibly with an element of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, although strictly I didn’t meet the diagnostic criteria for PTSD.

‘Do I need any treatment?’ I asked. ‘I have private medical insurance.’

Surely a willingness to cooperate would improve my chances.

‘Well, you seem to have made a rapid recovery and regained full insight into your mental state. That’s good news, but as a precautionary measure I’m prescribing some antipsychotic medication to reduce the risk of recurrence. I’d also strongly advise you to avoid alcohol for the time being, if you can manage that.’

‘Of course,’ I said indignantly. ‘I know I’ve been drinking too much but I’m not an alcoholic.’

‘OK, I hear you,’ she replied. ‘And no drugs either.’

‘What about work?’

‘Ah yes, as work stress has been a major trigger, I’d suggest you take a couple of weeks off at least. We’ll review you in the clinic in a fortnight and reassess the position then.’

A fortnight—I couldn’t think so far ahead. All my energy was focussed on the JJ completion meeting that afternoon.

‘So am I free to leave the hospital?’

‘Why yes,’ she replied. ‘Why ever wouldn’t you be? After all, it’s not as though you’re a danger to others.’

Little did she know.

The sudden flash of insight had shifted Carmody’s perception. Now he saw there was a far stronger case against Greg Kelly than anyone else.

Greg claimed to have arrived home at nine-fifteen pm—a time consistent with the CCTV images of him at Turnham Green Tube Station ten minutes earlier. Isabelle had called Greg at around nine pm, he claimed, and left a message asking where Ryan was. Nothing wrong with any of that.

But Ryan had parked his car on the route from the Tube station to Greg’s house—they hadn’t picked up on that before. Suppose Greg spots it. He’s already listened to Ryan’s message—he knows Ryan’s drinking in some local bar passing the time until he arrives home. So Ryan can wait a bit longer, while Greg takes care of the troublesome business with Isabelle.

But no—Greg doesn’t have Ryan’s car keys. OK—he doesn’t need to—he has his own car. The Ferrari’s as distinctive as the Triumph—they can check CCTV. Or ask Isabelle’s neighbours.

Greg kills Isabelle, sometime around ten pm—comfortably within the pathologist’s window. Either he planned it, or they argue and it gets out of hand. But either way, he strangled her, and quickly figures how he can set up Ryan to take the fall.

So he takes the spare car keys from the hall table and drives back to Chiswick, then swaps over his car with Ryan’s. He returns to Isabelle’s flat, loads up the body and comes back, switching the cars around each time, so no one else pinches Ryan’s parking space. Then—at the dead of night—he dumps her in the canal at Southall. And on Monday, he even puts the car keys into Ryan’s desk drawer at the office, so we all assume Ryan had forgotten where he left the second set.

It was a theory, at least. Now he should check the CCTV.

Although no bones were broken, I found movement far more painful than I’d expected—but just about possible. The mirror confirmed my worst fears—raccoon eyes, bird’s nest hair and a swollen lip worthy of a professional boxer.

The clothes did not inspire confidence either—trousers soaked in more or less dried blood, and a bra and top shredded by the paramedics. I’d have to button my jacket and wear nothing underneath it. I checked my watch—two hours till the meeting—time to go home and change first.

The driver of the taxi I’d called eyed me dubiously, but flashing my wads of cash had a calming effect. Less than half an hour later, I was back in my house, having instructed him to wait outside and keep the meter running.

Although I’d been away for a mere three days, spots of mould had appeared on my coffee cup from Thursday night. I rinsed it out carefully, and emptied the espresso machine, aware that I could be away some time.

‘
Yuk.’
Little Amy wrinkled her nose. ‘
Like at home.
’

I had no time to argue with her, and extracted a large carving knife from the big wooden block on the counter.

‘
Straight through the heart. Why ever did you marry the creep? He deserves to die.’

My phone rang—Carmody.

He couldn’t conceivably have any idea what I planned to do, but even so I jumped back guiltily as I recognised his number on the caller display.

‘Hi,’ I said casually.

‘I heard you left the hospital.’

‘Yes—amazingly enough they pronounced me sane.’

‘Great news,’ he replied, without any enthusiasm. ‘And where are you now?’

It seemed like a strange question to ask—unless they planned another attempt to arrest me.

‘Why, at home.’

Although I’d be gone by the time they arrived.

‘Good. And you’re not planning on doing anything rash?’

‘Dave, I’m black and blue from head to toe and utterly worn out. A cup of tea and daytime television is as rash as it gets.’

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘And when you’re better, we’ll get you down the station and see if we can’t sort out all the confusion.’

His lies were as blatant as mine. He had no intention of sorting out the confusion, only adding to it—especially if he was protecting his chum Darren from a money laundering charge.

‘Great,’ I said, before hanging up.

I put the knife in the zip compartment of my handbag. It would be straightforward taking it into the meeting. A bunch of accountants is not exactly a strategic target for terrorists or crazed assassins, so security was lax in the Pearson Malone building. In future that might change, I guessed.

‘
Kill the bastard.’
An evil grin spread across Little Amy’s face.

I managed, with difficulty, to put on a teal jersey dress from Jaeger and scrape my hair back into a tight bun. With some judiciously applied concealer and slap of lipstick, I almost passed as normal, even though passing as normal was a joke now. Ironically, an incredible sense of liberation surged through me. As an officially crazy woman, I had carte blanche to do absolutely anything.

The meter showed nearly a hundred pounds by the time the cab rolled up outside the main Pearson Malone Office. No matter. I gave the guy a fifty pound tip.

I blipped my security pass against the reader. Nothing happened.

Hell—they’d put a stop on it.

‘Having problems?’ asked the commissionaire. ‘These new readers are so temperamental.’

Without further investigation, he pressed a button to release the gate.

Nobody paid me any attention as I hobbled purposefully across the atrium. I hoped to God I wouldn’t see anyone I knew, even though I had every right to be there. But if they played the crazy card against me, this time I would trump it.

Buoying myself up with that thought, I pushed open the door to Room 38.

All the suits were there, and Lisa with her busted nose all taped up. I wondered what yarn she’d spun to explain it away.

The room fell silent when I entered.

‘Amy,’ said Greg, with authority. ‘We were given to understand you were unwell. Lisa is taking your place at the meeting.’