Off Script

by Graham Hurley

  ‘Enora,’ I tell her.

  We both go in to see Pavel. Felip is sponging his chin after feeding him breakfast. I glance down at the bowl. Porridge again, with a dusting of brown sugar.

  Pavel is fractious. In the privacy of the kitchen, Felip tells me he’s been at his bedside most of the night.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He won’t say. He won’t tell me. The only question he asked, I couldn’t answer.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like where were you? I told him you were away for the night. Malo, I tell him. His father, Mr H. All of you together some place.’ He hesitates a moment, searching my face. ‘No?’

  ‘Yes.’ I put my hand on Felip’s skinny wrist. ‘These are difficult times, Felip. All of us need to talk, to be with each other. Pavel will surely understand that.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I know so. He and I will have the conversation …’ I summon a tight smile. ‘Later.’

  I brew fresh coffee and warm croissants in the microwave. Next door, in the lounge, I can hear Ndeye busy with the Hoover. She’s singing a Paul Simon classic, ‘Mrs Robinson’, and in the lower registers her voice gives the song a slightly sinister heft I’ve never been aware of before.

  I take her a cup of coffee, and some for Pavel in his special mug. Exhausted, Felip has retired to bed. Back in the lounge, I wait for Ndeye to finish before turning on the TV and settling on the sofa. Moments later, I’m watching the local news. Resorts around the south-west are reporting brisk business as the Easter weekend unfolds. A brief item on a National Trust property in deepest Cornwall reveals terrace after terrace engulfed in daffodils. Then, all too suddenly, I’m looking at a familiar face. Moonie.

  As the camera slowly tightens on the image – the receding chin, the cherubic locks of hair, the scarlet flecks of acne – the voiceover tells us that this is a person of interest in connection with the recent murder of a woman in Exmouth. ‘Person of interest’ is a phrase I might have used myself barely a week ago when I first went to the police. If only they’d headed him off earlier, I think. If only I’d been more insistent – tougher – with Carrie. Then, with the same abruptness, there’s a new face on the screen, a forecaster from the Met Office, and I’m being warned to brace myself for an altogether different order of risk. Torrential rain, moving east. Better tomorrow.

  Mid-morning, my mobile begins to ring. I don’t recognize the number.

  ‘Ms Andressen? DS Williams. We met at the police station a couple of days ago.’

  I nod. I say I remember her. She says she wants to pay Mr Stukeley a visit with a colleague from Operation Mandolin.

  ‘Operation what?’

  ‘Mandolin. Regarding the murder of Carrie.’

  I say I understand. Mr Stukeley is Pavel. I tell her there shouldn’t be a problem. All I have to do is check with him and then phone her back and agree a time.

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Ms Andressen. We’re outside now. And it’s pouring with rain.’

  I go through to the hall and check on the video screen. DS Williams wasn’t joking. She and a male figure I don’t recognize are hunched beneath what little protection the entrance awning provides. Williams’s umbrella has just blown inside out and she’s fighting to control it.

  ‘Third floor.’ I still have the phone pressed to my ear, and I buzz her in. ‘Lift’s right in front of you.’

  I’ve already mentioned the possibility of a CID visit to Pavel but it seems he’s forgotten.

  ‘Now, you mean?’ He sounds alarmed. ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why so little warning?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Then you must be here, too. Appropriate adult is the phrase these people use. It normally applies to children but I’m just as helpless. Do your best. See what they say.’

  I meet Williams and her colleague as they step out of the lift. They’re both soaked.

  ‘DI Sanderson.’ Williams is still trying to get her umbrella back into shape.

  Sanderson extends a wet hand. He’s older than Williams. What little hair he has is razored to the bareness of his scalp and he’s wearing a suit that is a size too small. I rustle up a towel and offer tea or coffee. When I mention Pavel’s request, it’s obvious that they’d prefer to talk to him alone.

  ‘That might not be possible,’ I say. ‘He can be very stubborn sometimes, even difficult.’

  ‘He has something to hide? Your Mr Stukeley?’

  ‘Absolutely not, but the very idea of strangers sometimes upsets him. It would be a kindness if I was there.’

  ‘And if you’re not?’

