Resurgence (6 page)
“You can leave off with the euphemisms. The blow’s been felt and absorbed and I’m not gonna go into hibernation again if someone says in so many words that Rayce is dead.”
“I’m sorry. Perhaps I’ve been a little too—”
“Solicitous and hovering. Yeh, you have. Everyone has. Been giving me the rubber glove treatment, the lot of you.”
“Rubber glove? I don’t understand.”
“David once suggested I was receiving rubber glove treatment instead of kid glove treatment. This was when I first started raising hell about the way I was being handled. I forget the exact context, but he meant I was being treated more like a lab specimen than a spoilt rock star, and the term stayed with me.”
“I see.”
“Be damn certain you do because I don’t fancy kid glove treatment either.”
“Timely advice. Starting now, the gloves are off.”
“Put that way it sounds like we’re getting ready to fight with no holds barred.”
“Don’t worry, we’re not, but I do think I’ll leave you to debrief David on your own and I can’t promise I’ll still be awake when you come to bed.”
“Wait a minute. You said we
both
needed a face to face with—”
“That was before I was shown the error of my ways.”
“You pissed?”
“Heavens no. I’m relieved. And I think you’ll be relieved to have an unbuffered session with David knowing that you won’t be pampered.”
The barking of the outdoor dogs announces David’s imminent arrival and hurries Laurel from the room before he can challenge her reasoning.
“Laurel won’t be joining us?” David says when he’s shown in by Sam Earle, then answers his own question by remarking that Laurel has to be overwhelmed by all that’s befallen her in the past seventy-two hours and undoubtedly in need of time for reflection. “Tomorrow’s soon enough to let her know that by insisting I brief you in person, she wasn’t posing an inconvenience.”
“She knows that, she figured you could use a break from the madding crowd.” Colin ignores the other tripwires in David’s minefield of comments and points him to the chair Laurel just vacated. “Drink? Have you had dinner?”
“I could use a drink—whatever you’re having.” David’s only other deviation from his starched norm is to loosen his tie and open his collar. “By madding crowd you can only mean Rayce’s immediate family. Laurel said you were on the receiving end of some unpleasantness from Nicola and now it seems she’s inflamed the others. Ex-wives and old girlfriends are coming out of the woodwork, competing to assign blame, and brawling among themselves over the funeral plans. I’m well out of that, I can tell you.”
David accepts a large whiskey without ice and drinks off a third of it at one go, “Am I to understand you’re at odds with some of the initial findings?”
“That’s put mildly.”
“Do you want to specify?”
“No. Start at the beginning. Start with when you first heard and I’ll jump in when I have a question or can’t agree.”
“So . . . from the beginning.” David crosses and uncrosses his legs, “I was called around seven-fifteen this morning by Rayce’s personal assistant. He was alerted by the housekeeper who found it odd that Rayce’s bedroom door was open and his bed not slept in when she initiated her early morning rounds. She might simply have decided he bunked in another bedroom for variety’s sake if she hadn’t noticed a light on in the bathroom of the master suite. To spare potential embarrassment, she announced herself, but there was no acknowledgement. She then knocked on the partially open door, called out again, and again received no answer. This caused her to enter the bathroom and discover him sprawled on the floor in front of the toilet.”
“Bleedin Jesus, tell me he wasn’t found like—”
“He wasn’t. He hadn’t been sitting on the toilet when it happened. The scene indicated that he’d just finished urinating and flushing when he was struck down, because the toilet seat was up, the water in the toilet bowl was clean, his fly was open, and his penis was exposed. To reinforce that supposition, there was no urine on the floor to suggest loss of bladder control at the time he went down.”
“You saw him like that yourself?” Colin says.
“No. I’m quoting from the police report. When I got there the body had been repositioned by the paramedics in order to assess his condition.”
“But you saw the body.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know then that it was a dead body with no chance for resuscitation?”
“Yes. Everyone knew. The housekeeper knew when she found him—he was cold to her touch—the medics had to know without turning him over, but certain basic procedures were nevertheless employed.”
“Did you see the drugs they’re saying were found at the scene?” Colin asks.
“No drugs per se were found at the scene. Nor any paraphernalia. Not even any baggies or wrappers. However, a drinking glass containing drug residue was found in his study and from that residue the initial determination was made.”
“What’s meant by drug residue?”
“In this instance, a mixture of water and cocaine hydrochloride—coke in soluble form—and enough was left to provide a reasonably accurate field analysis.”
“What did that show?”
“That the solution was remarkably potent. Alarmingly potent, I should say. It contained a very high ratio of coke to water, raising doubt that the mix was purely accidental. And the abnormality of ingestion rather than insufflation also lends credence to the suicide theory.”
“Only in the minds of those who didn’t know him. Anyone acquainted with Rayce for more than fifteen minutes would never stand still for this bloody suicide rubbish.”
“That describes what Laurel said when I called earlier with these latest findings, and I’m sorry to have to say the same thing I said to her.” David downs the rest of his whiskey in one draught. “That the evidence pointing to this conclusion is difficult to ignore.”
“Not whilst I’ve got breath left in me, it isn’t. I don’t care if you tell me evidence was found suggesting he ate the shit with a soupspoon. Rayce was not one to kill himself deliberately and he knew way too bleedin’ much about coke to bring it about accidentally. There has to be another explanation.”
“Colin, believe me, I wish there were. But for now, it’s all we’ve got.”
