Trick of the Dark

by Val McDermid

  But at least she'd been able to talk to her about Corinna's bizarre request. She'd got home late on Saturday evening, still dazed from her encounter with Lisa. Her comment about vulnerability had marked the end of their conversation. Their hour was up, and Lisa's client's finger was on the doorbell. Charlie had swallowed her disappointment that this encounter hadn't moved their relationship further forward.

  She'd been too quick off the mark on that score. As she followed her host into the hallway, Lisa had turned to face her, moving backwards towards the door. She'd stopped then and reached for Charlie's hand, pulling her into an embrace. Charlie felt an explosion of light and heat inside her. This wasn't a friendly farewell kiss. This was the sort of urgent clinch that was a precursor to something hot and sweaty. It had come from nowhere, and even as she surrendered to it, Charlie realised it couldn't go anywhere. Even as lips and tongues and hands explored, the clock was ticking.

  The second ring on the doorbell startled them apart. Charlie was flushed and panting. Lisa, two spots of colour on her cheeks, gave her a twisted, flirtatious smile. 'To be continued,' she said.

  And opened the door.

  Charlie's departure had been a blur. She barely noticed the man who had arrived. She registered Lisa's casual farewell, wondering at so abrupt a shift from one state to another. Then she'd stumbled back to her car, not entirely convinced she was fit to drive. She'd sat for a while, trying to process what had just happened, attempting to divorce her emotional response from a dispassionate analysis of Lisa's behaviour. That turned out to be a waste of time too; her thoughts simply chased their own tails.

  She wasn't quite sure where the time had gone between leaving Lisa's and arriving back home in Manchester close to midnight. Seven hours for a three-and-a-half-hour drive. She had a vague recollection of sitting in a coffee shop at a motorway services, but the rest was a blur. Telling Maria about the Newsams had been a welcome distraction when she'd finally fallen into bed.

  Maria had been more interested in Corinna's story than Charlie had expected. 'It's fascinating,' she'd said, snuggling into Charlie's back. 'The way that "mother lioness protecting her cubs" thing clicks into place. Corinna clearly wasn't that bothered about Jay Stewart's murderous ways when it was other women's kids in the frame. But put her daughter anywhere near harm's way, and she's calling in the heavy artillery. What are you going to do?'

  'I'm not entirely sure,' Charlie had prevaricated. 'One minute I think it's Corinna's paranoia, then I go about-face and think there's too much lurking in Jay's past to be coincidence. It's hard to get my head round the idea that this charismatic, successful businesswoman could be a serial killer.'

  'You're going to do it, though. Aren't you?' There was a note of resignation in Maria's voice.

  'You think I should?'

  'I was thinking about it while you were gone. And while there's part of me wants you to steer clear of other people's battles, I've got to be honest with myself. I know you, Charlie. You need something to keep your mind from eating itself like a rat in a trap.' Maria put her arm on Charlie's thigh. It was a movement of consolation, not eroticism. 'We'll talk about it tomorrow.'

  And they had talked about it. On and off, they'd talked about it most of the day, teasing every last drop of possibility from what Charlie knew. Because Maria was familiar with none of the players, Charlie had confidence in her judgement. Maria wasn't swayed by her history with Corinna, her sympathy for Magda, or her inclination to believe Lisa's estimation of Jay Stewart.

  'The trouble is, you don't do well when you haven't got something to worry at like a dog with a bone,' Maria had said finally and firmly after dinner. Neither of them was paying much attention to the Sunday-night BBC costume drama; it had reached a quotient of silliness that neither could easily bear. The drama on the fringe of their own life was much more interesting.

  'I've still got some teaching.'

  'That's not what I mean. Your job's all about getting to the heart of the really difficult stuff. Challenge is what you thrive on. When that's not there, you don't know what to do with yourself. It's hard for someone who loves you, watching how difficult it is for you not to have a problem to wrestle with.'

  Charlie snorted. 'I've had plenty of problems, thanks to Bill Hopton.'

