by Nicci French
‘You’re allowed to be a bit mad,’ said Neve. ‘With what you’re going through.’
‘No, I mean really. This morning when the postman came, I started telling him what had happened and then I saw this look in his eyes. I could see he wanted to get away. Well of course he did. He had mail to deliver. He had a life to get on with. I feel like I’m going to be stopping strangers in the street and telling them that my husband has been murdered. It’s like I have to keep unloading it.’
‘You can unload on me,’ said Neve weakly, but was Bernice just looking for a sympathetic ear?
‘We have a son, you know,’ Bernice said. She had very blue eyes, Neve saw. Thin lips. A straight nose. Everything about her was drawn with a clean line.
‘I didn’t know,’ said Neve, untruthfully. ‘It’s awful,’ she added hopelessly.
‘He’s seventeen. I had him quite late.’ She looked down at her hands lying so calmly in her lap. ‘I am several years older than Saul. We thought we couldn’t have children; we’d tried for years and we’d pretty much given up by the time I got pregnant. It was a gift.’ She lifted her eyes to Neve’s face as she said this.
Neve tried to stop herself from flinching in shame. Listening to Saul’s wife telling her about her marriage felt indecent.
‘Do you have children?’ asked Bernice.
‘Three.’ Neve picked up her mug of coffee. Her hands were trembling slightly as she carried it to her mouth.
‘Then you’ll know how a mother feels.’
What did she mean? Protective, oppressed, adoring, exhausted, alert, tender, exultant, despairing, invisible, like a lioness, like an old rag, eaten alive . . . ? She set her mug down.
‘Why did you want to see me?’ she said.
Bernice blinked and touched her cheek as if she were rubbing away a tear.
‘I know that Saul was having an affair.’
‘Oh.’ So here it came at last. Neve sat up straighter.
‘You don’t seem surprised.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Neve. ‘I mean – I just don’t know what to say.’
‘With someone in the office. Staying late, spending nights in the flat, having several mobiles on the go, buying me flowers. How stupid do men think we are?’
Neve’s mind was working furiously, but like a wheel spinning round and round, unable to grip on to anything. Did Bernice know or did she not know?
‘Who?’ she heard herself ask.
‘That’s the question. I have my suspicions but I want to be certain before I make any accusations.’
‘I still don’t understand.’
‘You don’t understand why I’m telling you this?’
‘No.’
There was a silence. It was all Neve could do not to hurl herself into it and confess.
‘I couldn’t ask Katie – Katie is very loyal to Saul. She doesn’t like me because I’m his wife. Was. She wouldn’t tell me anything. And people like Bob, well . . .’ She shrugged her shoulders dismissively. ‘Men stick together. Only women know what women go through.’ Her eyes glittered; Neve couldn’t tell if it was with rage or tears. ‘I’m not saying there weren’t problems in our marriage. Saul wasn’t a saint.’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘You’re quite new at Redfern, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I met you at one of the parties, didn’t I?’
‘I think so. Just to say hello.’
‘You were wearing a long skirt in bright colours that was ripped all along the hem.’
‘Was I?’ Neve had had that skirt for about twenty years; it was coming apart at the seams but she couldn’t bring herself to throw it away.
‘I pointed it out to Saul and he laughed and said that was typical of you.’
‘Oh.’
‘So was he?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Was he having an affair? Did everyone in the office know he was having an affair? Was everyone laughing at me behind my back?’
‘No. I mean, I don’t know, of course. But if he was, well, if he was, nobody knew. At least, not as far as I’m aware. Not that they’d tell me. I mean, I’m on the outside and I’m not really part of things, but there was nothing, no sign of . . .’ Neve felt she was tying herself in knots. ‘Nobody was laughing at you,’ she said wretchedly.
Bernice leaned forward. ‘How are you supposed to mourn for someone who humiliated you?’
‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’
‘I’m not sad. Not yet. I haven’t shed a single tear. I suppose that will all come later. I’m angry.’
‘With Saul?’
‘He’s dead. It’s much easier to be angry with the living, don’t you think?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Neve. She hesitated. ‘What do the police say?’
‘They’re being quite mysterious. But that detective with the bald head, have you met him?’
‘We all have.’
‘He doesn’t miss a thing. He’ll find out.’
‘Good.’ Her voice was thin and scratchy.
‘Apparently whoever killed Saul did a huge clean-up of the flat. There are things that seem to be missing.’
‘So it was a burglar?’
‘No. Nothing valuable.’
Neve nodded. Her head was suddenly aching.
Bernice uncrossed her legs and stood up in one easy movement, picking up the jacket that had been folded beside her on the sofa. She was tall, perhaps as tall as Neve herself. ‘You can be my lookout,’ she said, and for the first time she smiled, as if they were both in on a joke together. ‘A bit late perhaps, but better late than never.’
Neve watched her go up the stairs and then she leaned forward and put her head in her hands. What had just happened? Was Bernice really asking for her help or had she been telling Neve that she knew? For a long while, she sat like that, with the hum of voices in the background. Then a text pinged on her mobile and she sat up and took it from her pocket. It was from Mabel. Time? was all it said. Neve frowned, not knowing what that meant.
She knew she should go back to the office, but she needed a few minutes to collect herself. She went upstairs and ordered another flat white, then sat at a table near the window, looking out at the street. A stout, bearded man in a yellow skirt walked past and Neve felt a rush of affection for her city.
She sipped her coffee slowly, making it last, and thought of what Bernice had said. The police knew there’d been a clean-up and things removed, but how did they know, what did they know? Of course, she had removed things herself, but then so had someone else. She frowned, trying to hold in her mind how the flat had been when she and Saul had been there, how it had been when she had found his body, how it had been when she had returned the following morning. She reached into her little rucksack, pulled out a pen and started jotting a list of what she had taken down on the paper napkin in front of her.
Toothbrushes × 2
Hand cream
Migraine tablets
Lip gloss
Perfume
Shampoo
Postcard
Tee shirt
A sketch of vegetables
As she wrote, it was like she was back there, moving stealthily round the flat while Saul’s body lay in the living room. She looked at the list: it meant nothing. Nobody would be able to tell those things had been removed – although perhaps they would think it odd that there was no toothbrush or shampoo in the flat. More important were the things she had been unable to find. She wrote them down:
Poem
Underwear
Saul’s mobile
Then underneath, in block capitals, she wrote:
BANGLE
She stared at the word and underlined it, then added:
HAMMER
She underlined that word twice.
‘Hello, Neve,’ said a voice behind her and she jolted, rattling the table, sending a teaspoon skimming on to the floor. DCI Hitching was standing in front of her, tall as a door. Neve snatched up the paper napkin and blew her
nose loudly into it and then crumpled it into a ball.
‘Cold?’ he asked sympathetically.
She nodded her head violently, several times, then pushed the napkin into her pocket.
‘I saw you through the window,’ he said. ‘I thought I could join you for a chat.’
‘I need to get back to work,’ she said.
‘Just a few minutes won’t hurt.’
He lowered himself into the chair opposite her. They were so close she could see the flecks in his irises. He had hairy wrists and eyes like sloes.
‘I had to get away from the office for a bit,’ she said.
‘I know how oppressive it can get. People act strangely at times like this.’
‘Yes.’
‘Not you though.’ He was looking at her in a way that made her skin crawl with dread. ‘I admire the way you remain so . . .’ He paused for a beat. ‘Equable.’
‘Equable?’ said Neve. ‘I’m not exactly sure what that means but I don’t think it applies to me.’
‘Calm,’ said Hitching. ‘Calm and balanced. That’s why, when I saw you sitting here looking pensive, I thought I’d join you. It’s always useful to think things through with someone sane and rational.’