“Give me a reason, then. Tell me why a bloke coming off one of the best gigs of his entire career, headed for a sell-out tour of Europe, and all but guaranteed multi-platinum sales of a new album, would want to check out just now? And I’m only talking about his professional life. I’m not taking into account the accomplishments of his personal life that saw him clean and sober of his own free will, finally at peace with himself and those around him, and with
every
fucking thing to live for.”
“You’re not postulating anything I haven’t been asking myself all day. There are no clear-cut answers. There may never be. Even the media is sidestepping motive, which isn’t keeping them from supporting the suicide theory.”
“Do you support it?”
David joins him at the game table and pours himself a generous refill. “My long and informed relationship with the deceased says I should not, but—”
“The fuckwit medical examiner says you should.”
“Something along that line.”
They drink and debate for another hour, then call it a night by agreeing to disagree. After escorting David to one of the guest suites, Colin looks in on the lads. While realigning Simon to sleep lengthwise on his cot and retrieving Anthony’s bedcovers from the floor, he begins to recognize the benefit of purging misgivings and strengthening opinions in an open exchange, and he can only thank Laurel for providing the opportunity. Now he can’t get to her quick enough.
A light’s been left on in the far corner of the bedroom. She’s asleep, as forecast, and doesn’t stir when he strips down and climbs in beside her. She could be an illusion, something so wished-for it only seems real; she could be transient, prey to the same unknowable, unpredictable forces that claimed Rayce. And there might also be monsters under the bed, ghosts in the cupboard, and a flock of pterodactyls on the roof. He holds her as close as he can without awakening her.
Laurel awakes in the anemic light of the lamp left on when she went to bed. Colin isn’t so much wrapped around her as applied to her, and must have been that way for quite a while because she’s much too warm, her upper body is cramped into an uncomfortable position, and one leg is numb. Extricating herself without waking him will take some doing, but he only grunts once or twice as she works loose and eases from the bed.
She’s drawn to the oriel window. Through heavy overcast, natural light seeps from the horizon onto the terrace below. How many times has she resorted to window-gazing when answers couldn’t be found elsewhere? How long has she been doing this? Did the practice begin with Colin, when Colin Elliot was synonymous with conflict, or did it predate his acquaintance? Did she ever really expect to find solutions on the other side of a pane of glass—in thin air, as it were—or was the exercise simply a delaying action? As it is now.
Aware only that it’s Tuesday of Holy Week, she’s impervious to the hour, as she has been since yesterday when the sky fell in and time stood still. Time that should have been moving ahead in joy and amazement instead of bogging down in shock and amazement. She tiptoes out of the bedroom, ashamed of such selfish thoughts. But she can’t be the only one having them. What of David? He certainly had other plans; his managerial hopes and expectations have been dashed with one stunning blow; down deep he has to be incredibly pissed.
Because she can’t guess what this day might bring, and because someone else unpacked and put her clothes away, she has trouble deciding what to wear and, once the decision is made, finding all the components. Dressed in the understated skirt, sweater, and suede boots she wore on the museum excursion two weeks ago, she sets out for the kitchen.
Coffee is already made when she gets there. She therefore expects to find Gemma Earle or Rachel already on duty before remembering that the coffee maker has an automatic brew feature set for six a.m., fifteen minutes ago. Alone, as far as she can tell, she pours herself a cup and carries it outside to the arcade. Where she’s not alone. David is there, looking a little ragged around the edges and motioning for her to join him.
They take shelter in neighboring arches and silently watch a steady rain intensify the already vivid green of the surrounding lawns and plantings. Several moments pass before David speaks.
“Knowing how you must feel after my regrettable comments on the plane, asking me here was an unusually selfless gesture . . . even for you.”
Laurel holds tight to the cup of coffee she has yet to taste. “We’re not going to speak of what was said on the plane.”
“Yes, we are. In light of recent events, it’s imperative that you understand where I was coming from when I implied that rock stars are a subspecies and England is the far side of the moon. I want this out in the open, I want it known that was defensive sour grapes speaking . . . that I was being a sorehead because I wasn’t planning on losing you.”
“This is not the time, David.”
“Oh, but it is. I took a cheap shot and I should be made to pay for it.”
“Very well. You asked for it. Do you know what rankles me most? That before you found him so lacking, you promoted Colin as someone with whom I would have a great deal in common.”
“Well, it appears I was right. Perhaps more right than intended.”
“And profoundly wrong to subsequently lump him in with the lowest common denominator. He is
nothing
like those reprobates whose roadies I prosecuted. He may once have led the so-called life, but he doesn’t now. He is as fine a person as I’ve ever known. He’s a devoted father, he’s good to his mother, he’s loyal to his friends, he’s warm and funny and loving and patient and tolerant and persistent and I—”
“You obviously love him without qualification.”
“Yes. Absolutely. Now may we please address the subject that should be uppermost?”
“In a minute. I’m curious to know . . . how much had Colin told you of this splendid place before you arrived?”
“Funny you should mention that. Another of his positive attributes. He knew almost from the start that I would be enchanted by this place, but he never flaunted the fact there were trees in his backyard to beggar most of those I treasured at Jockey Hollow, and he never attempted to dazzle me with descriptions of a house that, in my limited experience, can only be compared with the Cloisters Museum. He didn’t even mention that we had the same taste in cars. If he dangled any enticement, it was his children, and I’m not sure that was altogether deliberate.”
“I know you put on a strong show of resisting him—so strong that even I bought it. But hindsight being what it is, I now realize that when you recently lit into me for not having spent more time with him after his accident, you were sending a very strong signal . . . one I chose to ignore.”
“Signal—excellent segue. Do you feel that Rayce sent signals that were ignored?”