Williams is on her feet now. She wants me to accompany her downstairs. She’s made arrangements for me to be fingerprinted and DNA-swabbed.
‘Why?’ I’m staring up at her.
‘You were the first into that crime scene. Our guys will be crawling all over it and they’ll need to be able to ID prints and DNA that you’ll have left on various surfaces. Don’t worry, Ms Andressen. This is strictly for purposes of elimination.’
I think I follow the logic. Downstairs, a youngish man with a beard greets me with a smile. Williams makes a phone call while he takes a print of each of my fingers and then swabs the inside of my mouth.
‘Happy?’ Williams has finished her call.
‘Yes, Skip.’ He’s readying my swab for despatch.
Williams shepherds me towards the building’s main entrance. Before she says goodbye, she tells me that the investigation into Carrie’s death will be run by something she calls the MIR at force headquarters in Exeter.
‘MIR?’
‘Major Incident Room. We throw a lot of resource at crimes like these. The duty Detective Superintendent will be putting a squad together as we speak. There’ll be a post-mortem, of course, and that may open one or two doors. My guess is that the SIO will probably want to have you interviewed again by one of his own team.’
‘SIO?’
‘Senior Investigating Officer.’
‘To tell him what?’
She studies me for a moment, and then puts a hand on my arm.
‘You’ve been through the mill, Ms Andressen. Shock’s a funny thing. Lots may come back to you over the next day or two, you’ll be amazed. We’ll be passing on your details to the MIR. I suspect it’ll be one of their detectives who comes to talk to …’ She frowns. ‘Pavel?’
I nod. In truth, I’m past caring. Then, as if by magic, Deko appears from nowhere, the leather jacket hooked over his shoulder.
‘May I?’ He has his other arm round me and he’s looking at Williams.
‘Of course. And you are?’
‘A friend of Enora’s.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr …?’
‘Miedema. It’s Dutch.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Miedema.’ She gives us both a card and scribbles a mobile number on the back of each. ‘Any time, day or night.’
We exchange rather stiff handshakes, and then leave. Out in the sunshine, Deko gives me another long hug.
‘I’m here to take care of you,’ he says. ‘No ifs, no buts. Deal?’
I nod. ‘Deal,’ I mutter wearily. ‘Marché conclu.’
SIXTEEN
When Deko asks me where I want to go, I tell him I’d like him to drive me back to his house on the Beacon. I need to draw breath before I face Malo and Pavel, and I have to talk to H.
‘Who’s H? Do you mind me asking?’
‘Not at all. He’s my son’s real dad. In another life I had a one-night stand on a yacht in Antibes. H poured margaritas down my throat and Malo happened nine months later. For the next seventeen years we were all convinced that my husband Berndt was the father but mercifully that turned out not to be true. I owe those margaritas a very big debt. And so does my son.’
Talking like this does me good. For at least a minute, I haven’t thought about Carrie. Then we’re suddenly driving past the end of her street, with Deko slowing for the traffic. The street is still sealed at both ends, and I stare numbly at the blue and white tape stirring in the wind. Police Line – Do Not Cross. A van is parked outside Carrie’s basement flat with the back doors open, and a masked figure in a grey, one-piece suit is standing on the pavement, making notes on a clipboard.
‘You live with H?’ Deko asks.
I know what he’s doing here. He’s trying to take my mind off it. Anything, I tell myself. Anything to swamp the memory of that ruined body on the bed. He asks the question again, lovely man, and I force myself to answer.
‘No. He’d like me to, but I don’t. H made a lot of money. He did well for himself – better than well.’
‘So, where did the money come from?’
The bluntness of the question takes me by surprise but just now I don’t have the energy to lie. Besides, I trust this man.
‘He was big in drugs.’ I shrug. ‘Back in the day.’
‘Cocaine?’
‘Of course.’
‘He handled the importation?’
‘He handled everything. That’s the kind of guy he is. With H you get what you see. That’s not as common as you might think.’
The fact that I’ve been so candid appears to earn Deko’s respect. We park up and he lets me into the house. I know my way round by now and when he asks me what I want, I settle for coffee and half an hour of privacy.
I climb the stairs to the top of the house. The view is as breathtaking as ever but so much has happened over the last few hours that it barely registers. I collapse on the big sofa and fight the urge to cry again. H, I think. He needs to know about all this.
The moment he picks up the phone, I sense it’s going to be a difficult conversation. Since Brexit turned sour, H has had designs on eighty-five acres of a neighbour’s land, plus the handful of sheep he runs. He thinks – knows – that hard times are coming, and the yeoman peasant in him, never far from the surface, wants to be prepared for the moment when it dawns on everyone that they’ve been conned and it all – in his phrase – turns to rat shit. I have many reservations about Malo’s real dad – his impetuosity, his taste in antique furniture, his language – but I’d never question his commitment to his new family. Drunk, H promises to protect us all to the death, if necessary, and I have no reason to disbelieve him. He is a good man. We’re lucky to be part of his little gang.
‘The fucker won’t bite.’ He’s talking about the fields he’s after. ‘I’ve raised him twice. Ten grand an acre? That’s way over the top and he knows it. I’ll go another grand and a half. After that, he’s on his own.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t want to sell. Have you thought of that?’
