by Joel Hames
“Lovely little Lizzy,” he continued, as if I hadn’t even spoken. “Lovely, lyrical little Lizzy. Did you ever read that poetry, Sam? Her slim volume? Did you ever fight your way through it? It might have been small, but it felt like pushing your way through mud, I thought. That’s probably how they felt in the trenches. At the Somme. Push your way on. Right at the guns. Just shoot me. Just kill me. Anything to get out of this mud. Is that how you felt, Sam?”
I laughed, in spite of myself, and Brooks-Powell joined me. Colman sat up suddenly, again, looked down at her teacup, and set it carefully on the floor by her feet. Trawden was still watching me, so I shook my head. I hadn’t enjoyed the poem I’d read, but I hadn’t hated it quite that much. It didn’t matter what I did or said, anyway. Trawden wasn’t waiting for an answer.
“I felt sick, Sam. Encouraging her. I’d only been out of prison a couple of months, but we’d met a few times, at the house, in Oxford. She showed me her poems. She was so proud of them, and it was so obvious what her mother thought, but she didn’t get it, Lizzy, she really believed that if she could only get them published, Elizabeth would finally understand her. And yes, Sam. I encouraged her. I told her what to do, who to speak to, how to get round the trustees. How to get the money. Awful poems. Just awful. A crime against good taste, but needs must, I thought. It was so easy. Have you seen the inscription?”
I shook my head, again, and he stood, walked over to a bookshelf and came back holding a book. The book. That cover, the woman and the mirror. He opened it to the first page and handed it to me.
This book is dedicated to freedom, it said.
I handed it back, speechless.
“Freedom,” said Trawden, and laughed. “Two peas in a pod, we were, that’s what I told her. I’d won my freedom. Her poetry would earn Lizzy hers. An escape from that box. And when it backfired, as it was bound to, when Elizabeth pushed her back in that box and sealed it up, well, she had to do something else. Something Elizabeth would hate, even if she’d never know. I made sure I was on hand. It was even easier than the poetry.”
I felt sick. I remembered now what she’d said in her flat, after dinner, when I’d put her to bed and turned away. Can’t blame a girl for trying. And mother would probably have approved, this time.
This time.
I’d been right, then. He’d taken this poor, half-broken girl, he’d pushed her with that awful poetry until she was almost beyond repair, and then he’d finished the job. He’d seduced her and he’d slept with her, and he’d allowed her to think of him as her revenge against her mother. I remembered how she’d been, then, always nervous, always ready to retreat, and I wondered if he’d been her first, if she’d been poisoned by him, if he’d been her only. I wondered if Elizabeth had ever known, and decided she hadn’t. Not until she died. Perhaps Trawden had told her, as she lay there, looking at her own tongue, feeling the life drain away. Perhaps he’d taunted her, when there was nothing left to lose and nothing she could do about it. Perhaps it had been his own confession that had pushed him into mania.
Perhaps he was approaching the same point now. That was what I was hoping, after all. To drive him into a mistake. If it happened, it wasn’t going to be a happy journey getting there.
“As for not knowing what people will do when they break, well, you’re right there, I’m afraid,” he said. Still smiling. “An army of the world’s top shrinks wouldn’t be able to predict a trauma response with a decent level of accuracy, and I’m no shrink. But there are ways to mitigate that, Sam. There are random elements, of course, but there are measures one can take to manage the risk. To hedge, if you will. And as any trader worth his salt would tell you, the most effective way to manage your risk is to keep a close eye on the market.”
I frowned. He’d made sense, until now, but he seemed to be heading somewhere I couldn’t follow. He continued.
“So that’s what I do. I keep a close eye. I monitor. I have various ways.”
His head tilted towards me, his smile broadened. He was waiting for me to say something. I declined the invitation, waited, and eventually he gave a gentle shake of the head and went on.
“And monitoring isn’t so difficult. You just have to be there at the right moment. At the moment of danger. Of distress. Of grief.”
