The Deepest Cut

by Conor Corderoy

He thought about it. I watched his eyes. Top left again, remembering. Then his face contracted and his eyes dropped down and to his right. He was remembering how he’d felt when she’d left. He’d felt sad. He shook his head. He didn’t like what he was remembering. He said, “About eleven.”

  “Did you leave with her?”

  He frowned. “No…” Then, “Well, I…”

  I interrupted him. Now I was going to ask him what I really wanted to know. “Did she come here to break up with you?”

  He fixed me with his eyes. The look was intense. He was angry. Then his gaze wavered and shifted. He was about to lie but thought better of it and glanced down at the floor, rubbing his right hand with the fingers of his left. He said, “Yes.”

  “But you didn’t want to let her go.”

  Anger flashed across his face. “She wasn’t leaving me because she wanted to! She was leaving me because her father—your employer!—demanded it because I’m black!”

  I was going to tell him to take it easy, but suddenly his mother was speaking for him. It sounded like that was something she did a lot. “We have never played the race card, Mr. Murdoch. We have never done any special pleading for ourselves. We have never set ourselves aside or played the victim. My first husband was black, from Barbados, where I am from. But my second husband was white, an Englishman and a good, honorable person. That you should come here now, telling us Mark cannot see Eva anymore because he is black! Because he is not good enough for her! We may be black, Mr. Murdoch, and your employer may be a billionaire, but what we have, I have earned”—she held out her palms to me—“with these black hands. And with the sweat from this black brow!” She stared at me with wild eyes, paused, then went on, “It is not the product of crime, extortion and murder. It is not the product of a black heart!”

  She had finished, but she kept eye contact with me. I shifted my eyes to Mark. He was staring at the floor between his feet, like a strange echo of his mother. I couldn’t make out if his expression was one of embarrassment, shame or anger—maybe all three.

  I looked back at her and said, “Take it easy, Mrs. Edwards. Let’s get a couple of things straight so we can start understanding each other. First of all, Pete is not my employer. I don’t work for him. I don’t work for anybody. But, most important, he doesn’t pay me. So, you can both quit calling him my employer.

  “Second, I am not here to deliver a message from him about Eva. I don’t give a rat’s ass if she was Mark’s girlfriend or not.” I turned to face Mark, who was still staring at the floor. “Frankly, if you made each other happy, I think you’d be stupid to split up. But whether you split up or stayed together is nobody’s business except yours.” I waited for a reaction, but there wasn’t any. Neither of them seemed to be very curious as to why I was there. Finally, I said, “I am here because Eva was murdered last night and I want to find who did it.”

  It was brutal. Maybe it was even cruel. But I needed to see Mark’s reaction.

  He seemed to turn a deep shade of yellow. He stared hard at the carpet then raised his gaze to look at me. His face screwed up and his lips moved on silent words until he said, “What?”

  Meanwhile his mother was shaking her head and saying, “No! No! No, Mark, no—” and she was reaching out for him.

  I ignored her and said, “I’m sorry. Her body was found early this morning. There is no doubt that she was murdered.”

  But Mrs. Edwards was standing, grabbing at her son, her face twisting into an ugly fist of pain. She seemed to claw him to his feet and, as he rose, she enfolded him in her arms and suddenly he was holding her, burying his face in her neck, sobbing like a small boy. I wanted to leave them to suffer in private, but I needed to know what had gone down between Eva and Mark—and his mother. So I sat and watched them clinging to each other and sobbing. Eventually, I pulled out my Camels, eased one out of the box and poked it in my mouth. Two got you twenty that social conditioning would make them stop crying long enough to tell me to put it out. I flipped the Zippo and leaned into the flame. By the time I’d exhaled, he was pulling back and wiping his eyes and she was turning to face me. Her face and her voice were resentful, like it was my smoking that had caused Eva to get killed.

  She said, between sniffs, “Can you please not smoke in here?”

  I gave her my sweetest smile and said, “Sure, where would you like me to put it?”