‘Everyone’s got a price. That’s what money’s for. He’s just a greedy bastard. I shouldn’t even be talking to him. Next time you’re over we’ll have a leg of lamb. And I won’t be buying it at the fucking butchers.’
H never fails to make me laugh. Even now, after everything that’s happened, he can put a smile on my face.
‘Something’s happened.’ I need to change the subject.
‘Like what?’ H’s voice has hardened. Like most rich men, he hates surprises.
I tell him about Carrie, the whole story, beginning to end. Getting it all out in one go makes me cry again. H has limited patience in any conversation but to his immense credit he doesn’t once interrupt me.
‘Shit,’ he grunts when I’ve finished. ‘I loved that girl. I’m really sorry. When do you want me down? Tonight? Tomorrow? You name it.’
‘Tomorrow would be good.’ I’m on my feet now, blowing my nose on a fold of kitchen roll.
‘Tomorrow it is. What about the boy? How has he taken it?’
‘He doesn’t know yet. I’ve got that pleasure to come. You’ll be glad to know he’s into kitesurfing. Carrie scored him a fifty per cent discount on the lessons and the kit.’
‘Good girl. Bless her. Where are you now?’
‘With a friend.’
‘She looking after you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Laters, then. Yeah? Take care, babe. Pecker up, eh?’
The line goes dead and I linger by the window for a moment. ‘Laters’ is an expression H has lifted from his son. All his life, I suspect, H has been a magpie, nicking anything that catches his attention and bedding it seamlessly into the cheerful chaos of his own life. Roast leg of lamb, I think. An unwitting gift from the neighbour who refuses to say yes.
I find Deko one floor down. The rooms below the top of the house have retained their original dimensions – high ceilings, big sash windows, handsome spaces designed for a civilized life. This one appears to
serve, at least for now, as an office.
Deko is sitting at a big antique desk, studying what I recognize as a tax demand. He wants to know whether I feel the need for a drink.
‘I do,’ I admit.
‘Jenever?’
‘Perfect.’
While he fetches a bottle from a cabinet in the corner of the room, I steal a look at the figure on the bottom of the HMRC form. This is indeed a demand for unpaid tax. £84,598.03? Christ.
Deko is back with the bottle. He splashes generous measures into a couple of mugs.
‘No glasses?’ I enquire lightly.
‘They’re upstairs. Sometimes in life you have to slum it. A toast?’
‘Of course.’
‘Your call.’
‘To Carrie.’ I say at once. ‘God rest her soul.’
I’m back at the penthouse by six o’clock. Felip has taken over from Malo, who seems to have disappeared.
‘On the water.’ Felip’s thin hands shape an imaginary sail. I go to the window and check on the estuary. My boy’s red sail is a speck in the distance. Progress, indeed.
Felip wants to know what’s wrong with Carrie. The jenever has made me bolder, more direct. When I tell him she’s dead, Felip just stares at me, uncomprehending.
‘Que?’ He says at last.
‘Dead. Morte.’
‘Muerte?’
‘Si.’
He shakes his head, takes a tiny step backward as if to fend off this terrible news. Like all of us, he thought the world of Carrie.
I start to explain the circumstances, but I don’t think he’s listening, so I get him to sit down. I pour him a glass of whisky from the bottle that Carrie kept for H’s occasional visit. Felip shakes his head. He doesn’t drink.
‘It might help,’ I insist. ‘Just a little sip?’
He turns his head away, then he’s on his feet again. He’s heard enough. He leaves the room and moments later I hear the slam of his bedroom door.
Pavel’s heard it, too. He can activate a speaker in the lounge when he needs to talk to us. He wants – demands – to know what’s going on. He sounds wheezy.
I join him in his bedroom. I pull up a chair and settle at his bedside and tell him that Carrie is dead. Pavel isn’t Felip. The face on the pillow remains totally impassive. All he wants to know is how and when. I do my best to explain. This isn’t easy because I know that Pavel will want every last detail, and I’m right.
‘Damage around the door?’
‘Yes.’
‘What kind of damage?’
‘Like someone had taken a screwdriver to it, or maybe a chisel. Trying to get at the lock. Trying to force it.’
‘And you say the door was open?’
‘Yes. Just an inch.’
Pavel nods. So far I’ve never told him about the earlier visit to Carrie’s flat but I realize that now might be the time. The police will probably be at his bedside tomorrow and they’re bound to mention it.
‘Carrie had an intruder a week ago,’ I say carefully. ‘The night before I came down.’
‘When she didn’t turn up?’
‘Yes.’
‘You told Felip she had menstrual problems.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you told me she was fine.’
‘Yes.’
‘Both lies.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she was scared. In fact, the poor girl was terrified. This man, this boy, was promising to kill her if she breathed a word to anyone. The street people call him Moonie. They think he’s crazy, mad. You take that kind of threat seriously. You have to.’
‘She never went to the police?’
‘No.’ I swallow hard. ‘But I did.’
