My mouth was dry. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, so I put my pen down and pinned my hands between my knees, trying to look interested. The conference room with its expensive furniture and tasteful prints, filled with the fragrance of coffee, seemed unreal, as though I were sitting on a stage, acting a bit part in a play. And I had no idea what the ending would be. I could hardly take my eyes off Alan’s face; he was so blissfully unaware of his impending fate. If he knew, would he act differently? Would he be nicer to the people who worked for him? Would he even waste his time going over a business presentation?
More importantly, what was I going to do? I felt that I had to warn him, but didn’t know how. It would sound insane, whatever I said. “Hey, Alan, had a medical check up recently?” Or “Look both ways before you cross the road this weekend.”
“Something tickling your funny bone?” Alan asked, looking at me.
“Sorry?” I replied with a guilty start. I couldn’t believe that I had smiled at my own thoughts. “Oh no, sorry. I was just concentrating.”
He shook his head in mock sadness. “You were my star, Kate, until recently. The clients loved you. You were so full of energy and…” He cast around for a word. “And enthusiasm. Now you look like you’re dragging yourself in here and can’t wait to get out. What happened, for Christ’s sake?”
Josh intervened. “Kate’s been through a lot,” he said. “Her mother died and now Rebecca’s dead. She just needs some time.”
“You’re a dangerous person to know, Kate,” said Alan. “Everyone around you dies, it seems.”
More than you know, I thought, but remained silent under the heat of his gaze.
“Well, then, let’s wrap this up,” he said. “Josh, you can make those changes we discussed. I’m leaving early today, going up to Silverstone.”
“Silverstone?” I echoed. “To watch a race?”
“No, to be in one,” said Alan, pushing his chair back and standing up. He tucked his polo shirt, yellow today, more tightly into his belt.
“Sounds great, what are you racing?” asked Ben.
“A Ducati Desmosedici.” Alan had a huge, goofy grin on his face. “Jack won two places at some charity auction. Tomorrow morning, we have training and then we race in the afternoon.”
“I’m jealous,” said Ben. “The Ducati is fantastic. What does it have? 800cc and a top speed of 220? Brilliant. I wish I could come and watch you.”
“Sounds dangerous,” said Josh. I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck. The aura was presaging Alan’s death and he was going to be racing motorbikes the next day.
“Not a good idea for both the company directors to be doing something so risky at the same time,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm.
Ben raised his eyebrows in surprise and immediately looked at Alan to see his reaction. Alan’s brow was furrowed and his cheeks were red, both sure signs that he was angry. “Not a good idea for you to pass judgment on what your bosses do in their spare time,” he growled.
“I didn’t mean to make a judgment. I just meant that it would be awful for the company if anything happened to you, or to Jack. Motorbike racing sounds scary, that’s all. People come off those things all the time.”
Josh shot me a warning look, but I had to keep going, to make Alan aware of how dangerous the race would be, maybe convince him not to go after all.
“Are your kids going to watch?” I asked.
“No, it’s a school day.”
“Probably just as well.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, you know if anything were to happen, you wouldn’t want your little boys to see it. That would be really hard on them.”
“Nothing is going to happen,” Alan snapped.
“We need to get this presentation finished,” said Josh. He stood up, came around the conference table and put his hand under my elbow to pull me to my feet. “And we need to do it right now.”
16
Josh led me to the employee lounge, asked me to sit down on the sofa, and poured a cup of coffee. He pulled a chair over so he could look at me.
“Kate, are you all right? I mean, I know you’re going through a rough patch, with Rebecca, the aura visions, and all that. I’m worried about you.”
I listened to what he was saying, but kept my eyes fixed on the ficus in its pot next to the sofa. I thought that if I looked at Josh directly, I might start crying. A few of the leaves were turning brown at the ends. I wanted to prune them off and mist the plant with water. I had inherited my Dad’s love of gardening but not, I thought wryly, all of his skill. Earlier in the year, I had bought and nurtured a lemon thyme plant, keeping it on the kitchen windowsill and turning it carefully each day so that it could absorb as much sunlight as possible. When it was particularly cold outside, I took it off the sill to protect its delicate leaves. One night I forgot and the following morning, the plant had died, its fragrant green leaves pooled on the counter.
