Until it's Over

by Nicci French

  ‘Who?’ I said. ‘Who’s being charged?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ he said, then nodded. ‘Come with me.’

  Then things happened quickly. A process was under way and we, the residents of seventy-two Maitland Road, were swept along helplessly in it. The house wasn’t ours any more. It had changed even in the time that Kamsky and I had been in the garden. It looked like the site of a sinister biological accident. People were wandering around in white coats with their shoes wrapped in white nylon bags. The rooms on the ground floor were being sealed off with tape.

  ‘We’d like you all to come into the station with us,’ said Kamsky.

  ‘Can I fetch something from my room?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Kamsky. ‘You can’t. This is a crime scene now.’

  ‘What do you mean, a crime scene?’ I said. ‘What crime?’

  Dario was being led down the stairs by the two officers I’d seen him with before.

  ‘Astrid,’ he said. ‘They’re taking us in.’

  ‘Quiet,’ said Kamsky. ‘I don’t want you to confer.’

  So Dario gestured at me helplessly, almost comically, as he was led past me and out into the street. Two men came in carrying arc-lights on metal stands. At the same time I was thinking urgently. In my pockets I had the bundle of money. Was I a suspect? Would I be searched at the police station? Would I have to surrender all the contents of my pockets? Probably not, unless I was the one who was going to be charged. In which case it would look very bad indeed. If there was any chance of it being found, it would be prudent to tell them in advance. But I couldn’t think of a way of saying it that wouldn’t sound strange. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Kamsky, I think I ought to mention that I’ve got twenty thousand pounds in cash in my pocket. It’s not at all relevant to the case, but I thought you might want to know.’

  I felt a touch on my arm and started. It was Kamsky. ‘We’re leaving now, if that’s all right,’ he said.

  ‘Can I take my bike, at least?’ I asked. ‘It belongs to Campbell – and it’s my livelihood.’

  He shrugged. ‘Go on, then. A police car will follow you.’

  As we were led out, I saw that the street now seemed to be jammed with police vehicles, the brightly coloured cars and vans and then more unmarked vans. Lines of tape sealed off a whole section of Maitland Road in front of our house. Behind the tape a crowd of people was staring. Did they think I was being arrested? That I was a suspect? Was I a suspect? It suddenly occurred to me that I ought to compose my face into a suitable expression. I mustn’t smile. That would look insensitive. I mustn’t cover my face, seem angry or evasive. I needed to look businesslike, every inch the woman who was helping the police with their inquiries. Except that everyone knows that ‘helping police with their inquiries’ is the euphemism for being the main suspect who hasn’t yet been charged. I had to look self-consciously unselfconscious, like the person who really was helping the police with their inquiries. Which is what I was, wasn’t I?

  People from the crowd shouted my name as I walked out. I looked around reflexively. They weren’t neighbours or friends. This was London, after all, where you don’t know your neighbours. These were the journalists and photographers who already knew me. What did they think, seeing me with an officer at my elbow? The headline that accompanied the photograph would be the thing that everyone remembered, whatever else happened.

  My return to the police station, to the interview room, the plastic moulded chairs, the linoleum, the pimpled wallpaper, was like a recurring dream, coming back to the same place, telling the same story, filling in the gaps in response to the same questions. Except this time I knew that Mick and Davy and Mel and Pippa and Owen and Miles and Dario were sitting in other interview rooms or on benches waiting their turn. For a few minutes I was left alone in the room and I could almost feel their proximity. I felt as if it wasn’t just that we were separating, leaving the house and each other. It was as if one of those wrecking balls had swung into the house and smashed away a whole wall. I thought of half-demolished buildings, where you could see the wallpaper exposed to the rain, and all the innards, the wires and beams and joists, like bones and muscles and tendons spilling out of a wound.