  She left in search of an ashtray, wiping her cheeks with the palms of her hands.

  I turned to Mark, who was lowering himself back into his chair, muttering, “It can’t be… It can’t—”

  I cut across him and said, “So, she came here to break up with you.”

  He stared at me a while, like he didn’t know what the hell I was doing there. Then he blinked, looked about the room and shook his head.

  I said, “Is that why she came here?”

  Finally, he nodded, then shrugged. “Not really… In a way… She was determined not to accept any help from her father.” He wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands. His breathing was shaking. “She knew what he was and how he had made his fortune, and she wanted no part of it. She was good and decent. But if she moved out of his house now…then…that would mean accepting money from him to get an apartment. And if she did that, it would have to be on his terms. He would own her.”

  “Meaning you couldn’t be a part of her life.”

  “Exactly.” His lip began to curl and tremble, but he fought it. “She went so far as to say she was afraid for my safety. She wanted to take a break until she had graduated. Then we could move in together without owing him anything. But now…?”

  He buried his face in his hands. Mrs. Edwards came in with a cup full of water. She took the cigarette from my fingers and dropped it in the water. Then she left the room with it, holding it at arm’s length, like it was radioactive.

  I ignored her and asked Mark, “How did you feel about that?”

  He shrugged, raised his face and stared at the ceiling. His cheeks were wet. “I didn’t like it, but it made sense, in a way. I told her to come and stay here with us…with me.” He glanced at the door. Upstairs we heard a toilet flush. “But she wouldn’t.” He looked at the floor. “She said three would be a crowd.”

  “Were you mad?”

  He shook his head. “No. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Mr. Murdoch. I saw her to the bus stop. I wanted to see her home, but she was insistent she would go alone.” His voice went thick and he seemed to choke. His eyes flooded. “She got on the bus and that was it.” Then his face crumpled and his voice went into a strange whine. “Oh, God…oh, God…if only I’d gone…”

  I gave him a moment, then asked, “What bus?”

  He took a while to answer, wiping his eyes over and again, until he had his voice under control. Then he said, “One of the Heritage buses, the N9 Special. It would have been about eleven-fifteen.”

  I figured he’d had about all he could take and I left. I killed an hour dunking olives in a couple of Martinis on King Street till eleven, then I strolled down to the N9 bus stop. It came along just before a quarter after eleven. It was called a Heritage bus because it was an old, red, hop-on-hop-off double-decker with an open platform at the back and a conductor who wandered around saying, “Any more fares, please?” It was a bit of the old London that the Londoners wanted to preserve for themselves, but that was preserved for tourists instead.

  I got on and sat at the back, near where the conductor stood. He looked Mediterranean and, when he spoke, I knew he was Italian.

  I handed him my money then, as he gave me my ticket, I said, “Listen, maybe you can help me.” He asked me how with his face and I said, “I’m looking for my sister. She went missing yesterday.”

  It’s a stereotype, but, like all stereotypes, they’re based on some kind of truth. Mothers and sisters are every Italian’s weak spot. I had him hooked straight away.

  He frowned, shook his head and spread his hands all at the same time. “Your sister?” He
made a long, hissing noise through his teeth. “’Ow can I ’elp?”

  “I think maybe she took this bus last night. Maybe you saw her. She’s pretty…” I smiled, full of brotherly pride, and pulled out the photo Melanie had given me and showed it to him.

  He held it, nodding and shaking his head by turns. “Porca miseria! Yeah, yeah, I see her. Last night. Other times, also. She come on this bus. Nice…” He smiled at me, handing back the picture. “Nice girl. Polite. Always nice clothes. Elegant.”

  A couple got on, talking about a film they’d seen at the Odeon and he wandered off after them to get their fares. He came back a couple of minutes later, holding on to the overhead rail. “What ’appen? How she went missing?”

  I shrugged and spread my hands. “Families, right? She had a row with our dad…” I shook my head. “Was she with anyone?”