“What was going on with Alan?” Josh continued. “Why would you try to stop him doing something fun? He’s already watching you closely, you know, so picking a fight with him seemed a bit perverse.”
I shifted my gaze to Josh’s face, feeling tears spring to my eyes when I saw his look of genuine concern. “It’s dangerous, what he is going to do,” I said. “You said so yourself.”
“Yes, but I didn’t tell him not to go. Honestly, that’s not our job. He’s an adult. If he wants to hurl his aging body around a track at two hundred miles an hour, that’s up to him. I’ll bet he’ll hardly be able to walk afterwards.”
“But what if he’s killed?”
Josh stared at me for a few moments. “I don’t understand why you’d think that way. People do crazy things every day and, yes, some get hurt or killed, but not that many statistically. My cousin goes sky-diving every weekend. He’s been doing it for years. It’s a high-risk sport but he loves it. Says it gets him through the drudgery of Monday to Friday. It doesn’t make a lot of sense to think that Alan will get hurt. That’s a bit morbid.”
I bowed my head. Of course it sounded morbid and, a week ago, I wouldn’t have given Alan’s weekend a microsecond’s thought. Now I was worrying about his kids growing up without their father.
“Besides, you don’t even like him!” Josh added. I looked up to see him grinning.
“I don’t really, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t warn him.”
“Warn him? Oh Christ, don’t tell me he has one of those aura things too?”
“Yes.”
He shifted on the green upholstered chair and leaned forward slightly, the grin replaced with a look of serious concentration.
“Kate, I want to believe you, I really do. But don’t you think it’s weird? I mean, you keep seeing this aura over people. Perhaps it means something else and has nothing to do with dying. Do I have one?”
“No.”
He waved his hand around his head for a few seconds. “That’s a relief, at least until we know what they mean. But maybe it’s not predicting death?”
“It is, Josh. I wish it wasn’t, but think about it. Rebecca, Sophie, Francesca.”
The silence in the room was almost absolute, marred only by the soft hiss of the radiators.
Josh stood up and walked to the window and back. “So you believe that Alan is going to die? That’s really what the aura means?”
“What do you think? It seems obvious to me.”
Josh moved back to the window and leaned up against the windowsill. Behind him the rain ran down the windowpane, obscuring the view beyond.
“So what do I do about Alan? Do I tell him?”
“No way,” said Josh. “I think that would be the end of your employment here. He’d think you were making it up, or doing it to spite him. I don’t think you should say anything.”
“Say anything to who?”
Ben was at the door and I wondered how much he’d heard.
“I have to go,” I said. I was lost
and bewildered. I knew something I couldn’t tell for fear of being censured or fired. The Trojan princess, Cassandra, had foreseen the destruction of Troy, but her warnings had gone unheeded. Her family and friends thought she was insane. She’d even predicted her own death, and it had come to pass as she’d said it would. She was murdered by Clytemnestra.
“Where are you going?” Josh asked, as I moved towards the door.
“To my desk.”
“Are you two fighting?” asked Ben.
Josh ignored him. I glared at him then turned back towards Josh. The gap between us physically was only a few yards. I could cover the space in three or four steps. But I felt like an abyss was opening up between us. The vertical line between his brows was pronounced and his jaw was tense. I couldn’t blame him.
“Well, I’ll see you soon,” I said, hoping that he would move towards me, or say something to make me stay. But he remained where he was, perched on the windowsill. Ben still stood at the door, grinning. What pleasure he got out of seeing confrontation between others I didn’t know, but I pushed past him and went to my desk.
