White Bodies: An Addictive Psychological Thriller

by Jane Robins

  “Hey . . . any time. I loved seeing you concentrating so hard and seriously on your weeding, getting your hands dirty. And your muddy thighs of course . . . I still dream of those pink shorts.”

  “And another apology: I’ve been suspicious about you and Amy Fishwick. . . .”

  “Ah! Amy Fishwick.”

  “Yes. I was getting the impression that something’s going on with the two of you. And it’s been driving me mad, turning it over. Not knowing the truth . . . then she came in, all kind of pert and perky, and bought you the Nemesis book.”

  “Well—the Nemesis book, as good as it was, couldn’t buy my affections, you’ll be happy to know. All that’s happened with Amy is that I fixed a problem on her computer, and she bought me a book. We’re work colleagues who get along pretty well. That’s all.”

  “But she’s keener than that, isn’t she?”

  “Maybe . . .” His grin told me that he was happy to leave some uncertainty in my mind.

  His hand reached across and held mine, not fingers between fingers, but firmly wrapped around, so my hand was squeezed inside his. I wanted to stay in that moment, with everything it promised. And I so wanted to be back in Wilf’s bed, but I had to take a risk. . . .

  “Wilf, I’ve got some pretty bizarre stuff I need to tell you about.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “It’s about Felix and the way he died.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well—it might be more complicated than the postmortem suggests. . . . I’ve been on the internet, on a forum about dangerous men who are violent to their partners; it’s a support group. Anyhow, I’ve been on this forum, this website, for months now. It’s called controllingmen.com—have you heard of it?”

  “No . . . no, I haven’t.” He sounded wary, but I had to keep going, I had no option.

  “Well, I’ve made a friend on this site, called Scarlet. And I had another friend, called Belle, but she was killed . . . by a violent man. He stabbed her, and he’s on trial. Anyhow, Scarlet’s been telling me that she killed Felix. That it wasn’t heart disease at all . . . As I said, it’s weird stuff.”

  “Callie, you’re sounding crazy.” He pulled his hand away from mine, and took a sip of his beer.

  “I know I am. I’m in so deep in this mad world. And I’m worried about Scarlet, I think she is seriously dangerous.”

  “Okay . . . ? So do you have any actual evidence?”

  “Sort of . . . She has these syringes that Belle stole from a hospital . . . and lethal doses of diamorphine. She showed them to me.” I didn’t want to freak him out any more, by explaining that she had given some to me, that she wanted me to kill Luke, that I was pretending to go along with her plan.

  “And why haven’t you gone to the police, if this is true?” He sounded cold now, stilted in the way he voiced his words. And he’d shifted away from me, so that our legs were no longer touching.

  “I can’t. It sounds too unbelievable, like I’m the lunatic. Especially as I don’t even know her true identity. Scarlet is a made-up name. I need to discover who she really is—then I can go to the police. They’ll be able to raid her flat, maybe find diamorphine and syringes . . . maybe other evidence.”

  He was staring at me now, right into my eyes, looking almost frightened of me. I examined his face, reveling in its rough beauty, desperately hoping he would be sympathetic.

  “Callie, you’re right. It does sound unbelievable. It does sound like you’re the lunatic. . . . I’m sorry, I need to get back to the office.”

  Then he pushed the table away roughly, got up and left, muttering, “I’ll call you,” in a stony voice. I watched him barge through a group of young men in suits and disappear through the swing door.

  I was so disappointed—I’d thought he might be my wingman, at my side while I tried to get to the truth about Felix’s death and Scarlet’s involvement. But he was gone, and I was still on my own. I made my way back to Saskatchewan Books.

  Daphne said, “Nice lunch, lovebird? I saw you and Wilf heading off to the Albany.”

  “Stop it, Daphne! I’ve had enough.”

  She pulled a long face and returned to her writing while I switched on my laptop. Nothing from Scarlet, so I wrote to her again.

  Send me Luke’s details! If I’m going to do this thing, I need to get on with it. I don’t want to waste time.

  After five minutes:

  I have to be sure you are committed to the project.