He emphasised that final word, that grief, and I saw at last what he was driving at and felt myself shrink, slightly, in revulsion. All those times she’d run to her laptop, all those times she’d taken refuge with her fellow-sufferers, at her lowest, at her most vulnerable.
“I must say, I did rather enjoy being FatherMac. Rather like being at a funeral. All those commonplaces, all that trite, meaningless sympathy. The clichés just flow, don’t they? And the amazing thing is, they work. This nonsense, it actually makes them feel better. So whatever you may think of my motives, Sam, consider this: I have been an influence for good. I have helped poor little Lizzy Maurier take her first steps in her new, motherless life. I do hope they’ve been in the right direction.”
While he was talking I was wondering whether we’d done the right thing coming here. Colman seemed to be in no danger. And Trawden was ahead of us, so many steps ahead it was as if he’d planned out every move, every variable, decided in advance precisely what we would do and been there to nudge us gently onto his preferred course. There had been that blink, earlier, two blinks, at Blennard, but he seemed to have got over that, and if I was waiting for a mistake, it looked like I’d be waiting a while.
“What about Connor?”
I looked round, in surprise. Colman had been sitting so quietly, almost asleep, I’d almost forgotten she was a participant in all this. Trawden seemed surprised, too, but pleasantly so, if his grin was anything to go by.
“Whatever do you mean, my dear?”
“I mean the name. The man. What happened to him? Why did you take on his identity?”
“Ah, of course. You’re wondering if any offences have been committed. I suppose it’s possible they have, but I’m not sure it’s illegal to do as I have done. If anyone had ever asked, I would have come clean. But living under another name? Artists and writers do it all the time. Why shouldn’t I? And the fact remains, I was – I am – a far better Connor than he ever was. Do you know anything about him?”
She shook her head.
“He was a street thief,” said Trawden. “A worthless criminal with a tendency towards violence and hardly space in his head for a brain. He spent five years in prison, and if there had been anything worth saving when he went in, prison ruined it. When I heard he had passed away I couldn’t resist the opportunity to become him. I must admit, it has been fun, being Connor. And useful, of course. With the website and the shareholder records and everything else. It enables me to see if anyone is getting close.”
“Close to what?” I asked, wondering if perhaps he was on the verge of a slip, and he smiled.
“Well, let’s take an example. An entirely hypothetical situation, you understand, Sam?” He paused, expecting some kind of response, so I nodded. “Then say,” he continued, “for instance, one’s old lawyer – not you Sam, don’t worry. The monkey, not the organ-grinder. But if such a person were digging into things that didn’t concern them, if such a person dug deep enough, if such a person finally found their Connor, then who would they really meet?” He smiled again, broadly, and gave a deep, ironic bow. “Why, me, of course!”
“So you killed her,” I said, and Trawden shook his head.
“Come now, Sam. How foolish do you think I am?”
Not foolish at all, I thought, and that was the problem. I took a sip of coffee, glanced at my wrist, and remembered again that I’d lost my watch. Some things don’t stick in the mind. But the coffee was cold and light was beginning to filter through the net curtains. We’d been here an hour, maybe longer, and all I’d got was a pair of blinks. I yawned – the tiredness hadn’t really hit me till now, and stretched, and looked for somewhere to put my cup of cold coffee.
&
nbsp; “Allow me,” said Trawden. As he stood and approached me, one hand out, the picture of civilised urbanity and reason, I felt something bubbling up inside me. I felt hatred. Hatred for what he’d done to the Grimshaws and the Mauriers, for the others, murdered and mutilated for something that wasn’t much more than a game. For the lives he’d taken and the lives he’d ruined. For the man he was, laughing about it, mocking those who tried to bring it to an end. For what he’d done to me, twelve years ago, sitting in court and taking it all in, and more recently, spinning his threads faster and faster and closer and closer until I was nothing but another fly in his web. He took the cup from my hand and he must have seen something in my eyes, because when he returned from the kitchen he was shaking his head.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Sam. It wouldn’t do you any good.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, even though I knew perfectly well what he was talking about. I could have stood up, reached him in half a second, wrapped my hands around his throat in another half. Brooks-Powell would have helped me. Colman wouldn’t be quick enough to stop us. I could have broken his neck. And I wanted to.
