by Ali Knight
Rory was still staring at me and I squirmed under his gaze. ‘Well, that’s a first,’ he said. ‘You need to get yourself a lover, pronto, Maggie, or at least a shag—’
‘That’s enough, Rory!’
He held his hands up in mock defeat.
‘What is going on?’ Simona asked, the phone dangling uselessly in her hand.
‘Maggie’s finally shown a weak spot in that hard shell of hers—’
‘For fuck’s sake, Rory, you’ve got it all wrong!’ I yanked at my bag and pulled it over my shoulder. ‘I’m going to get some air, you see this new client.’
But Rory wouldn’t let it go. ‘It’s a good thing, Maggie, to care about someone, it’ll make you a nicer person—’
‘What?’
He knew he had gone too far. ‘I don’t mean you’re not nice, but this job, it corrodes the soul, you need to reach out to someone maybe, show yourself—’
‘Fuck off!’ I slammed the door behind me so hard the men in the corridor outside the lawyer’s shrank back against the wall.
As I stomped down the stairs I pulled out my phone and called Dwight. I needed a distraction, and I knew I was using him, but I was being selfish and I didn’t care. But he still didn’t answer.
CHAPTER 46
Maggie
Three weeks and one day before
I slunk back into the office two hours later, realising I was being childish. We made up in the only way a gay Irish bloke, a studious bookworm and a working-class Cockney do with the day off and the sun out – we went and took up residence in a pub garden and got the drinks in and packets of Walkers and one of pork scratchings and we drank all afternoon at a picnic table in the sun, screeching with laughter and talking sex and telling tall tales.
Many hours later, in the early evening, I fell out of the pub and began to amble towards home. My recent bad mood had lifted and I was looking forward to the new case starting next week. I knew Mrs Gupta would take me somewhere different from mansions and skyscrapers, black official cars and celebrities. That was part of the joy of the job, you never knew where you would end up, but I was looking forward to eating a lot of chicken dopiazas.
My stomach was rumbling for a Ruby Murray when I rounded a corner in Marylebone and stopped dead. Gabe and Lily were walking away from me. I retreated back along the pavement in case either of them turned round. I looked around for Alice; she was nowhere to be seen. Lily was standing close to Gabe, talking intently to him.
It was ten to seven, he had most likely come out of work and met her. Today was one of the days Helene didn’t come in to the office.
The joy of my afternoon in the pub vanished. I didn’t like what I saw. At one point Gabe glanced behind him, he seemed nervous and watchful as she was artlessly gabbering away at him, her hands a pantomime of gesticulation. I felt a slow anger burning inside and a fear that I had been outsmarted.
I began to follow them. They turned a couple more corners and walked up the steps of a building with iron railings and rang a bell. A moment later they went in together.
The townhouse had a brass control panel with eight buttons. It had long ago been converted into small offices – lawyers, consultants, private medical practices, probably some private flats on the upper storeys. I retreated to a downstairs yard by the steps and waited. Had I really overlooked the obvious? Was Gabe in fact having an affair with Lily, his daughter’s friend? It fitted, I reasoned, and the longer I thought about it, it fitted all too well. Teenage friendships were volatile things with deep and treacherous cross-currents that were often impossible for adults to spot. Affairs are about opportunity – Gabe had plenty of moments to admire the svelte and enthusiastic Lily, she had a personality that revelled in attention and breaking taboos.
I spent a long time in that smelly spot near the bins wondering what the two of them were doing inside that building. A hangover began to clamour to be heard against the inside of my skull. It was a long forty-five minutes before the door opened and Lily tripped down the steps, followed by Gabe and another man. She was looking very pleased with herself, but Gabe, now that I got a longer look at him, seemed tired and drained. The man shook Gabe’s hand. ‘Thanks so much again,’ he said.
‘It was no problem,’ Gabe replied quickly.
‘See, I told you that it would be a breeze with Mr Moreau,’ Lily said to the man, and I realised it was her father.
‘Well, any time you need something like that translated, just give me a call,’ Gabe said, looking keen to be gone.
‘You must come and see the place sometime,’ Lily’s father said, ‘the sailing’s amazing.’
‘I really hope you enjoy the house,’ Gabe said.
‘Have you ever tried Croatian wine?’ Lily’s father continued.
Gabe smiled. ‘It’s as good as anything grown in Italy.’
The three of them walked away up the street, still discussing the merits of red and white wine.
I leaned back against the wall. I had been stuck in a yard full of rubbish, my mind whirling with lurid scenarios, while Gabe had been helping Lily’s dad with what sounded like a contract on a holiday home. I was more relieved than I expected, suddenly seeing their interaction as innocent.
I watched them all shake hands further up the street and Lily and her dad walked away. Once they were out of sight Gabe leaned back heavily on some railings and pulled out a packet of cigarettes, lit one and inhaled deeply. This was odd, I’d never seen him smoking before. Gabe cut back down the street and passed above me.