  I’m a hundred percent fucking committed. How can I make you believe me?

  Okay. I’ll meet up with you to tell you his name and what you must do. Same place as last time. Be there at 1:00 p.m. tomorrow.

  35

  I did the head scarf thing again, because that’s what Scarlet wanted, using the same orange scarf. And, as I made my way to Kenwood, I wondered how it was that she was so at ease with giving instructions to other people. Maybe she had been raised like that—a little princess led to believe that her own wishes were paramount. I wondered too how it was that she could travel from Manchester to London so easily on a weekday when she should be at work. Maybe she was part-time, like me.

  I took the same route as last time, walking uphill through the woods and across the grass and, as before, Scarlet was already there—sitting on the last bench, head covered in the red scarf, her bag beneath her feet. The same bag—the one that had contained syringes and drugs. As I approached, I reminded myself to learn as much about her as possible, to study her appearance, and ask her questions that might elicit useful information.

  She glanced up. Pale blue eyes, shaped thick black eyebrows, thin lips, long skinny face. Not unattractive, but also not the stunning beauty that she had pretended to be. And no hint of a smile: “Hi, Callie, come and sit down.”

  “Did you come from Manchester this morning?” I tried to keep my voice natural, not too inquisitive.

  “Yeah. My train got in at eleven. Check it if you like.”

  “Oh, that’s not what I meant,” I lied. “I was just thinking that you’ve had to take time off work.”

  “Yes I have. But it doesn’t matter.”

  She was looking straight ahead, at the woods and the lake at the bottom of the hill, at the gray city in the distance, at the haze of tower blocks grabbing at the sky; and I was looking at her, thinking, Is this what a murderer looks like? So ordinary . . .

  “Scarlet . . . I’m so amazed by what you’ve done. I’m struggling to comprehend it. How did you kill Felix? Without him struggling at all? Or there being any sign?”

  “I can’t tell you right now. But I will eventually—maybe after the funeral. The important thing is for you to keep your side of the bargain . . . with Luke. Listen carefully, because I don’t want to repeat myself—his name is Luke Stone. Got that? He works for a TV production company in Manchester. It’s called Hollybank. He’s a researcher there.”

  “Are you sure you want me to do this? Really sure?”

  “Absolutely. Remember Belle, and what happened to her. She’d still be alive today if someone had got to Joe Mayhew first—and there are hundreds of women like her, hundreds. And if I leave him, he’ll come after me. You know this, Callie. . . . You’re not having doubts?”

  “No. I’ll go through with it—to save you, and in honor of Belle.”

  “Good. I hope you have the syringes and the diamorphine in a safe place.”

  “Yes, of course.” It was true. The bin was as safe a place as anywhere.

  “Okay—this is what you should do. Go to my flat in Manchester, it’s only a ten-minute walk from the station. When you arrive you’ll find Luke in a deep sleep. You’ll need to find a vein in his left arm, the inside of the elbow is a good place, I’m sure you’ve seen it done often enough, and there are videos on YouTube. Anyhow, you’ll inject him with sixty milligrams of diamorphine—that’s twice a lethal dose. Have you got that?”

  “Yes—sixty milligrams. In his left arm. Will I need to do more than one injection?” />
  “Probably . . . While you’re doing it wear those thin latex gloves that medics use—you can buy them at a pharmacy—do that in London, somewhere busy, like Oxford Street. Anyhow, when you’ve finished, make sure his fingerprints are all over the syringe, then drop the syringe by his right hand. Got it?”

  I was impressed by her ruthlessness. Doubtless, she’d be at work when Luke died, giving her an alibi—and I was supposed to scamper on back to London. It was perfect Strangers on a Train.

  “How come he’ll be sleeping? Won’t he wake up?”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll have given him something that ensures that he won’t wake.”

  “What—Rohypnol?”

  “That’s my business. But take it from me, he’ll be knocked out. . . .”

  Then she told me to stand by and wait for her to send me an address, a date and a time. “I’ll post them to you. Read them, and destroy them, then act.” She gave me two keys, one to the front door of her building, the other to the flat.

