Under My Skin

by Sarah Dunant

  “Jesus Christ.” And at last he put it all together. It hit him so hard I could almost hear the thump. “Jesus Christ, have you been watching me?”

  “No,” I said. “Not you. Just number thirty-four. And all the men that go in and out. You know you’re not the first this morning?”

  He stared at me in a kind of paralyzed horror. And for one delicious moment it was clear that he really believed me, thought it was business rather than personal. Then he thought again. Well, he may be a lot of things, Colin, but he’s not stupid. “My God, you’re incredible, Hannah. You really are incredible. What the hell do you think you’re doing? What right do you think you have to spy on me?”

  “What right? Oh, that’s a nice one, Colin. Let’s talk about rights. Have you looked at her recently? Have you seen what’s happening to her? She’s out of her head with anxiety. She’s screaming at the kids, she must have lost half a stone. She’s so fucking lost and scared about you and what’s happening to the two of you that she can’t even think straight. While you’re out ‘exercising.’”

  “God, you stupid … Does she know you’re doing this?” In place of fury now read panic, I could feel it, churning up and over. “Does Kate know about—” and he broke off.

  “Know about what? Number thirty-four three times a week? No, you’re all right, Colin. I’m the one with the suspicious mind. She’s too busy making excuses for you. How hard you’ve been working. How the children have separated you, how maybe she’s the one who’s at fault. I must say—”

  “Shut up. Just shut up.” And for a man with zero charisma he’d done some work on the voice. It pinned me to my seat more successfully than a blow would have done. He was shaking with rage. “Now you listen to me, Hannah. You and I have never liked each other. But we’ve had the decency to keep out of each other’s way. You know nothing about Kate and me. Nothing, do you hear me? You may think you do, but you don’t. You’re a stupid, prejudiced woman who’s never had a real relationship of your own and never been able to recognize anybody else’s. What I’m doing here is my business and no one’s but mine. And if you breathe a word of it to Kate, I’ll personally come round and … and …”

  “And what, Colin? Slap me about a bit? Just like a good husband should. Don’t threaten me. I’ll tell my sister any goddamn thing I want. You don’t deserve her. You never did. I’m just astonished you’ve got the balls to be doing this at all.”

  He grabbed hold of my arm and pulled me toward him. For a second I thought he was going to hit me. Which would have been OK because then I could have hit him back. But instead he just flung me back against the car door. Then he lunged past me and connected with the door handle, flinging it open.

  “Get out,” he said in a voice that was definitely shaky. “Get out before I shove you out.”

  I looked at his face. It was rigid with fury. “OK,” I said quietly. “I’m going.”

  My exit wasn’t that dignified. But I made up for it in the walk away. I took it slowly, not looking back. Across the street I was almost knocked over by a man in a suit hurrying past me. He was clearly late for something. Late or eager. He went scuttling down the stairs to the basement flat a few doors on. I had, of course, seen him before, though it would be a first for Colin. I turned to see if he had spotted him. But if he had, he wasn’t looking any longer. Through the windscreen across the road I saw his head bowed down onto the steering wheel. And I saw his body shaking. Well, well, my brother-in-law was sobbing.

  It upset me more than I anticipated. When I got back to my car, to my surprise I found that my hands weren’t all that steady either. I grabbed the portable phone out of the glove compartment. I even got as far as dialing Mum’s number, but then pushed the button before it connected. Shit. I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t.

  The drive to west London was full of heat and traffic. The encounter filled my head, Colin’s anger like a chain saw ripping through my thoughts. So much for not getting mad. Ah well, what had I expected? In the eight years of their marriage he and I have barely managed one conversation that hasn’t had spikes in it. If it wasn’t business, it was politics. If it wasn’t politics, it was personal. That bullshit about not knowing a real relationship … If he was an example of one, God save me from them. But under the fury I was feeling bruised. Stupid not to admit it. Well, it was too late now. That’s the point about anger. It helps you break the rules. Sometimes they need to be broken. What would he do? He’d have to tell her. He couldn’t possibly risk letting me do it first. At least it would be out in the open. It couldn’t be worse than it was now.