  'I don't mean that kind of problem. I know you've been trying to put together a defence for the GMC, but that's not the sort of challenge that keeps you on top form. It's more like you need a puzzle. A conundrum. Something to stretch your imagination. You've always needed that. That's why you did so well, working with the police on the profiling. That was high-stakes problem solving. You haven't had anything like that since you had to hand over your caseload. And it's bad for you, Charlie.'

  'And you think raking around in the ashes of Jay Stewart's past is what I need to get my mind working properly?'

  'I can't answer that for you. But I suppose the question is, why not?'

  'For starters, I'm not a detective. I'm a psychiatrist. I don't know how to gather evidence and build a case.'

  'Don't be silly. It's exactly what you do all the time. You spend your life gathering evidence on people's mental states then putting together conclusions based on what you've figured out.'

  'It's not the same,' Charlie protested. 'I'm not a cop. I don't have access.'

  Maria poked her in the ribs. 'You've been watching the cops for years. You've sat in on enough interviews. And nobody is better at blagging their way in where they're not supposed to be than you. Who always manages to get us into the executive lounge at the airport?'

  Charlie giggled. 'Not always. Remember that intractable cow at Charles de Gaulle? I thought she was going to get us arrested.'

  'Don't try and change the subject, Charlie. If Corinna's even vaguely on the money, then the stakes are certainly high enough. You're looking at righting a miscarriage of justice and putting a stop to someone who might see murder as the most efficient way of getting what she wants. And if she is right, and you prove it, then you get to set up camp on the moral high ground. It would make it hard for the GMC to come down against you if you're the hero of the hour.'

  It was interesting, Charlie thought, that Maria's view on the publicly redemptive power of such a success was almost the exact opposite of Lisa's. It was hard to know whose judgement was more likely to be on the money. Charlie leaned her head on Maria's shoulder. 'This wouldn't be a get-out-of-jail-free card for Bill Hopton, sweetheart. That's not going to go away, however the thing with Jay turns out. I still can't escape knowing that if I'd pushed harder for him to be sectioned, four women would still be alive.'

  Maria tutted. 'You know that's not true. You said yourself there was no basis for locking him up as the law stands. You'd have had to lie to have him committed. And you'd have had to persuade another doctor to lie too. And even if you'd been successful, he'd have been released in the long run. You know that. And then it would just have been four different women. So stop beating yourself up and focus on something where you can do some good. Either find evidence against Jay, or exonerate her.'

  Stretching out on the sofa, Charlie laid her head in Maria's lap. 'You make a strong argument. But there is one other thing that makes me hesitate.'

  'What's that?' Maria started fiddling with Charlie's hair, running her fingers through it, twisting locks into corkscrews and watching them spring straight again. It was a familiar routine that always relaxed Charlie.

  She wriggled herself more comfortable. 'Lesbian solidarity. Am I being an Uncle Tom? Am I letting myself be used in what's essentially a homophobic witch hunt? Would Corinna have called on me if Jay had been a bloke?'

  'Maybe. Well, probably not, if I'm honest. But if Jay had been a bloke, Corinna wouldn't have known anything about his past. So the question would never have arisen.'

  Charlie smiled. Trust Maria - down-to-earth, practical Maria - to resolve at least one of the questions that had been torturing Charlie with a piece of logic that she should have had the sense to
come up with herself.

  'Besides,' Maria added, 'you're not obliged to share your conclusions with Corinna. You're not a private eye. She hasn't hired you. You can do whatever you think best with whatever you uncover. Tell Corinna or not. Tell Magda or not. Tell Jay or not, even.'

  So Charlie had settled her argument with herself and decided to do what Corinna had asked. In spite of Lisa's conviction that Jay was no killer, Charlie would chase down whatever evidence might still be found and weigh it in the balance.

  It had seemed a straightforward choice at bedtime, but by morning it had become a thorny problem again. Charlie stared into her coffee, frowning. It was all very well, setting herself up to investigate Jay. But where could she begin? What was she even looking for?