  He frowned, reassuring me, “Nah! She was alone…” Then he suddenly shrugged, dancing his head around and putting up his hands. He made a ‘Tsk!’ sound and said, “Bene… alone. She get on alone, but then her friend come and sit with her.”

  “Her friend?”

  He pulled a face of total disgust that only Italians know how to do. “Yes, porco, pezzo di merda, small, many spot on his face, the big glasses like a telescopio.” He began to laugh, holding his hands like binoculars in front of his eyes. “The cheap clothes, you know? Not like her, always elegant—Giorgio Armani, Gucci—” He kissed his fingertips.

  I cut in before he started off again and asked, “So this guy got on and sat with her?”

  “Certo! He one stop after her, and he stay talking with her until the Albert ‘All. Then they get off together.”

  I thought for a moment. “Had you ever seen them together on this bus before?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, yeah, couple of time.”

  I got off the bus and watched it pull away into the night. I stood with my back to the Albert Hall, stuck a Camel in my mouth then leaned into the flame of my Zippo. I blew smoke into the hot night air and looked across the road at the blackness of Hyde Park. Half an hour’s walk back in the direction I’d come from was Holland Park. I glanced at my watch. It was half past eleven. She and her mystery friend would have climbed off the bus right here at this time last night.

  What made her do that? And what did she do then?

  Four hours later, she was lying under the trees with a kitchen knife in her heart and her guts ripped out.

  What happened during those four hours?

  Chapter Three

  I watched the butter melt into my heavy rye toast and knew I wouldn’t eat it. I stood and found a bottle of Jameson in the drawing room, brought it back to the kitchen and spilled some onto my black coffee. Maria watched me do it, chewing, but said nothing. I peeled a fresh pack of Camels, poked one in my mouth and lit it. We sat looking at each other. Her, chewing and drinking black coffee. Me, smoking and drinking coffee laced with whiskey.

  After a moment, she sighed and dropped her napkin on the table. “Want to talk about it?”

  “How do I crack those four hours?”

  “Let the police do it. They have the resources to canvass the people who were at the Albert Hall bus stop that night… You haven’t.”

  I told her again what she already knew. “I can’t involve the police.”

  “They’re already involved. They have the body. They’re investigating.”

  “They don’t know about Mark and they don’t know about the guy on the bus. They don’t even know she was on the bus, and they’re not going to find out. You know that.”

  She stood and started collecting the plates. I sucked on my cigarette, took the smoke deep, held it, then let it out slow. She was at the sink with her back to me.

  I said, “She was on the bus on her way home. This guy gets on one stop after she does. They know each other. He sits with her and they talk. Then she gets off with him at the Albert Hall.”

  She was washing plates and didn’t answer.

  I went on, “So that means one of two things. She’d already planned to get off at the Albert Hall, for some reason we don’t know about, and he got off with her, or he persuaded her to get off with him.”

  She picked up a hand towel, turned and started drying her hands, leaning her ass against the sink and watching me. She shrugged. “Makes sense.” She dropped the towel and crossed her arms. “So where do you go from there?”

  I closed my eyes. I could smell the coffee and the cigarette smoke, and I could feel her gaze on me. I knew she was mad, but I had to ignore it and focus. I said, “Either they went somewhere together or they parted. He went his own way, and she went on somewhere else, to a meeting that she had already arranged.”

  I opened my eyes. She was still watching me with her arms crossed. She said, “How will you find out?”

  I thought for a while. Finally, I said, “Like you pointed out, I can’t do the kind of canvassing the cops can. But if she had arranged to meet someone, that someone is either a person she knows or a person who knows someone she knows.”

  She shrugged again. “Could be someone she met online.”

  “Eva? I don’t think so, but I’ll get Pete to have any computer or tablets she had examined.”

  Her face was going rigid. I knew she was getting madder and I wasn’t sure why.

  She said, “Don’t forget that she would have had access to computers at UCL. You’d better have them looked at, too.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. But I’m pretty sure Eva wasn’t hooking up with unknown people online. That wasn’t her style. Besides, she had a boyfriend. But you’re right about UCL. I’m curious about this guy on the bus. Where did she meet him? Where would she meet anyone? Her two points of contact with people were through her father and through the university.”