I climbed the stairs and began to follow him. I liked following Gabe Moreau. I’d be a liar if I didn’t say that I liked watching him. The feelings I had experienced the previous evening when we had a drink together in the Langham came back in a pleasing rush, but I began to sense that something was wrong. He was distracted; he stepped out into the road without looking and was beaten back by the blare of a car horn. He weaved uncertainly down the street. At one point he stopped and began to walk the other way, then seemed to change his mind and continued. He was muttering to himself. Gabe walked on to near Baker Street and hailed a cab and headed south. I followed. He went to Connaught Tower. The sun was setting in the west, a vast hot globe of heat dipping into the sour, stinking city. The taxi let him out and he walked slowly up a grass verge and unlocked the construction door into the Connaught Tower site.
He turned round.
I was not quite behind a wall I had been heading for and he saw me. Maybe it was because I had been in that grey area where I wasn’t being paid and I wasn’t on a job, that I got lazy. He stared at me in confusion. I swore under my breath and began to raise my hand towards him, preparing to brazen it out. He had a stricken look and he muttered something I couldn’t catch. He disappeared into the building.
I hesitated for a moment, knowing I had a situation that was fast escalating away from me. I made a decision and followed him in. It was dark and gloomy in the foyer, the ground-floor windows were blocked by construction hoardings. I could make out the fountain taking shape in the middle of the floor, the pipework poking skywards ready for a cement base to be poured.
The empty lift shaft was on the far side of the fountain next to the stairs. Gabe was nowhere to be seen and I reckoned he was walking up the stairs to the fifth floor. I hurried to follow him, hearing the faintest echo of the building, concrete expanding or contracting, above me. I climbed the first flight of stairs before indecision began to swamp me. Should I meet him and brazen it out? Come clean about what I was doing, about Helene’s role? I dithered for a few moments, then changed my mind and turned round. I came back out of the tower and hustled past a block of flats so I would be able to see him on the fifth floor. As I came round the corner I saw something that for an instant looked like an old coat falling down the side of Connaught Tower. It was only the shattering impact on the scrubby grass below that made me realise it was not a piece of clothing but someone. I ran towards the crumpled heap, each step bringing the details into sha
rper focus – the dark trousers, the splayed and contorted legs, a blue Oxford shirt, stained with blood.
CHAPTER 47
Alice
Three weeks and one day before
The police came round in a pair, to tell us the news. Helene opened the door. I came out of my bedroom because I heard strange noises in the hall, the tinny gurgle of radios spouting jargon. They insisted we all went into the living room.
When they told us what had happened to Poppa, I began to scream over and over, ‘How did this happen?’ I had seen Poppa only yesterday, before Helene chucked him out of the house.
Helene collapsed on the floor, mute. One officer tried to get her to stand up, the other one asked me if there was someone I wanted to phone.
The police said that an exact sequence of events was still unclear. They reassured us of a full investigation. First, they needed to talk about practical things – someone needed to come and identify the body. I could feel hysterics gathering in me. ‘We will do our utmost to find out how he fell, Ms Moreau,’ the policewoman said.
‘What?’ I asked, standing tall, my fists balled. ‘Are you suggesting my dad jumped?’
The police officers glanced at each other. ‘We don’t know what happened exactly at this stage, Ms Moreau. We have to pursue every avenue to find an accurate sequence of events, and that is just one possibility we are looking into—’
I started shouting then, ‘No, no, never, don’t you dare say that to me, he didn’t jump, he would never do that.’
The police were calm, as they are trained to be. ‘We know this must be tremendously difficult for you—’
‘He must have fallen, or been pushed! Maybe he was pushed off!’
Helene had her hands over her face as she sat slumped on the carpet.
Then we heard for the first time someone else had been up in Connaught Tower with Poppa.
‘Who was with him?’ I shouted.
‘We’re still checking the details, but it was a woman who says she was working for Mrs Moreau, a—’
Helene dropped her hands. She raised her face to the ceiling. Her tears were all dried up, her eyes ablaze. She had a look on her face, a darkness that I had never seen before. Even in my moment of utter despair and bewilderment, that look scared me.
‘Maggie fucking Malone!’ she growled.
‘Who’s Maggie Malone?’ I shouted.
CHAPTER 48
Maggie
Three weeks before
‘This is a recording taken at Kennington Police Station on Friday, July 22nd, 2016. The time is 12.30 p.m. Present are Detective Inspector Catherine Patricia Owen and Maggie Malone. Maggie, you are under police caution, do you understand? Ms Malone has nodded and has declined to have legal representation at this time—’
‘Goddammit, I’m not a moron.’
‘Maggie, can you please calm down.’
‘I don’t have to calm down. I don’t understand why I’m here.’
‘We need to clarify some things about the incident yesterday at Connaught Tower in Vauxhall.’
‘We sure do.’
DI Owen began to lay it all out. ‘So, according to your statement which you gave last night, on the evening of July 21st you followed Gabe Moreau to Connaught Tower and you followed him into the ground floor of the building.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you follow Mr Moreau to this building?’
‘Because I had been hired to find out what he was doing, where he was going, that type of thing. It’s not illegal.’
‘OK. What happened then?’
‘I wanted to know if he was meeting someone there.’
‘And did he?’