He shook his head again, and smiled.
“That’s fine. Just – well. As I say. Don’t do anything stupid. Not with the lovely young officer here.”
He turned his smile on her, now, and again I wondered what they’d been talking about before Brooks-Powell and I had arrived. They’d been here nearly an hour, just the two of them. Had it really just been tea and the weather, the Bell and the pool table? Or had he taunted her, too, dropped hints about organs and words on walls, enough to hit home, but not enough for more than discomfort and a certainty that would be as good as useless in court.
“You are a pretty young thing, Detective Constable Colman. I hope you don’t mind me saying it. Something of the classic beauty about you. The nose. A Gallic belle, I feel. And you seem intelligent, which is, after all, the more important attribute in your line of work. You’ll go far, if you learn when to get involved and when to step away. I’m sure Detective Inspector Martins will be an excellent teacher.”
Colman shrugged. It was probably the best move, a shrug. She’d been with the man an hour or two and already figured out the wisest course was not to engage with him. I’d been haunted for him by more than a decade, and I was still learning.
“No, Sam,” he said, turning back to me, the smile gone, a serious, almost wistful expression in its place. “I am not foolish. Not at all. Far from it. I have wandered and fought, I have struggled and returned. Like Ulysses, I am become a name.” He laughed, another high, shrill burst. “No, not a name. I am become two. Or three, even. Yes, three. No,” and he looked down at his hand and counted off his fingers. “No, it’s four. I am become four names.”
He looked back up at me and smiled, pleased with himself. Four names. I tallied them. Trawden. Connor. FatherMac. I couldn’t think of the fourth, but I was surprised there weren’t more. Trawden seemed to enjoy these games.
He laughed again, more of a giggle this time. Brooks-Powell was still staring at the fire, which was dying now, the embers glowing red on the grate. Colman sat back, impassive. I wondered what was going through her mind, whether this would change her, how she would deal with Martins when it was all over.
“Christie,” said Brooks-Powell, suddenly, and three pairs of eyes turned in his direction. “Christie,” he repeated. “It’s like another fucking Agatha Christie book.” I’d told him Claire’s theories, the Pocket Full of Rye and the ABC Murders. “Nice little village, fire, tea in china cups. I’m half-expecting an old lady to stroll in and clear everything up.”
Trawden’s laugh was higher still this time, and went on for an uncomfortable ten seconds or more. “You don’t know how right you are,” he said, when it had subsided. “Why didn’t they ask Evans? Because he was dead!”
That laugh, again. Brooks-Powell and Colman were looking at me, at each other, nervous, uncomfortable.
I was feeling a different kind of apprehension. I was wondering if this was what I’d been aiming for, if Trawden had basked so long in his own brilliance he was heading for a fall. But I was nervous, too. If I was right about Trawden, those falls were usually accompanied by someone else’s death.
“Now, you have to understand, I’m not admitting anything,” he said, more calmly now, but still speaking faster than he had been. “None of this horrible murder and death. So many deaths.” Faster and faster, now. “Even Akadi. He did so much for me, and he, too, had to die. Was I there when he died? Yes, of course I was. Did I watch him die? Well yes, I did that, too. Did I kill him? Far from it. I even tipped off the authorities about his body. But I didn’t kill him. People die, Sam.” He’d turned back to look at me, his gaze fixed on my face. “They die. Girls die. Girls die and their relatives grieve. You know all about that, Sam. All about it.”
There was something there, I was sure of it. I wasn’t sure I’d call it mania, but then, I didn’t really know what I’d call mania. He was less controlled, in his delivery, than he had been until now, than he’d ever been in my company. It was quite possible that inside he was as calm and collected as he’d been when he’d offered us tea and coffee. I hoped he wasn’t. And taunting me about Maxine Grimshaw and her parents? I thought we’d moved beyond that.