  ‘He may say no.’

  The detectives confer briefly in the hall while I retire to the kitchen. By the time I reappear with the coffee, they’ve decided that my presence at Pavel’s bedside will, after all, be permissible.

  They follow me into Pavel’s bedroom, their eyes drawn immediately to the view. The wind is blasting up the estuary and the water is pocked with sizeable waves. The curtain of rain parts for a moment, offering a brief glimpse of the hills beyond the far bank, then we’re back with umpteen shades of grey.

  ‘Grim.’ This from Williams. ‘Must be lovely when the sun shines.’

  I arrange chairs around the bed, side by side so Pavel doesn’t have to turn his head to catch a question. In the event, though, I needn’t have bothered because he’s lying on his back, the shape of his thin body barely visible beneath the single sheet and cellular blanket. His lips are pressed tightly together, giving him the look of a sulky child, and what little colour the sun has recently put on his face appears to have gone. He looks paler than ever. Not a good sign.

  Williams explains where this interview fits in Mandolin’s ongoing enquiries, and asks whether Pavel has any objection to her using a tape recorder. When Pavel says no, she produces a tiny machine, announces the date, the time, and Pavel’s real name. Her understanding is that Mr Stukeley was especially friendly with the victim. True?

  ‘Carrie.’ Pavel’s voice is a whisper. ‘Her name was Carrie.’

  ‘Of course. Carrie. You got to know her well?’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘You saw her every day?’

  ‘Yes, and every night. Sometimes we went out dancing.’

  Williams and the DI exchange glances. I’m tempted to tell Pavel to behave but on second thoughts I say nothing. If he wants to make enemies of these people, so be it.

  ‘My apologies.’ Pavel’s voice is a little stronger. ‘I’m afraid this is all a bit distressing. Under the circumstances, I hope you’ll pardon my little joke. The answer is yes. I think the word is friends. We were friends, good friends.’

  ‘So, you trusted each other? Would that have been the case?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Confided in each other?’

  ‘Always. It became a habit. And perhaps a consolation.’

  A thin dribble of saliva is tracking down Pavel’s chin. I mop it up with a pad of cotton wool. A tiny nod tells me that Pavel thinks that he and I are in this thing together. Complicity? I’m not sure.

  Williams has sensed it too, and I make a mental note not to underestimate this woman. She wants to know whether, in Pavel’s view, Carrie had any problems in her life.

  He nods at once. ‘Jean-Paul,’ he says. ‘Falling in love isn’t as simple as people often assume. The man may be a delight, everything may be beyond wonderful, but he’s married, and he has children. I’m assuming you know all that.’

  Thanks to me, of course they do. Williams confirms that the post-mortem report has arrived. According to the pathologist, Carrie was ten weeks pregnant.

  ‘Did you know that, Mr Stukeley?’

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘She told you? Carrie?’

  ‘Yes. You’ve taken DNA from him? From Jean-Paul?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not something we’re at liberty to discuss.’

  ‘But you did, of course you did, and
that little swab will have top priority. The last time I wrote a crime series, the going rate for twenty-four-hour turnaround was eighteen hundred pounds. I imagine that’s probably gone up by now but in circumstances like these, speed trumps everything. So, did you get a positive? Nodding, I’m afraid, won’t do. Just a yes or a no will be sufficient.’

  Thanks, once again, to me, Williams knows that Pavel is blind. I’m still trying to work out whether the hint of a smile on her face indicates a degree of admiration for Pavel’s chutzpah when the DI takes up the running. He makes no mention of a DNA match. Instead, he wants to know how close Carrie really was to this boyfriend of hers.

  ‘He was her lover.’ There’s a note of reprimand in Pavel’s voice. ‘Boyfriend is a frivolous term.’

  The DI says nothing. Neither does Williams. Finally, it falls to me to ask Pavel whether he’s had enough.

  ‘By no means.’ He sounds irritated. ‘The least I can do is try and honour the poor girl’s memory. I know it’s an unfortunate turn of phrase, but if she was here now, if she heard Jean-Paul referred to as her “boyfriend”, she’d die. What I’m guessing you really want to know is how close they were. As I say, they were lovers. They were enchanted by each other. They’d found themselves in a very special place and it was a joy to hear it. Boyfriend, the very idea, belongs in TV soaps. A little respect, please. Is that too much to ask?’