  The Beauty Centre in the Chiswick High Road was one of a chain. It had a blue smoked-glass shop front with a picture of an implausibly long-legged woman reclining in space airbrushed onto it. I was so glad of an excuse to change topics that I was almost pleased to see her.

  Inside it was familiar stuff: lots of young things in white uniforms hard at work with their witch-doctor creams and chemical scrubs. It was the kind of place where a private eye’s card would cause quite a flurry. It would also protect me from being treated like a client. I flashed it at the receptionist. She was duly flustered. The manageress was checking the waxing rooms, but she made it short for me.

  She was tall and fair, with too much makeup. So what’s new? I was already bored looking at her. I followed her to her office, one of a dozen cubicles off a rabbit warren of a corridor, where no natural light penetrated. Smart thinking. Under the right artificial light all skin looks younger. It struck me that in all our encounters I had never seen Olivia Marchant in direct sunlight—that afternoon in the rain the face had been framed by the raincoat collar and hood. Maybe the sun would shrivel her. The image of the monkey returned. I shook my head to get rid of it.

  “I’m afraid the records of our employees …”

  Blah blah blah … She was making a passable imitation of a beauty salon manager, but I’d seen it all before and I had run out of patience. I’m afraid the meeting with Colin had seriously eroded my charm levels.

  “Listen,” I said, “don’t give me that crap. You don’t have a choice. If you don’t tell me, you’ll have to tell the police within the next twenty-four hours anyway. So why not accept the inevitable? All I want to know is what reason Lola Marsh gave for leaving here three months ago, and if you have any details on her records by which I might trace her.”

  She stared at me for a second, then said, “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

  “Let’s try again,” I said, barely keeping myself under control. “She was small, plump, and quiet. She worked here from June last year till late January. And you gave her a glowing reference that got her a job at Castle Dean in Berkshire. Ring a bell now?”

  “What did you say her name was?”

  “Lola Marsh,” I repeated, as if it was an enunciation lesson from My Fair Lady.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been the manager for over a year and in that time there has been no beautician of that name working here.”

  “But her reference was written on your notepaper. I saw a signature.”

  “Then, whoever she is, she must have stolen the paper and forged it,” she answered, not without a certain pleasure. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a busy day ahead of me.”

  Back in the car I gloated over what I’d found out. So Lola Marsh was not just a saboteur, but a liar and a forger. From such minor felonies serious crimes can grow. But why? Not looking like Olivia Marchant was hardly enough of a reason to go and kill her husband. I was about to give it some further thought when the phone beeped. The connection was a little rough, but it was hard to tell if that was the battery running flat or her voice shaking. Either way it was becoming something of a habit, Carol Waverley distressed in my ear. She was whispering, as though afraid someone might be listening in. She said that the police had arrived at Castle Dean half an hour before. They had asked if they could have a look at Olivia’s car and take some samples from her apartment. Olivia had been
in it at the time, having arrived back with Carol late last night. When she refused, they had made it clear that they could always come back with a search warrant.

  “Who do you mean by ‘they,’ Carol?” I said as I backed the car down a side road to get myself pointing in the right direction for the highway.

  “The two who interviewed me yesterday. Inspector Rawlings and a younger man—”

  “Grant.”

  “Yes. Grant.”

  “Did they say what they were looking for?”

  “No. Just that it was part of their inquiries. When I spoke to them yesterday …” But the line was cracking up again.

  “Listen, I’ll be there within the hour. I’ll talk to you then. Put Olivia on the line, will you?”

  “I can’t. She’s with them. She doesn’t know I’m calling. Please, come soon. I think they think—”

  To save the battery I switched her off. When will you learn, Hannah? Some machines are like people. If you don’t feed them, they don’t work. Anyway, I already knew what they thought. It had crossed my mind, too.