If that was what he was talking about. Suddenly, I wasn’t sure. Suddenly, I had a sense that there was something else. Was it Serena? How long had he been watching me? Had he been there, at her funeral, watching me talk to her sister?
“The funny thing with you, Sam, with all of you, is that you seem to know your Christie – which surprises me, by the way, I wouldn’t have seen any of you as the type – but for all that, you don’t understand her greatest gift.”
I stared back at him, trying to keep all expression off my face. This was the Trawden show. I didn’t know what was coming, but I didn’t want to interrupt it.
“Misdirection, Sam. Oh sure, you see the obvious ones, the bodies hidden among the other bodies, but you don’t seem to understand the point of the noise.”
“The noise?” I cursed myself the moment the words were out. I’d decided not to engage, and I’d lasted less than a minute.
He favoured me with an approving tilt of the head. “The noise. It always leads you the wrong way. Like a magician. He shows you his hand, you want to be looking at the other one. But you never are. The noise is just a hiding place. Cut out the noise, and you can hear the silence. And silence, of course, is where the truth hides.”
That sounded familiar. I wondered where I’d heard it before. It sounded like the sort of thing Claire would say, the sort of thing Adrian Chalmers would tell her and she’d believe. I was worried that there was something I wasn’t seeing. A connection between Trawden and Adrian Chalmers.
Four names.
It hit me suddenly and without warning.
Four names.
How had Claire found Adrian Chalmers? I’d always assumed she’d contacted him. Could it have been the other way round? Trawden was still talking, but I wasn’t listening to him, I was trying to remember Adrian Chalmers’ voice, the voice on the answerphone message I’d picked up, the oily sheen that floated on its surface. It didn’t sound like Trawden, not the way Trawden was talking now, but Trawden was a chameleon. Trawden could be anyone he wanted to be. On he went, and I could hardly take in a word, suddenly full of Adrian Chalmers and the awful possibility that Trawden had been pushing Claire around his board the whole time.
“Do you remember The Mysterious Affair at Styles?” he said. “Poirot’s first adventure. You’re supposed to look at the beard. But the beard is just the noise. The beard is what they want you to see. It’s everything that isn’t the beard that’s important. I almost wish you could see it. I almost do. But you never will, Sam. You’ll never listen to the important things. You’ll never see what’s happening right under your nose.”
“If there was anything there it would be a
moustache, not a beard,” said Brooks-Powell, and I snapped back to the present and rejoiced, briefly, that he was still capable of a comment like that. Trawden chuckled. I stared at him. He’d fallen silent. He seemed to know everything. How did he know?
“Serena Hawkes,” I said, finally, praying that was all, and he nodded.
“Yes. Exactly. Perfect example. Following all the noise, and not listening to the quieter things happening right in front of you. But that’s not all, Sam. That’s not all of it.”
“What? What else? What are you talking about?” I asked, my voice sounding as if it were coming from somewhere high and distant. I’d carried a picture of Adrian Chalmers in my head, a round face fringed by short curly hair, stylish but subtle glasses, a ready smile and an earnest, sympathetic tilt of the head. I tried to solidify it, to merge it with the voice I’d heard, but I couldn’t. All I could see was Trawden. All I could hear was Trawden. This wasn’t a game any more. It was a hunt. And I didn’t feel much like a predator.
“You were very restrained, earlier,” he said, smiling again. “I thought you were about to beat me senseless. I could see it in your eyes, you know. But you held back, and that’s admirable.”
I nodded. Something was coming. Trawden continued.
“I wonder if everyone else will manage to be quite so restrained, though.”
I looked around the room. Brooks-Powell wasn’t staring at the fire any more, and that was something, but the man who’d smashed up Blennard’s antiques was gone. And Colman was still struggling to keep her eyes open.
“Not them,” said Trawden.
“Then who?”
“Hello?” he said. “I am sorry to bother you.”
His voice had changed. Another tone, a familiar tone. Not Adrian Chalmers, and I felt my blood start to flow again, my heart begin beating. But the relief was short-lived. I’d heard this voice before. My brain rifled frantically through memories, voices I knew, people I had spoken to.