  The process of giving the statement was long and it was boring, but I noticed gradually that it lacked the hostility of my earlier interviews. A junior detective of about my own age took the statement, and he was so ill-briefed that I had to prompt some of his questions. I knew my part so well now. I was numbed by it, but he was clearly excited to be involved. When there was really nothing more to be said, he left me alone once more. After a few minutes the interview-room door opened and Kamsky came in. I saw a new brightness in his eyes as he sat down opposite me. ‘You all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Just knackered,’ I said.

  ‘You can leave now,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid you can’t go back to the house. Have you got somewhere you can stay?’

  ‘Yes – my friend Saul, remember? But – ’

  ‘You’ll need to keep us informed of your whereabouts,’ he said.

  ‘Aren’t you done?’

  ‘Not entirely,’ he said, and then his face broke into a smile. ‘We have found evidence – blood, hair, trophies taken from the dead women. Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you this, but we’re about to call a press conference at which we’ll announce that we’re charging Miles Rowland Thornton with the murders of Margaret Farrell, Ingrid de Soto and Leah Peterson.’

  At which point I thought two things more or less simultaneously. I thought: No, oh, no, please, no. And I thought: He never told me he was called Rowland. I didn’t know I was crying until Kamsky pressed a tissue into my hand. Because, in spite of everything, Miles was my friend.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ I said at last. ‘Tell me everything.’

  As Kamsky kept saying, evidence was evidence. Motives might be incomprehensible, explanations hard to find, but the fact was that they had evidence that tied Miles to the deaths of Margaret Farrell, Ingrid de Soto and Leah Peterson.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘How? All three?’

  ‘All three.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A murder weapon for one. And bodily samples for another,’ he said, with grotesque delicacy. ‘Tissue and hair from Margaret Farrell, if you want me to be precise. Don’t you see? It’s perfect.’ He was actually smiling. ‘It solves the problem of Margaret Farrell’s body. Her body was kept in Mr Thornton’s room. She may have been killed there. What is certain is that her body was kept there, then dumped later at the site where it was found. What’s more, there were also objects hidden in his room. Trophies, we assume.’

  ‘Trophies? Like what?’

  ‘You’ll hear soon enough.’

  ‘I just don’t get it. Why? I mean, I can understand Leah. Not understand-understand, but grasp it. He knew her. He was her lover. But the others. Peggy, for God’s sake, he hardly knew her. She was just a harmless woman who lived down the road.’

  At this Kamsky gave a knowing smile. ‘He killed her, though. In his own room.’

  ‘And what about Ingrid de Soto? There’s no possible connection.’

  ‘There was an invitation from Mrs de Soto in Mr Thornton’s possession.’

  ‘What?’ I stared at Kamsky for a moment. Then I remembered Andrew de Soto in the hotel, his wretched, creased face. ‘Her husband thought she was having an affair,’ I said slowly. ‘You mean, she was having an affair with Miles?’

  ‘We don’t know about that yet,’ he said. ‘We’ve only just started.’

  I wanted to say that Miles wouldn’t have had an affair with someone like Ingrid de Soto, but what did I know? Nothing had ever been the way it seemed.

  ‘I feel a bit sick,’ I said.

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘I don’t think you can, actually.’

  ‘All I can say, Astrid, is that you may never understand. Sometimes questions don’t have answers.’

  ‘Right,’ I said.
<
br />   ‘You should go home now.’

  ‘You’re forgetting. I don’t have one any more.’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I think none of us really wanted to leave and go our separate ways, because that would be the end. We’d be scattered, blown in different directions, like the seeds of a dandelion clock. After we’d met outside the station, after the fragmented explanations, the arguments, the disbelief, the tears, the hugs, we walked slowly down the street, me pushing Campbell ’s crappy bike, and stopped at the first pub we came to. It was dark and hot inside, with music playing too loudly. The men squeezed round a table near the window while Pippa and I went to get drinks. I felt as though I was moving under water, sluggish with tiredness and shock. As we were watching the man behind the bar pulling pints, another horrible thought came into my mind and I did something I never do, which is to ask someone about their sex life: ‘Did you ever sleep with him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Miles.’

  ‘Once. Twice, maybe.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Pippa.’