  I’m gazing down at Pavel, full of admiration. He’s seized this interview by the throat and he won’t let it go. His terms, no others. Even yesterday’s wheeze seems to have gone. It’s obviously the DI’s job to tease some kind of evidential value from these exchanges with Pavel. He has a pad open on his lap but so far, he’s scribbled no more than a couple of lines.

  ‘In love, then?’ He’s looking at Pavel. ‘Is that the way we’re hearing it?’

  ‘It’s the way I heard it, certainly. But Carrie was a good girl, a decent person, and the circumstances distressed her.’

  ‘You mean the fact that he was married?’

  ‘Of course. And kids as well, in fact, especially kids. That changes everything. You can’t fall in love with an entire family, no matter how hard you try.’

  ‘Tense, then? Troubled? How would you describe her?’

  ‘The latter. Troubled.’

  ‘And from his point of view? Jean-Paul?’

  ‘I gather he felt the same.’

  ‘Rock and a hard place? Your lover or your wife?’

  ‘Your lover or your family. That isn’t quite the same thing.’

  The DI nods, and at last makes another note. It falls to Williams to take up the running.

  ‘Did Jean-Paul know that Carrie was pregnant?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘You’d have asked her, surely.’

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘And?’

  For the first time, Pavel seems to have lost his place in the script. He’s taking his time. The frown could mean anything.

  ‘The night before she died …’ he says at last.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I suspect she was going to tell him.’

  ‘Suspect?’

  ‘Knew.’

  ‘So, what did she say?’

  ‘This isn’t simple.’ The frown has deepened. ‘I’m afraid you’ll need to be patient.’

  ‘We have lots of time, Mr Stukeley. Just tell us what you know.’

  There’s a long silence. The rain is still drumming on the window and I can hear the halyards dancing against the metal masts in the nearby dinghy park.

  Finally, Pavel appears to be ready. ‘They used to meet in the early evenings,’ he says, ‘as soon as Carrie was finished with me. As you might imagine, I remember that last conversation very well. There’s a passage in a book we’d been reading together. Ernst Jünger’s wartime diaries. Do you know them, by any chance?’

  Another exchange of glances between the two detectives, this time totally blank. In case they think Pavel’s making this up, I direct their attention to the book, still visible on Pavel’s bedside table.

  ‘And?’ This from the DI.

  ‘Jünger is in Paris. In many respects, he’s a tortured man. As a writer, he understands what a lethal proposition the truth can be. In wartime, under enemy occupation, it can get you killed. We were discussing that proposition, Carrie and I, when she began to cry. That’s when I finally realized what must be going on in that lovely head of hers. There’s just so much any human being can take, and in this case Jean-Paul was worrying her to death.’

  I wince at Pavel’s choice of phrase. Williams wants to know why Carrie was so concerned about Jean-Paul.

  ‘Because she’d lied to him.’

  ‘How? In what way?’

  ‘She’d told him she was taking the pill.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She wasn’t.’

  ‘He didn’t know that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So why did she lie to him in the first place?’

  ‘Why does anyone do anything?’ Pavel asks. ‘How can we ever be sure about anyone else?’

  This is a deeply philosophical question. Once again, the DI’s pen doesn’t move.

  ‘You said “lethal” just now,’ he says carefully. ‘You were pointing out what a lethal proposition the truth can be. What, exactly, does “lethal” mean, Mr Stukeley? In a situation like this?’

  Pavel is well aware of the trap he’s just set himself. Indeed, knowing him the way I do, I suspect that this, too, may be deliberate.

  ‘The truth can kill any relationship. That was Jünger’s insight in the diaries. He wrote about the gambles we take, the tricks we play with the truth, and he wrote about loss. The last thing Carrie wanted to lose was Jean-Paul, what they’d made together, the place they’d found for themselves.’

  Neither the DI nor Williams are quite sure what to make of this. Finally, it’s Williams who asks the obvious question.

  ‘Did she ever talk about having an abortion?’