  That they were back again so quickly meant that they knew more today than they had yesterday. And were taking it seriously. Maybe forensics had come up with something juicy. Or the janitor’s eyesight had improved along with his memory and he’d fingered a good-looking woman with raised cheekbones.

  With the sudden rush of summer, even Berkshire looked green and pleasant. I disturbed its dull Englishness with a few violent thoughts. I put a surgical knife into Olivia Marchant’s hand and watched her plunge it into her husband’s turned back. Then I saw her straddle his body and dig out his eyes. The first was an easy image, the emotion and the blood conjured out of a million bad movies. The second was rather more troublesome, but it was hard to know if that was because she hadn’t done it, or because I hadn’t ever seen it done.

  I tried the scenario again with little Lola Marsh wielding the knife. Same problem. I decided to wait until I knew more.

  Castle Dean looked lovely in the sun. God, I could do with a massage. I parked in the staff car park, next to Grant and Rawlings. At least they’d had the decency not to put themselves in the guest bays. I went in through the back entrance. Carol was in main reception. She looked awful, but then having your boss implicated in a murder charge would be bound to have a downside when it came to future job prospects. I followed her through the door marked “Private.” I remembered it well. When I was last here, Maurice Marchant was still making women beautiful and himself rich. What a difference a week makes.

  We talked as we walked. “Has anything happened since you called me?”

  “Well, the young one … er … Grant, he came in to see me and asked me some questions. He wanted to know if I could remember what Mrs. Marchant had been wearing when she got back that evening from London.”

  “And could you?”

  “Yes. I told him it was her Nichole Farhi culottes and her black Joseph waistcoat.”

  Well, that must have knocked his British Home Stores socks off. But whether or not it was what he wanted to hear I had no idea.

  “And then he asked if I’d seen her wearing a long black mac and hat. And I told him I had. It had been drizzling when she went to London in the morning and she’d had them on then.” The black mac. Of course. It certainly was a distinctive little outfit. The kind you wouldn’t easily forget. Not her, not me. And presumably, not someone else either. “I was right, wasn’t I? I mean to tell him?”

  “If that is what she was wearing, then yes, you were right.”

  “He seemed to think it was important,” she said, and I don’t think I’d ever seen her quite so uncomfortable.

  “Yes. Well, then it probably was.”

  “Can you help her?” she asked anxiously.

  “I think that depends on what she’s done.”

  And for the first time I could remember Carol Waverley didn’t have anything to say.

  They were coming down the back stairs as I was going up them. They were like a little posse: Olivia and a woman policeman with the sheriff and his deputy bringing up the rear. She was looking so old I almost didn’t recognize her. Or maybe it was the daylight. For once she was a woman not in control of her lighting. “Hannah?” she murmured as she saw me, and the voice sounded rather dazed.

  “Hello, Olivia,” I said cheerfully. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you. I need to talk to you. Could we have a quick word?”

  I addressed it to the female police officer, who obviously had no idea what to do.

  “Get out of the way, Miss Wolfe. If you don’t mind.” Rawlings at his most polite. No wonder women get on so badly in the force. Always letting the men do the talking. I ignored him and nodded at Grant. “Thanks for calling,” I said. “I got here as fast as I could.”

  Well, at times like this you take pleasure where you can get it. And the look on Rawlings’ face as he turned to Grant was pleasure indeed. Grant shook his head quickly. To him and to me. “Hannah, don’t make this any more difficult than it is already.”

  “What’s difficult? I assume you’re not arresting her?”

  “No. Mrs. Marchant’s just helping us with our inquiries.”

  “Fine. Then I’d just like a quick word with her. She is my client.”

  “Ex,” said Rawlings.

  “Wrong,” I said fiercely. “I’m still working for her. And I want to talk to her.”