  ‘It was after you’d finished with him, if that’s what you’re wondering, but before Leah. I wanted to cheer him up, comfort him.’

  ‘So you slept with him. You couldn’t just buy him a drink, have a chat?’

  ‘It was a way of holding him through the dark hours, I suppose. So, I’ve slept with a murderer. That’s a first.’

  ‘Not the most lovable thing you’ve ever said.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Then she looked at me. ‘He adored you. Maybe he went mad because of it. People do, you know. He’s sick in the head.’

  ‘What is it with you, Pippa? Is it an animal thing, like spraying on your territory?’

  The barman interrupted us. ‘Excuse me. That’ll be ten pounds thirty, ladies.’

  ‘Here.’ I pulled the money out of my purse and slid it across.

  ‘Why did you never say?’ I asked Pippa, after collecting the change.

  ‘I just did.’

  I started to say something, then gave up. What was the point? The world was full of secrets, each of us hiding our real self from everybody else, even those we called friends.

  I managed to pick up three of the pints and walked across to the table where the others were sitting.

  ‘Cheers,’ I said, raising a glass. ‘Here’s to… well, what? What are we drinking to?’

  ‘Friendship,’ said Davy, with no trace of irony in his voice.

  Pippa spluttered.

  ‘No, I’m serious,’ said Davy. ‘This has been shocking, more for Astrid and Pippa than the rest of us, I know, but we’re left, aren’t we? The six of us.’

  ‘At least we know we can trust each other,’ added Pippa, with another snort. Davy frowned at her. I gave her a disbelieving look too.

  ‘Cheers, anyway,’ he said and lifted his glass.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Dario.

  So we toasted each other. I took a cautious sip. I didn’t need alcohol: the world was already unsteady around me. Nothing real or solid.

  What was happening to Miles now? Was he still in the police station, with his solicitor, maybe? Were they questioning him at this very moment, capturing his words on a tape-recorder? Or was he sitting alone in a cell? Did his parents know yet? I’d met his mother several times and his father once, but my imagination balked when I tried to picture them hearing that their clever son was accused of murder. I heard Owen saying my name, but all I could see were images: Ingrid’s slashed face; Leah’s; Miles’s soft brown eyes looking into mine.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ said Davy. ‘You never cry.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Astrid?’ Owen said. ‘It’s OK. Cry if you want.’

  And in front of everyone, he put his hand over mine and lifted it to his lips.

  ‘Hey! What’s going on?’ Dario’s eyes were bulging.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Owen.

  But I leaned across the table, took Owen’s thin face between my hands and kissed him full on the lips. ‘It’s all right,’ I said.

  Of course, it wasn’t all right, but the drink started to take hold and we ordered more and, in a slightly hysterical way, started to talk about old times and even to laugh a bit. It was mostly a performance but it helped us get through the evening until it was time for us to part. Just as we were starting to shift in our seats and nod our goodbyes, I remembered something. I took the cash out of my pocket.

  ‘This is probably evidence of some kind,’ I said. ‘Before the police grab it, we should share it out.’

  But Davy stopped me. ‘For goodness’ sake, Astrid, people are already looking at us. Don’t flash money around in a place like this.’

  It was probably more to do with embarrassment than fear but I gave a shrug.

  ‘I’ll do the maths,’ said Pippa. ‘Then we can arrange to meet tomorrow somewhere a bit more salubrious. It’ll be an excuse for another farewell drink.’

  There were nods all round as we stood up, buttoned our jackets and went out into the street together. The rain had stopped and darkness fallen, though the last traces of day still glowed on the horizon. The air was warm and beneath the petrol fumes and curry I could smell blossom.

  ‘Don’t you love London?’ I said dreamily, to no one in particular. Then: ‘Oh, fuck, someone’s slashed both my bike tyres.’

  ‘How mean,’ said Pippa indignantly. ‘Can you mend them?’

  ‘Not without my repair kit. Never mind. I’ll just have to leave the bike here and come back tomorrow.’ I looked at them all, grouped on the pavement. ‘Well, this is it, then.’