‘Then I might not be the right person for you.’
He smiled. ‘You mean you’re not sane and rational?’
‘You should see me in the morning,’ said Neve. ‘I’ve got three children.’
‘I feel your pain,’ said Hitching. ‘I’ve got two myself. Can I get you a coffee or a tea?’
‘I’m fine. I’ve already had two coffees.’
‘Tea then.’
‘No thank you,’ she was saying but Hitching had already left the table. He returned with a tray and small pots of tea. He handed one to Neve and poured himself a cup from the other one.
‘Cinnamon and camomile,’ he said. ‘The woman said it would help me relax. I could do with a bit of that.’
‘Can I make a comment?’ said Neve, who disliked herbal teas.
‘Of course.’
‘You said you were just walking down the street and happened to see me through the window. That sounds a bit strange.’
Hitching took a sip of his tea and looked cheerful.
‘By “strange” you mean unlikely.’
‘I didn’t mean exactly that.’
‘No, you’re quite right. That’s clever of you, Neve. Is it all right if I call you Neve?’ Neve nodded. ‘I was in the building talking to a couple of your colleagues. You were one of the people I wanted to see. I went into your office and they said you had gone out suddenly. But then when I left, I did happen to walk past this building and catch sight of you. Lucky for me. Doubly lucky. This place is a discovery.’
‘Yes, it’s nice.’
‘Good place for a meeting,’ he said. ‘Were you having a meeting?’
Neve was tempted just to say yes and nothing more but she thought that if Hitching found out about Bernice later it might seem strange. Suspicious, even.
‘I was talking to Bernice Stevenson. That’s Saul Stevenson’s wife. I suppose I need to say his widow now.’
Hitching looked visibly surprised. ‘Is she a friend of yours?’
‘I’ve only met her once. She rang me and said she wanted to meet.’
‘Why?’
‘I think she needed someone to talk to.’
Hitching looked at her with a new interest. ‘Yes, that makes sense. You seem like someone people might confide in.’
‘She just wanted to talk.’
‘What did she say?’
Again, Neve found herself at a loss. Bernice had really only said one thing and it was not a thing that Neve wanted to put in the mind of the detective in charge of the operation. But no doubt he would be talking to Bernice and he’d ask her why she had talked to Neve. So she had no choice.
‘She suspected that her husband had been having an affair.’
‘Why?’
‘She just suspected it.’
‘And why did she come into town to say it to you?’
Neve wondered if it was possible that Hitching himself suspected the same thing. Was he trying to get her to lie about something he knew the truth about? She needed to be careful.
‘Sometimes people find it easier to say these things to strangers. Or virtual strangers. But this is probably something you should take up with her.’
‘Did she seem angry?’
‘She seemed like someone whose husband had been murdered.’
Hitching seemed to be considering this carefully. He took a notebook from his pocket and wrote something in it that Neve couldn’t see.
‘If you have an idea,’ he said, ‘you should always write it down. You think you’ll remember it but you won’t.’
Neve was curious about what idea Hitching might have had but she didn’t think it right to ask.
‘You went to his flat to drop something off,’ Hitching continued. ‘Do you know what it was?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Do you remember anything?’
‘I’m sorry. It wasn’t something I thought about.’
‘Was it big? Small?’
Neve felt a twinge of alarm. That was the sort of thing you would remember. She needed to think of something convincing but not too precise.
‘I think he wanted some papers or files. They were in a package, or a large envelope, on his desk.’
‘So we’re talking about the size of an A4-sized envelope?’
‘That sounds right.’
‘Or bigger?’
‘Yes, maybe.’
‘Bulky?’
‘I don’t remember. I could fit it in my backpack. Why are you asking this?’
Hitching looked around, as if checking whether anyone was in earshot. Only one other table was occupied, a young man sitting in the far corner, tapping on the keyboard of his laptop. Even so, Hitching leaned across the table and spoke in a quieter voice.