I didn’t see Josh again until it was time to leave. He waved at me when I walked past his office, but he carried on talking with Laura and Ben. On the Tube, I sat next to a man with fuzzy air moving around his head, and I closed my eyes for the rest of the journey. I never wanted to see another aura again.
The rain had stopped by the time I came out of the station. I wandered slowly, kicking at leaves that clumped together in damp piles. The lit windows of the houses I passed seemed to taunt me. I imagined families and friends gathered together inside. When a couple passed by me, longing, like a physical pain in my chest, stabbed at me. Normal life was a vague memory. Like a player sidelined with an injury, I watched but couldn’t participate, and wondered if I ever would again.
After dragging myself up the four flights of stairs, I opened the door to my flat, and was struck by how quiet it was. I wished I was out somewhere in a noisy bar or restaurant where my thoughts wouldn’t have space to run around in my head quite as much.
I poured a glass of sauvignon blanc, carried the bottle and glass into the living room, and kicked off my shoes.
Sipping my wine, I turned on the television for some company. My cell phone lay on the coffee table in front of me. After a few minutes, I picked it up. Alan’s number was speed-dialed in, as was everyone’s at the firm. Alan encouraged out of office hours communication, as he called it, which really meant that he expected us all to put in free overtime. Taking a deep breath, I pressed his number and waited while the phone rang twice and clicked to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. I wasn’t clear on what I would have said if we had been connected.
I turned on a lamp, grateful for its warm yellow light. There was nothing more to be done, I decided. I couldn’t take responsibility for Alan or anyone else. Pushing myself to my feet, I went to the kitchen to contemplate dinner. My refrigerator, usually well-stocked, was empty. I hadn’t found the energy to go shopping. But I boiled some penne pasta, added some olive oil, herbs, and grated cheese. It looked appetizing, but the first mouthful made me gag. It tasted like cardboard, and I realized I wasn’t hungry anyway. Instead, I poured another glass of wine and took it back to the living room. Just then, my phone trilled, the sound of Pachelbel’s Canon filling the room.
“This is Kate.”
“Kate, Alan. You called?”
“Er, yes.” I put my glass down on the table, and stood up. I thought better when I was standing. “Are you driving or are you already at Silverstone?”
“Driving, but in the wrong bloody direction.” Alan’s voice echoed a little and I pictured him in his Jaguar, talking on the hands-free speaker.
“Why are you driving in the wrong direction?”
“My son fell off his horse and broke his arm. He’s fine, but Tish is insisting I go home to be with them all.”
“I’m really sorry about the accident,” I said, my head light with relief that Alan was going home. “But I’m glad he’s okay. So does that mean you’ll miss your motorbike race?”
“Yep. Jack’s already called a friend of his to take my spot. Bloody idiot. Not Jack, I mean this wanker who’s driving like a snail in front of me.” Alan uttered a string of swear words and I held the phone away from my ear. I felt a prickle on the back of my neck. I’d been worried about the racing, but maybe that wasn’t where the risk lay. Alan was out on the road, in a bad mood. What if he crashed his car on the way home?
“Well, I’d better let you concentrate on driving,” I said. “One accident in the family is enough for tonight, right?”
A sound somewhere between a growl and a snort came over the phone. “Wait,” he said. “What were you calling about?”
I should have come up with a viable excuse before making the call, I realized, thinking fast. “I had some ideas about the Montgomery project and wanted to pass them by you. We have another presentation early on Monday morning, so I didn’t want to wait until then. Sorry, I shouldn’t be disturbing you when you’re out of the office. We can talk on Monday.”
“No, I’m glad to hear that you’ve been giving it some thought,” said Alan. “That’s the old Kate I’ve been missing recently. So, what’s the idea?”
I considered pressing the end call button to pretend that we had been disconnected. But, knowing Alan, he’d just ring right back.
“Glass panels,” I said.
“Glass panels?”
“You know, like the custom ones that we used for the RBS building?”
“The ones from Germany? They’re friggin’ expensive.”
“Yes, but we’d only need a couple for the design I have in mind. In the reception area.”