  ‘Till tomorrow.’

  I hugged Pippa, gripped the others by the arm. Owen stopped me. ‘Astrid,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘Don’t go just yet. Please.’

  I hesitated, then took his hand. ‘Saul’s expecting me,’ I said. ‘And besides – well, this is the wrong time for anything except sleep. Maybe it will always be the wrong time – after this.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘We’ll see each other tomorrow, Owen. I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘You’re right. Try to rest. I hope your dreams are peaceful.’

  I found it hard to go. I knew we were meeting the next day, and yet it felt that this was the last time I would see them. At last, with a final wave, I was gone from them. I looked back once to see them dispersing, a group breaking up into its individual parts, then walked along the street in the direction of the underground station. A police car passed me from the opposite direction, but for once it had nothing to do with me – some other victim and some other crime. And as I walked, past the crowded bars and the closed-up shops, through the pools of light cast by street-lamps, under the narrow bridge where a couple stood entwined and pigeons nested, the horror thinned. For a few moments I thought only of the sound my feet made on the pavement, felt only the last heat of the day on my face, saw only the road in front of me as it curved round the corner. The story was over, but summer had only just begun.

  Part Two

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Astrid was the last obstacle. Once she was dead I’d be free. And it wouldn’t be so hard. There wasn’t much to it. The trick was learning that there was no trick.

  Killing the first time was like losing my virginity. I had broken through. I had stepped into a new world of adulthood and I expected people to be able to see it in me, a new glow in the eyes, a sense of power. But they couldn’t and that was good too. It was like losing my virginity in other ways as well: a messy, almost farcical fumbling, a struggle on a sofa, a sort of embarrassment and disbelief. A stickiness. She was called Jenny. The first I had sex with, I mean; not the first I killed. She was fifteen, she was folded up against me, half dressed, her cheek stained. Suddenly she felt heavy. I remember wishing that she would just go away. Which she couldn’t, because it was at her parents’ house. And it was like that with the killing as well, because after it had happened, after the spasm, after the thrill and the intimacy,
my main thought was: Is that it? Is that all? Is it as easy as that?

  I looked at Jenny, lying against me, one breast exposed, nuzzling into me. It was the first time for her as well. Really, she was the one who had started it, squeezing my hand at a party, even giving me a Valentine, inviting me to the house when her mum was out. I saw now that she really cared, cared about what had happened, cared about me. Now she leaned over to me and kissed my cheek and I was really quite fascinated. This was going to be the story of her first time, maybe even of her first love, and I had felt nothing at all. While it was taking its course, I had felt we were like two actors playing a scene and playing it badly. And then I realized that Jenny didn’t know she was an actress. She thought it was real.

  It’s like the cat we had when I was little. We only had a postage stamp of a garden, with the railway embankment behind it. But when he wasn’t asleep, he spent his whole life out there, staring into a bush. I never saw him catch anything but we’d find the evidence under the kitchen table. Small birds without heads, a mole, the bottom half of a rat. He was a pathetic pet cat fed from a tin, he had been bred for hundreds of years just to be a sort of fluffy toy, but somewhere, deep down, he still thought he was a lion prowling through the jungle.

  Sometimes, when I was growing up, I wanted to shout at people: ‘You don’t think any of this is real, do you?’ I hardly ever did, though, hardly more than just once. I was eleven years old and in my first year of secondary school. Some of us were sitting at the back of the class during a boring maths lesson and a boy called Daniel Benton was sticking the sharp end of a compass into his arm. Paul Leigh said he could make himself bleed and he pushed the point into his forearm. We leaned over and saw a little red full stop on his white skin.

  I laughed and Paul Leigh whispered furiously at me that I wouldn’t dare do that. Immediately I felt a sense of power. ‘Give me the compass, then,’ I said. ‘Give me it and I’ll show you.’

  It was a once-in-a-lifetime, never-to-be-repeated show. Things quickly got hazy but I remember someone started to cry and a desk got knocked over and there was a bustle and I was dragged out of the room, leaving a red smear behind me.