I swear those eyes behind the tinted glasses are looking straight through me. He knows everything, I tell myself. Absolutely everything. The truth seeps into him, an almost chemical process. No matter how hard I might try, he calls out every lie.
Now he wants to know when the police detained Moonie. I explain about yesterday’s arrest, and the interviews at the custody centre.
‘They had nothing from Carrie,’ I tell him. ‘And nothing else, either. They had to let him go.’
‘And you think he came back? And killed her?’
‘Of course he did.’
‘Because he was blaming her for the arrest?’
‘Yes. She didn’t need to make a statement. In that head of his it had to be her, had to be. He’d promised to disembowel her.’
‘And that’s what happened?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re sure about that? You saw it yourself?’
This is becoming worse than uncomfortable. The last place I want to revisit is that fuggy little bedroom behind the closed curtains.
‘Describe it.’
‘What?’
‘Describe what you saw in there.’
I want to say no. I want to get up and leave the room and close the door behind me. I’m all too aware of Pavel’s appetite – need – for detail, for the smallest print of this hideous tableau. That’s the way he must have worked since his sight failed him, and his world was plunged into darkness. In some ways the adjustments he’s made have been truly remarkable, but in others he seems to have thickened that same darkness.
‘She was lying on her side.’ I’ve closed my eyes. ‘One leg was drawn up as if to protect herself.’ I offer more details. Her body beneath the rib cage, especially.
‘And her head? Her face?’
‘Her eyes were open.’
‘Mouth?’
‘Open, as well, just a little.’
‘You think she was taken by surprise?’
‘I’ve no idea but she must have fought. There were cuts on both hands, arms too.’
‘Blood?’
‘Everywhere.’
Pavel nods. Then a tiny frown comes and goes, ghosting over his face.
‘You’re telling me her stomach was slashed open?’
‘Yes.’
‘These are deep wounds?’
‘Very. That’s where most of the blood must have come from.’
‘What could you see? Inside?’
This is a question too far. I’m aware of myself physically recoiling at the bedside. Enough.
‘It was dark,’ I say. ‘And I didn’t stay.’
‘Did you touch her?’
‘Touch her? Why would I do that?’
‘To make sure she was dead.’
I shake my head in disbelief and try to spell it out again. The poor bloody woman has been savagely attacked, probably hours ago. Most of her blood is all over the sheets and half her guts are spilling out.
‘So, you did see.’
‘See what?’
‘Her guts.’
‘Yes, yes I did. It was an impression, intestines, loops of the stuff …’
‘Viscera.’
‘Yes, viscera, much better. No way would anyone survive that. All I could do was leave. And make the call.’
‘Nine-nine-nine.’
‘Of course.’
Pavel nods. At last he has the tact to pressure me no further. Maybe that’s an act of charity. More likely he’s acquired enough grist for his private mill. Over the hours to come he’ll lie back, imagining Carrie’s final minutes, fighting Moonie, fighting madness, and then, once he’s happy he truly has the measure of that grotesque finale, he’ll start to widen the focus to ask the questions that really matter. Why would this man-child ever do such a thing? And how come he was still free to walk our streets?
At this point, I hear the rumble of the lift. Moments later, footsteps approach the open bedroom door. I look up to find Malo staring in at us. He’s wearing a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and his Nike runners are soaking wet.
For a second or two, neither of us says a word. Then he beckons me into the hall. I ignore Pavel. I’m glad to be out of that room. The door shut, I follow Malo into the lounge. I’ve made a start on bre
aking the news about Carrie, but I can tell he’s not listening. Something else must have happened, I think, and it turns out I’m right.
‘I’ve just come back from the Duck Pond,’ he says. ‘Jean-Paul’s been doing a session down there tonight, maybe half a dozen of us.’
‘And?’
‘The police turned up.’ He gestures out at the view. ‘And took him away.’
SEVENTEEN
It happens to be Good Friday. Here’s hoping.
H turns up at midday. After less than five minutes in the apartment, he badly wants to take Malo and myself out to lunch but neither of us are remotely hungry.
Felip is down the hall, sorting out Pavel. H shuts the door. As I suspected, the offer of lunch has nothing to do with appetite.
‘This place is a fucking morgue,’ he says. ‘You need to be out of here.’
‘Dad …’ Even Malo is shocked. The news about Carrie has hit him badly and I think it’s the first time he’s lost someone who mattered to him. We sat up together until late last night but even the remains of H’s Scotch didn’t really reach him. Thanks to his conversations with the street people, he probably knows more about Moonie than any of us, but he simply doesn’t understand how anyone, no matter how crazy, could ever have done such a thing.
In the end, as always, H prevails. There’s a restaurant beside the bridge in the marina, and mercifully it’s only half full. H commandeers a table at the back and calls for the menu. Everyone else might have had breakfast but he, very definitely, hasn’t.
‘So, what are we going to do?’
I assume he’s talking about what happens next to Carrie. I’m in the process of explaining that there’ll be a post-mortem, and then – presumably – a funeral, but we know very little about her immediate family. Who do we phone? Who do we comfort?
H dismisses both questions. He wants to know about Pavel. The apartment, he says, is a major investment. How do we lay hands on a new Carrie?
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