  Maria flapped a hand in front of her. 'Hello? Anybody home?'

  Charlie gave a weak smile. 'I don't know where to start,' she said.

  Maria shrugged. 'I've always believed in starting at the beginning.'

  'And in this case, the beginning would be . . .?'

  'The first instance we know about. The rowing captain's death.'

  'And where do I look?'

  Maria spread her toast, frowning. 'Oxford, obviously. This happened back before everything was online. You'll need to go and look at the newspaper archives. There must have been an inquest. Surely there'll be a record of that somewhere? And there must have been a police investigation. Maybe there's some old retired cop ready to spill the beans like you get in the best detective novels.'

  Charlie laughed. 'I think you're more into this than I am.'

  'You've got to admit, it's a hell of a tale. I expect full reports at every stage.'

  Charlie felt a twinge of guilt. There would be some aspects of her activities that she wouldn't be reporting to Maria. Maybe chasing Jay's history would turn out to be an antidote to her feelings for Lisa. She'd tried to convince herself that her illicit emotions had simply expanded to fill the space available, but it wasn't working. 'I'll keep you posted,' she said. 'I've not got any teaching till Wednesday, so I can go back to Oxford today.'

  'That makes sense,' Maria said. 'Will Corinna put you up?'

  Charlie shook her head. 'I don't think that's a good idea. If Magda came out to Henry yesterday like she was planning to, he's not going to welcome another lesbian under his roof. I'll get Corinna to book me into a college guest room. Back to the Spartan cell of the undergraduate.'

  Maria grinned. 'Nothing to distract you from the task in hand.'

  Charlie had the grace to feel ashamed. 'Not in Schollie's, no,' she said.

  Maria finished the last mouthful of toast and stood up. 'Take care,' she said, rounding the corner of the table and hugging Charlie. 'There might just be a killer out there.'

  That wasn't the only risk, Charlie thought, her smile wan. Not by a long chalk.

  12

  The numbers on the clock morphed from 4:16 to 4:17. Jay shifted carefully, anxious to avoid waking Magda. They tended to sleep with legs intertwined, their upper bodies apart. It had quickly evolved as a position they were both comfortable with. There was comfort in the contact, but it wasn't easy to extricate herself when she woke in the early hours, knowing there was no prospect of further sleep. That was the pattern of her life, had been since Kathy's death and the night-mares that came with it. Night after night, Jay woke sweating, body clenched. The dream was always the same: the swirling snow, the freezing cold, the monochrome mountain. Then the imagined scream, a scream there had never been in life, a scream that severed Jay from sleep every night.

  The nightmare had gone on for months before she'd finally accepted that she would be stuck with it until she sought help. There was one obvious person-a therapist she'd known since they were students. Jay had been amazed at her susceptibility to hypnosis. She'd always imagined strong-willed characters like her would find it hard to let go. But she slipped easily into the altered state and had little recollection of what had happened while she'd been under. That didn't matter. What mattered was that the bad dreams stopped. She could go to bed secure in the knowledge that whatever she dreamed wouldn't rise up and destroy her sleep.

  But the period of nightmare nights had changed one thing for ever. Jay discovered that, like Margaret Thatcher, she could function perfectly well on less sleep than most people needed. Now, four or five hours was all it took to refresh her and set her up for another day. It was, she believed, one reason for her business success. While other people were still sleeping, she was already at her computer surfing the web, dealing with emails, making connections and playing with new ideas. Or writing.

  She'd wondered whether revisiting that terrible day on Sgurr Dearg would bring the bad dreams roaring back. Wondered, not in an anxious, frightened way, but more in a clinical, 'How does this work?' kind of way. But nothing had surfaced in spite of her emotional reaction to writing about that moment when she'd cut the rope.

  She'd been outwardly composed by the time Magda had returned from Oxford upset and angry. At Jay's suggestion, Catherine had joined them for dinner, a DVD and a bottle of wine. By the time her sister had left, Magda had calmed down and they'd gone to bed with all possible conflict dispelled. They'd made love with all the urgency of reaffirmation, then Jay had slept as if a switch had been thrown in her brain.