  “I’m going now, Callie. You must stay focused. Obviously, don’t tell anyone about this—not a soul.”

  “Scarlet . . . Before you go . . . Can I know your real name? It would make me feel better.”

  “No. Of course not.”

  She left and I noticed that she walked elegantly, with poise—walking slightly hips-first, like models do. Maybe she hadn’t been lying about that after all. I sat on the bench, figuring out what to do next. A light rain filled the air, and walkers on the heath put up umbrellas, pulled up hoods, and I drew my parka around me. Then I walked back down to the bus stop thinking I must track down Luke Stone. It was critical now.

  • • •

  At home, I ignored the dirty dishes and mugs in my sink, and microwaved myself a hot chocolate. Then I put Luke Stone Manchester into my search engine and came up with an eleven-year-old schoolboy who’d received a bravery award for rescuing a dog from a canal, and a retired soldier who’d served in Afghanistan. Obviously the wrong Lukes, so I looked at the Hollybank website—and found profiles of several senior members of staff—but nothing for Luke Stone. Facebook was also a dead end—the Luke Stones were all the wrong sort. It occurred to me then that maybe Scarlet had given me a false name—after all, my instructions were clear, I was supposed to go to her flat and inject the sleeping man. I didn’t need to know his name.

  36

  Felix’s funeral was on a cold Friday in October, the air sharp and fresh, even though the sun was casting a gentle light on St. Gregory’s church, on the graveyard of crooked headstones and the ground swell of copper-colored leaves. I arrived early, and to pass the time I revisited the graves of Emily Jane Goode and Henry Watson and Ernest Norwood Richardson, then sat on the broken bench by the stone wall, thinking that I’d slip into the back of the church later, hoping that nobody would notice me.

  Felix’s international colleagues arrived in small solemn groups—women in black coats, thin stockinged legs, heels; men in dark suits. I saw Paige Mooney, this time with Robbie on her arm, and Kimberley Dwyer, and Mum (who didn’t spot me). No sign, yet, of Lucas or Alana or Erik, and no sign of Tilda. But I saw Liam enter the church, and hoped that I might speak to him after the service. I thought about how calming it would be, how soothing, to confess everything, and to follow his advice. I was so adrift, and he was a psychiatrist now.

  I found myself following him into the church but not to the pew. Instead I stood at the back, leaning against the wall, sinking into the shadow. The coffin was already in place, centrally in the aisle, with a huge arrangement of white lilies on the top, like a ridiculous, frothy hat; and at the side of the altar, on a wooden stand, a massive photograph of Felix was smiling inanely at the congregation, the same glossy photograph that had appeared in the press and on websites when he died. Dazed, I looked at the backs of people’s heads, and realized that I was looking for Scarlet; I half thought that she’d be unable to stay away, that she’d want to engage with the death she caused. But I couldn’t see her, and I closed my eyes, actually praying for Felix to rest in peace, to be forgiven his sins. When I opened them again, I saw Francesca Moroni coming into the church, crouching slightly as she slipped into a pew. She was exceptionally beautiful, her mass of brown hair falling across her shoulders, dark eyes gazing at the coffin as she knelt down, clasping her hands together in front of her face, and I wished I could examine her thoughts and emotions. Was she grieving the love of her life? Or was escape from Felix her salvation?

  I thought about moving from my position at the back wall, towards Francesca. But then I was distracted because Tilda arrived, walking slowly down the aisle, acknowledging no one, taking her place at the front, between the coffin and the photo. She was holding herself still, reverentially—and I struggled to know what was going on inside her head. I couldn’t tell whether she was as distressed as she’d been on the day Felix died, or whether her true feeling was one of relief that she could now abandon her terrible flirtation with death, her sick game—goading and taunting Felix until he snapped. I looked at the back of her head, her fair hair falling from a tasteful black hat that Felix would have approved of, and I saw only her exterior—the actress playing her part.