‘I’ve seen a number of murder scenes. I’ve seen them in the street and next to a canal and in parks and in houses and flats and bedsits. But I’ve never seen one like this one.’
‘In what way?’
‘We’re having a press conference this afternoon, but I can give you a sneak preview. Your colleague was subjected to a violent assault. I won’t give you the details. It might put you off your tea. But that’s nothing out of the ordinary. What was strange was the condition of the flat. I’ve seen attempts to cover things up but this was on a different level. The flat was scrubbed clean and I mean really scrubbed. Everything was in its place. Even the bins were emptied. We did a search of all the bins in the area.’
Neve felt a sudden rush of alarm so severe that she thought it would show in her face. She had to ask. She couldn’t stop herself.
‘Did you find anything?’
He shook his head. ‘I made an interesting discovery. In that area they collect the rubbish every day. I wish they did that round where I live.’
‘What’s so strange about that? So the killer got rid of the evidence.’
‘Yes, but it seems like a strange combination. A frenzied attack followed by a systematic cleaning of the flat that must have taken hours.’
‘I’m sorry, inspector,’ said Neve.
‘Please, call me Alastair.’
‘Alastair. I don’t know why you’re telling me this.’
‘I was working my way around to that. It’s probably not important, but there was something else about the crime scene that was a little odd.’
‘What?’
‘As I said, the flat looked like it had been scoured clean. But there was a stack of files on the table. They were personnel files. Three of them. Tamsin Olivia Brodal, Renata Searle and Gary Peter Baldwin. The three people you share an office with.’
Neve looked down at her hands. She couldn’t trust herself to speak.
‘Can you think of any reason why Stevenson would have had those files on his desk? I me
an those files in particular. I take it that there are dozens of people in your company.’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘But what would be your assumption?’
‘Our company has recently been taken over and incorporated into Redfern. I suppose that—’ Neve stopped herself and gave a cough. She had been about to say ‘Saul’. What did the others call him: Saul or Mr Stevenson? ‘Mr Stevenson was probably carrying out some kind of assessment.’
‘Do you mean he might have been thinking about making people redundant?’
‘I suppose it’s possible. We weren’t sure if they’d keep all of us. Or any of us.’
‘Then why wasn’t your file there?’
‘What?’
‘Stevenson had the files of the three people you work with, but not you. No Neve Jennifer Connolly to be found.’
Jenny kiss’d me when we met, thought Neve. Her face was burning. Jumping from the chair she sat in. She saw Saul’s face, his smile. He was suddenly in the room with her.
‘Oh,’ she managed to say.
‘Why not?’
Neve reached for her tea and took a gulp, partly to calm herself, partly to give herself time to think. She hoped there was no giveaway tremor.
‘How could I know that?’
‘There are plenty of ways you could have known. Stevenson might have told you that your job was safe. He might have had a higher regard for you than for your colleagues. Or something else. Which is why I asked the question.’
‘I’ve just moved to working part-time, so I have recently renegotiated my contract. I suppose it also means that the company would save less money by getting rid of me.’
‘So you think he was considering firing one or more of your colleagues?’
‘I was just thinking aloud,’ said Neve. ‘Which I shouldn’t have done. I’ve got no reason to know anything about what was being planned.’
‘But you just said that Stevenson was carrying out some kind of assessment.’
‘I don’t know what I said. I was just speculating when I thought we were having a casual chat and then it suddenly turned into an interview and I feel you’re reading too much into what I’m saying.’
Hitching smiled. ‘An interview? It’s nothing like that. If this were an interview we would be sitting in a room with a recorder and someone else present and it would all be terribly formal. I’m going to be quite frank with you, I don’t know what to think about any of this. Usually, when you arrive at the scene of most murders, it’s bloody obvious what happened. This is different. I’m still at the stage of asking questions as a way of discovering what I should be asking questions about.’