‘Not that I saw, but I was only on the ground and first floor, I knew he would probably be going up to the fifth floor. There might have been someone up there waiting for him.’
‘How did you know he would go to the fifth floor?’
‘He has a ritual, he goes up to that floor and stares out at dusk, into the setting sun.’
‘You know his habits quite well.’
‘I know what he does better than his wife, probably.’
‘That’s an interesting way of putting it.’
‘Jesus! Stop trying to twist everything I say. If I know this about him, lots of people probably do.’
‘Did you know him socially?’
‘Not really. I mean no.’ DI Owen paused. Everything I said made me look guilty and that made me madder.
‘I don’t understand what you mean, did you know him to talk to him?’
‘I had a drink with him once, well, two or three times, in a bar near his office. It was part of the job.’
DI Owen checked a file that sat in front of her on the table and frowned a little. ‘Explain your job to me.’
‘I was hired by Mrs Moreau because she was suspicious her husband was cheating on her. One way to test this is to put a woman in his eyeline and see how he responds.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Because you’re a fucking moron, I thought to myself. ‘It’s called honeytrapping. If he flirts or asks to see you again, it establishes a pattern of behaviour, which shows he’s probably being unfaithful.’
‘Did your honeytrap work?’ she asked.
‘No. Jesus! I said all this to the guys at the scene last night! I called the ambulance and the police as soon as he fell. I’ve repeated my statement eight fucking times!’
‘You need to calm right down, Ms Malone. Let’s go back a moment to really get a sequence of events. You followed him into the ground floor of the building.’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you get in?’
‘I followed Gabe in. He hadn’t locked the door behind him.’
‘So you were trespassing on private property.’ She looked at me but I didn’t answer. ‘Then what happened?’
‘I saw he wasn’t in the foyer, so I began to climb the stairs, I thought I heard something …’ I tailed off, unsure what it was I couldn’t catch hold of. I shook my head. ‘Then I changed my mind and came back down the stairs—’
‘Why did you change your mind?’
‘I don’t know! I think he had seen me following him and I was unsure whether to speak to him and come clean or not. Then I went past a building so I would be able to see him from by the flats. I heard the impact of him hitting the ground.’
‘So you didn’t see him fall?’
‘No, not all the way. I rushed over and tried to help him. Other people turned up pretty soon and we began to—’
‘OK. What was your state of mind in Connaught Tower?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Were you angry?’
‘Everyone’s angry in this town! Give me a fucking break!’
‘Can you please answer the question. Were you in an angry state of mind?’
‘No.’
‘Had you been drinking, Maggie?’
‘I’d had a few.’
‘How many is a few?’
‘More than one, less than eight.’
‘Does drinking make you angry, Maggie?’
‘What’s your point?’
‘Were you up on the fifth floor of Connaught Tower with Gabe Moreau?’
‘No!’
‘The thing is, Maggie, there are three possible outcomes here. Gabe either fell accidentally, jumped, or was pushed – and make no mistake, we’re going to find out which.’
‘I never pushed him!’
‘The problem is we’re getting some quite disturbing reports about you.’
‘Of course you are – because I get results!’
‘Mrs Moreau is understandably very upset at present. But she said quite clearly she thought you had developed an unhealthy obsession with her husband. That you weren’t professional in your dealings with her. That you had become … stalkerish—’
‘What?’
‘She said that you felt spurned when your honeytrap on Gabe Moreau failed, because you claim, and I quot
e, “I have a hundred per cent success rate with them. They work every time.” And your employee, Rory Brown, said that you often said how attractive Gabe was. The big fish you wanted to catch, he said.’
‘That’s just a silly turn of phrase, said over a drink!’
‘And that night at Connaught Tower, you were no longer working for Mrs Moreau, were you? She had terminated her arrangement with you before that. So what were you doing following him there?’
‘I just bumped into him and thought—’ I had to stop myself when I saw her face. I sounded like a deranged fool.
Detective Owen let the silence stretch. She was trying to make me feel uncomfortable, and it was working. ‘Exactly how many times did you have a drink with Gabe Moreau? His wife thinks you had a couple, but she said she agreed to only one.’
‘This is irrelevant! You want to know what happened to Gabe, get the CCTV camera footage, that’ll show you—’
‘Interesting you mention those, because the system was deactivated.’ She looked at me again. ‘Were you having an affair with Gabe Moreau?’
‘No.’
‘Did he spurn you and that made you mad? Did you think you would teach him a lesson?’
‘For fuck’s sake!’
‘I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough, Maggie. A man has died, potentially in suspicious circumstances, and we are going to get the truth. I will ask you one more time—’
‘I never had an affair with Gabe Moreau!’
‘Did Gabe cry out?’
‘What?’
‘When he fell, did he make a sound?’
‘Not that I heard.’
‘But he died in your arms, didn’t he?’
I wanted to spit I was so angry. ‘He died shortly after he landed. His spine was crushed, both legs broken. He couldn’t breathe.’ Let her picture it, let it sink in. I wanted to punish her for this questioning, for what terrible scenes she was forcing me to recall.
‘Did he say anything to you before he died?’