  Erik and Alana arrived next, Alana clutching Erik’s arm, almost falling into him, her steps weak and faltering. Behind them, Lucas walked sedately like a guard, ready to catch his mother if she fell. They sat next to Tilda, and I wondered if they’d reach out to her. But they didn’t; they simply nodded, very slightly. My heart burned in my chest. My sister and her suffering deserved recognition, not cruel disdain. Lucas was different, though—he reached across his parents to squeeze her hand.

  We sang “The Lord Is My Shepherd,” and all the time I was deeply aware of the way Erik and Alana held themselves, resolutely angled away from Tilda and towards their dead son. I suppose they blamed her. Maybe they blamed England too, and hedge funds in Mayfair—all the people and places that had taken Felix away. At one point Lucas went up onto the altar to read from the Bible, and it was hard not to cry as we heard his voice wavering and recovering and wavering again, while Alana buried her face in Erik’s unconsoling arm. The service wasn’t long, and afterwards the immediate family went to the crematorium. I’d asked Tilda whether she wanted me to come, and she said no, so I didn’t get to see the final moments before Felix went up in flames.

  Instead I shared a car with Paige and Robbie to a hired room at a small local hotel where we were supplied with triangular sandwiches and tepid tea, and made efforts at conversation. Paige kept telling me that Tilda would need the love and support of her friends, that we must “rally round.” Robbie agreed and said it would help Tilda “if she got stuck into some challenging roles. It’s always good to immerse yourself in work during hard times, takes your mind off your troubles.” I was amazed by his presumption. How could he know what would be good for Tilda? I said I needed to eat, and moved away. I had spotted Francesca, sitting by herself at a table close to the food, and I took some sandwiches over.

  “Would you like one? There’s egg salad and ham. Are you Francesca?”

  She gave me a sad, welcoming smile. “That’s right.”

  “I’m Callie. Tilda’s sister.”

  “Ah . . . Poor Tilda. How long ago were they married?”

  “Just a few weeks.”

  “It’s impossible to comprehend, isn’t it? Something this tragic . . .” Her voice was composed and dignified.

  I was longing to ask her so much, but my questions were too personal, too intimate, to say out loud, and I stood there like a lemon, blurting out, “I love your dress,” then, more appropriately, “there’s so much I want to learn about Felix . . . about his life before he met Tilda.”

  She didn’t answer because, at that moment, we all looked at the door to the room, at the crematorium contingent returning. Erik spotted Francesca, and he and Alana came over to us, and the three of them hugged each other. Francesca was whispering, “I’m so, so sorry.” Across
the room, Tilda was watching, a sort of wonder registering on her face—but then she turned her back and talked to Lucas.

  Mum appeared, coming to offer her condolences to Erik and Alana, walking towards our group in a black chiffon Goth-like dress and a sparkly waterfall cardigan that looked out of place. She leaned in to kiss Alana, but Alana recoiled. Mum muttered, “Felix was such a wonderful person. I was so happy to have him as a son-in-law.”

  But Alana came right back, in a voice so small you could barely hear it: “Of course we wish he had never left Boston.”

  Mum and I exchanged a glance and I guessed that, like me, she had heard Of course we wish he had never met Tilda.

  “I understand,” said Mum. “It’s all so terrible. And not to have him with you in those final months . . .”

  Alana whispered to Erik, “Take me away.” And Erik, in a deflated imitation of his former self, said, “Do excuse us. We’re both very tired.”

  I watched as they left, seeing how old they’d become, realizing that Erik would no longer set the world to rights with unbridled pomposity. I realized, too, that I would never see them again.

  I returned to the sandwich table—for some reason I was rampantly hungry, and as I was leaning over, grabbing an egg salad, I heard, “How are you, Callie?”

  I turned quickly. “Liam! It’s nice of you to come.”

  “Of course I would come, Callie.”

  “But had you spent any time with Felix, other than at the wedding?”

  “Not really. But Tilda spoke often about him.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Well . . . she told me how much she loved him.”

  I had the impression that she’d confided a great deal, but that he didn’t want to talk about it. Not here, at the funeral.

  “Could I come and see you?” I said. “I have things that I’d like to ask—but this is the wrong time, wrong place.”