  Sunday had been a perfect day. Jay had gone out while Magda was still asleep and bought fresh pastries and newspapers. They'd lazed in bed reading and talking, eating and drinking coffee, Craig Armstrong's piano music in the background. When they'd finally dragged themselves out of bed, they'd walked along the river, ending up having an early dinner in an intimate little Italian restaurant near St James's Park. 'During the week it's packed with politicians and journalists, ' Jay told Magda. 'But on Sundays, it's got a completely different atmosphere.' She sensed her inside knowledge of London was one of the things Magda found seductive about their time together. It seemed that Philip, for all his money and his generosity, had moved in quite limited tram tracks.

  After dinner, they'd walked on through the evening streets to Magda's flat. They didn't often spend the night there, but tomorrow she would have to return to work, and Jay had suggested it would be less complicated if she set off from her own home. Exhausted by fresh air and exercise, Jay had fallen asleep more readily than she generally did in beds that were not her own.

  But now she was wide awake, two and a half hours before Magda's alarm clock would sound. Inch by careful inch she withdrew the leg that was trapped between Magda's thighs. Magda groaned in her sleep and shifted on to her side, allowing Jay to slide free. She padded across the room, grabbing Magda's dressing gown from the back of the door and heading for the little room Philip had used as a study. There was, she knew, a computer there she could use, and a memory stick in her trouser pocket to transfer whatever she wrote back to her home machine.

  While the machine booted up, Jay cast her mind back to where she had finished on Saturday, before the phone had rung and derailed her concentration. Sometimes, any excuse would do.

  I have very little memory of how I got off the In Pinn. All I know is that it took a long time. The pain in my knee took my breath away every time I had to put any weight on my left leg. More than once, I thought I was about to join Kathy on the valley floor. It wasn't just because of the dead weight of my leg. And it wasn't because of the weather; ironically, that had eased a little, certainly enough for most serious climbers to feel confident of getting off the hill in perfect safety. No, it was because I was emotionally shattered. I had sent my business partner and closest ally to her death. It didn't matter that I had only done it so that one of the two of us would survive. I was distraught. Probably borderline hypothermic. And almost certainly in shock.

  The whole thing had taken so long that the mountain rescue team had been alerted. Later, I found out that I'd been a couple of hundred feet below the summit of Sgurr Dearg when they'd come across me, dragging myself down the mountain with agonising slowness. They wrapped me in the
rmal blankets and in stumbling sentences I managed to tell them what had happened. One of the few things I remember is the look that two of them exchanged when I told them I'd had to cut the rope. The pity and sadness in their faces haunts me still. I knew that, in the outside world, I was going to be condemned and reviled. But these men who understood the cruelty of the mountains had no anger in their hearts for me.

  They formed a phalanx of support around me and got me off the mountain. If you ever have a chunk of money you feel like donating to charity but you're not sure who to give it to, please send it to the Glen Brittle Mountain Rescue. Those guys are amazing. To turn out without hesitation in the dark in a blizzard to help a stranger is a demonstration of the kind of courage we don't often see in the modern world. If not for them, I could have died that day.

  At the time, though, it felt like a mixed blessing to be alive. Kathy's death was a terrible blow. The loss of her friendship, her business acumen, her company - all of that was hard to bear. But I had no peace to grieve. What had happened to us on the In Pinn was an instant media sensation. As the owners of one of Britain's leading dotcom companies, Kathy and I were accustomed to finding our names on the financial pages. We quite liked it - we were proud of what we'd achieved.

  This was very different. Any climbing accident where someone perished because of a cut rope would have made a page lead in most of the papers for a day. But because of who we were and because of when it happened, this was a story that was all set for a long run. So I had to contend with the perpetual attentions of hungry journalists who couldn't quite decide if I was a tragic heroine or an evil villain.