  “So?”

  “I need to talk to her tutors and her classmates.”

  “But you can’t just turn up and start asking questions. So?”

  “So, I need to talk to Russell. He can arrange for me to meet her tutors.”

  She had a smile you could call humorless stuck on her face. Her arms were crossed so tight that she could have choked a python, and now she had crossed one leg over the other.

  I said, “What’s eating you, Maria?”

  She raised her eyebrows high. “Me? Nothing at all.”

  I crushed out my cigarette and stood. I was going to call Russell. She was watching me.

  As I reached the door she said, “So, what shall I do this weekend?”

  I turned and frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “We were going to Cornwall this weekend, remember? Today is Friday. I’m assuming the weekend is off. You’re going to be busy. So, what do you suggest I should do?”

  I sighed. She was right and I had forgotten. “His daughter was murdered, Maria. I have to help him.”

  She shook her head. “Of course. Please, don’t worry. I understand your priorities perfectly.”

  “I told you. My condition for doing this is that—”

  She cut across me. “Please, Liam, don’t. If you’re going to do it, just do it. You know what they say about actions.” She pushed away from the sink and past me into the hall. Over her shoulder, she said, “They speak much louder than words!”

  A few seconds later, I heard the bedroom door close. It didn’t slam, but it wasn’t far off.

  * * * *

  Russell was at his house in Fishbourne, just outside Chichester. I figured I’d drive down, talk to him and give Maria a chance to cool off and see things with a bit more clarity and perspective. Next weekend, I’d take her to Paris to make up for not going away to Cornwall. I took it slow, with the soft-top down, and enjoyed the breeze and the freedom. It was good to be out and moving. And, though I didn’t like to acknowledge it, it was good to be alone. I wanted Maria in my life like I wanted the air I breathed, but adjusting to this new life wasn’t always easy.

  I pulled up in front of Russell’s place about one in the afternoon. It w
as a hot one in late summer, and there were big thunderheads gathering over the Chichester Channel, but the sky was blue. A tall, red brick chimneypot rose above the thatch roof of his old, pre-Tudor manor house, and a blackbird sat watching me and singing a long, complicated tune into the molten sun.

  I didn’t bother hammering on the ancient oak door. Instead, I walked to the wooden gate that gave on to the garden at the back of the house. As I expected, he was sitting there. He was in baggy, cream-linen trousers, a shirt that seemed six sizes too big on his scrawny frame, huge black sunglasses and a straw hat. He looked luminous against the brilliant green of his lawn. He was sitting at a garden table under a blue and white parasol, reading a newspaper. The smell of honeysuckle and roses was strong on the warm air. I paused for a moment, leaning on the gate, waiting for the blackbird to draw breath.

  When it did, I said, “Hello, Russell.”

  He had a trick of talking to me as though he were picking up a conversation we had momentarily paused a few seconds earlier, even though I hadn’t seen him for weeks—or even months, as was the case now. He glanced up as he turned a page and said, “I see the Monopolies and Mergers Commission has allowed the HEAT Corporation’s bid for the Llyn Celyn fusion reactor. That will bring problems.”

  I opened the gate and said, “I’m fine, thanks. How are you?”

  He scanned the page in front of him. “Where’s Maria? You haven’t brought her? I like her. She’s good for you.”

  “She’s busy.”

  “Have some lemonade. It’s in the fridge. Bring the jug, will you?”

  I went into the kitchen, took two glasses and the jug of lemonade from the fridge, brought them out and put them on the white wrought-iron table under the parasol. I pulled up a chair and sat while he leafed through the paper. I filled the glasses and finally he folded the paper and laid it down.

  He said, “The High Energy Atomic Technologies Corporation. HEAT. It pleases us, doesn’t it, when an acronym amounts to an actual word. We are eternally in search of meaning…”