  “Listen, girlie—”

  “No, you listen, Rawlie. I’d like to speak to my client, Olivia Marchant. She’s not under arrest, she’s not been cautioned, and she can talk to whoever she likes. You have no right to deny her access to me and you know it.”

  He opened his mouth to launch a salvo, but Grant got in before the blast.

  “Constable, why don’t you take Mrs. Marchant to the office? Miss Wolfe? Let’s you and I have a word.”

  In retrospect I think it probably represented a great step in his career. One of those Hollywood moments when a man does what a man has to do and everyone realizes that he was—well—a man all along, and no longer just a junior partner. Olivia and the police officer went off down the stairs. Grant turned to Rawlings. “Five minutes,” he said. “I’ll sort this out.”

  He blew and snorted, then said: “You’d better, Mike. You’d better. What is this? Fucking amateur’s night out?” He stomped off, and you could tell that the swearing had made him feel better.

  Well, now the bad language has started …

  “Hannah—”

  “You bastard. I gave you every scrap of information I had, saved you days of donkey work, cooperated absolutely, and you do this.”

  “Hannah, officially I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “So why the fuck did you promise that you would?”

  “Listen—”

  “Or more to the point, why did you lie to me?”

  “I didn’t lie.”

  “Looking for a black mac and hat, are we? What happened? Did the watchman undergo hypnotherapy or did some other mysterious witness come forward at the last minute?”

  He sighed. “When we talked to him yesterday afternoon, he wasn’t sure. He is now.”

  “Bullshit. Did you find the mac?”

  “No. And how did you know about it?”

  “Not from you, that’s for sure,” I said tartly. “Where does Olivia say it is?”

  “She doesn’t have it. She says she thinks she must have left it at Marchant’s consulting rooms Tuesday afternoon.”

  “Which Carol Waverley can back up. She saw her come home without it.”

  “Which only means she wasn’t wearing it. But somebody certainly was at around twelve-thirty A.M. The janitor is willing to swear that the person he saw leaving the building had it on.”

  “Yeah, but then with his eyesight it would hardly stand up in court, would it?” I said sweetly.

  He gave an apologetic little shrug. “He can see fine, Hannah.”

  “Really. You astonish me. Still, I su
ppose it has occurred to you that you still don’t have a shred of proof. Whoever murdered Marchant could have found the mac in the office and put it on just to get out of the building. Which would be an altogether simpler explanation as to why she doesn’t have it now.”

  “Maybe. But then there’s the problem with her alibi.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean she can’t prove she was here that night.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Carol Waverley and half the staff saw her come back.”

  “She could have gone out again.”

  “Yeah, and Detective Inspector Rawlings could be a Buddhist. Where’s your proof?”

  “The call she never took.”

  “What call?”

  He hesitated. And it was clear he thought I already knew.

  “What call?” I said again.

  “The one that came through from Maurice Marchant just before eleven. I thought Carol Waverley would have told you. She was in the office working late when the phone rang. He said he’d been trying to get hold of his wife but she wasn’t answering her direct line and he wondered if there was a fault on it. So Carol plugged it through from the main switchboard herself. She still didn’t answer.”

  Poor Carol. Everywhere she stood in this plot she put her foot in it. Anyone would think she was out to screw her employer. I stuck that one in the “to be thought about later” file. “Maybe she was asleep.”

  “And maybe she wasn’t there.”

  “You’ve tested the line?”

  “It works fine.”

  “So maybe she was in the shower. Or she didn’t want to talk to anyone. Have you thought of that?”

  “Oh, come on, Hannah, we already know she had a flaming row with him about another woman.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a ditz head,” I said crossly. “I was the other woman. He clocked me when I came to visit him that lunchtime. He knew I was some kind of snoop. When she saw him that afternoon, he accused her of trying to wreck the business by employing a private detective to check up on old clients.”

  He stared at me for a second then gave a kind of nasty laugh. “Oh, yes. You have been hard done by, haven’t you, Hannah? Told us everything, while we just shafted you.”