“Ok,” he said after a pause. “But I need detailed drawings, dimensions, and pricing before the Montgomery meeting on Monday. Get it done and bring it to me first thing Monday morning. I’m going to take the day off tomorrow anyway, and spend it with the family.”
He sounded as happy as if he’d been invited to spend the day with the Spanish Inquisition.
Perfect, I thought, as he disconnected the call. Now I had a boatload of work to do, with no way of knowing if Alan was safe or not.
17
I worked on the glass panel design for most of Saturday morning, and decided it was good enough. I called Nick several times, but only got his voicemail, and couldn’t think of a single good excuse to call Alan to see if he was safe. Still, I surmised that if anything had happened to him, I’d hear about it.
Josh texted me to say he’d gone to Gloucestershire for the weekend to see his parents. Leo was still in Italy, due to fly back on Sunday morning. My fear for Nick and concern for Alan at least kept thoughts of Rebecca at bay for a while, but the prospect of the dreary, solitary weekend almost paralyzed me with despair. I drank endless cups of tea and thought about my friend’s death.
I wondered when her funeral would be. Several times I picked up my phone to call Rebecca’s parents, but I couldn’t bring myself to disturb them. The people at Montgomery Group would be sure to know something, though. I could ask them at the meeting scheduled on Monday.
In pajamas, socks, and an old sweater of Leo’s, I sat down on the sofa and stared at the coffee table, running my fingers along its lustrous cherrywood surface. If Rebecca’s coffee table had been made of wood, she might not be dead. I shuddered at the memory of all that glass.
I conjured the scene again in my mind. Rebecca on her back amidst the glass shards, the blood dried into the carpet, the bloody handprint on the front of the sofa. There was something I’d noticed when we first entered the room, but now I couldn’t remember what it was.
Pulling a sketchpad and pencil out of a drawer in the coffee table, I drew a rough outline of Rebecca’s living room, with rectangles for the sofas and the table. With a shaking hand, I sketched an outline of the body, arms flung out to either side, one hand touching the sofa. The shattered vase and the white flowers, wilted and b
rown. I was a visual thinker. Seeing details on paper helped me to concentrate.
What was it that I’d seen that night? Something that made me doubt the theory that this was a simple accident. What I’d said to Clarke I really believed. Rebecca had been a dancer, a talented ballerina. She’d organized a dance recital the first term at University, and I’d been amazed by her grace and strength. She’d outperformed all the other dancers on the stage with ease. She moved with a poise that made me feel ungainly and clumsy. That was it, I thought. She wasn’t clumsy. Every movement seemed to be choreographed. She was aware of her own gracefulness, I knew, and it was part of her appeal. The idea that she’d fallen into her own coffee table seemed so unlikely, in spite of what Inspector Clarke thought.
I stared at the drawing. There was no rug to trip over; the white carpet ran all the way to the baseboards. There’d been no sign of anything else, no bag or stool in the way, no magazines or papers on the floor that she might have slipped on.
And then there was the boyfriend. Did they have a fight? Did he push her, deliberately or accidentally, and then run away? The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that Rebecca hadn’t just stumbled into the table.
I stared at the diagram for several minutes. I remembered the gold bracelet of her watch against the whiteness of her wrist. It didn’t seem that robbery was involved. I couldn’t really recall if anything had been missing.
Turning the paper around, I realized that I’d drawn Rebecca’s right arm in the wrong place, so I erased it and redrew it. Still something was wrong. Then I remembered. A wine glass in her right hand, broken, the stem pointing up to the ceiling, a jagged spike, and the rest of the glass in splinters. And a bottle of wine lying on its side a few feet away, near the fireplace. It was a Cabernet, like the one we’d drunk the night I had gone for dinner. Perhaps even the same bottle because we’d only had one glass each. Rebecca wasn’t a big drinker; she told me she was careful with her calorie intake and I knew she was proud of her willowy figure.
The Complete Kate Benedict Cozy British Mysteries Page 10