  ‘Yes, often.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She hated the very idea. Carrie was a spiritual person. What they’d made together was sacred. She’d never cast it aside. Never hurt it. That’s what she believed, and if you want the truth, I suspect Ernst Jünger would have agreed with her. Does that shed any light on the matter? I do hope so.’

  At this point I can tell that Pavel regards the interview as over. He’s tolerated the presence of these strangers in his room, in what passes for his life, for long enough, and now he says he’s very tired. Tired of making these journeys back to the conversations with Carrie, tired of fretting about the way she must have felt that final evening, tired of trying to cope with her absence. He hopes they can squeeze something helpful from what he’s shared with them.

  ‘So good luck,’ he murmurs. ‘And bon voyage. Fingers crossed, the rain may stop one day.’

  Neither of the detectives knows quite what to say and it falls to me, as Appropriate Adult, to suggest that they fold their tents and beat a tactful retreat. Mr Stukeley, I tell them, is unused to pressures like these and it’s my responsibility to make sure he comes to no more harm.

  Instinctively, I sense they both want to stay. I’ve no idea what else they think Pavel might be able to tell them but when Williams looks at me and raises an enquiring eyebrow, I shake my head. The interview is well and truly over.

  They both get to their feet. I’m about to offer them the loan of an umbrella but the DI can’t take his eyes off Pavel.

  ‘Mr Stukeley? Can you hear me?’

  ‘He can,’ I say. ‘One last question. Then I’m afraid that’s it.’

  ‘Of course.’ The DI makes sure the recorder is still running. Then he bends to the bed, his mouth to Pavel’s ear. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to tell us, Mr Stukeley? Anything else Carrie might have shared with you? Just nod or shake your head. Either will be perfectly acceptable. We can always come back later. We just need to bottom out this thing.’

 
Pavel’s head lies unmoving on the pillow. The DI asks exactly the same question a second time. Finally, Pavel tries to swallow a yawn before asking for an ice cube. The ice cube comes wrapped in a layer of muslin. We use it to moisten the dryness of his mouth. Pavel opens his lips to let me in. Then I step back again.

  ‘Interesting question.’ Pavel’s voice has sunk to a whisper again. ‘But I’m afraid the answer is no.’

  Outside, in the hall, I summon the lift. When I ask how the investigation is going, neither Williams nor the DI is prepared to give me a proper answer. Early days. Multiple lines of enquiry. Persons of interest. Certain forensic issues. None of this takes me any further but when the lift arrives, and the door opens, Williams asks about my own availability. The SIO, she says, has asked her to organize another interview in slightly greater depth. Might this afternoon be convenient? At Exmouth police station?

  For a split second I toy with saying no. I’ve had more than enough of these people’s company, of trying to work out how much they know, and how much they don’t, of trying to figure out where Operation Mandolin might lead them next, but then I remember Carrie, and the debts we all owe her, and I say yes.

  The DI has his foot wedged against the lift door. Williams extends a hand in farewell and steps past him. Then something else occurs to me.

  ‘You made an appeal on TV this morning.’ I nod towards the lounge. ‘It was Moonie’s face you used. Does that mean he’s your prime suspect?’

  ‘We’d value a conversation, certainly.’ The DI offers me a thin smile. ‘It’s been a pleasure, Ms Andressen. And thank you for the coffee.’

  The lift door closes, and they’ve gone. Back in Pavel’s bedroom I linger for a moment or two. For the life of me, I can’t work out whether he’s faked the sudden exhaustion.

  He has. His head turns slowly on the pillow. He wants me to kiss him. He says it’s the least I owe him.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For bringing that charade to a close.’ He’s smiling up at me. ‘Why does anyone do anything?’ he whispers again. ‘How can we ever be sure about anyone else?’

  TWENTY-ONE

  An hour or so later, I’m in the lounge having a sandwich lunch and catching up on my emails. One of them is from Evelyn, my lovely neighbour back in Holland Park. She’s just returned from a week in Southern Ireland and she’s insisting on taking me out to lunch. She has photos of a particular garden which has exceeded her wildest expectations. Acres of plantings, she writes. And an ornamental lake to die for. When am I back?