An hour later, he admitted that sleep was not going to come until he’d read the wretched email and he got out of bed and opened up his laptop. Four days it had taken for her to break her silence and he assumed that what she was sending now would turn out to be a joke, a clever take on Scandi crime – not an apology but a peace offering of sorts. So he was not prepared for the message he found, a message that reflected Gina at her best, just as her text message displayed the worst.
Her email told a complicated story well. It was pithy and remarkably objective; it was also rather appealingly academic in its attachments, offering potted histories of the major players, enhanced by Gina’s own thumbnail sketches, and a Hamlet cast list for good measure. It was also deeply alarming to anyone who knew Gina. Whatever was going on here – misadventure, negligence by the garage, a lethal practical joke or, just possibly, murder – Gina would be right in there trying to work it out. He was not deceived by the apparent objectivity of her account; she would have a theory and she would be pursuing it.
He clicked Reply and typed furiously.
* * *
David Scott
From “David Scott” [email protected]
To “Gina Gray” [email protected]
Sent 17th July 2011 01.48
Subject DON’T
Gina –
Do you know what the chances are of you walking into another murder case? I don’t either, but the odds against must be astronomical, so I refuse to believe that it’s murder. I don’t think this is a murder case and, reading between the lines of your account, I don’t think you do either. The police have to treat it seriously but in the end it will come down to forensics and the police will know that a good defence team will find someone to cast forensic doubt on whether the brake cable was really cut, so they’ll give up on it as a murder case. There might be a negligence case to be made out against the garage but that doesn’t affect any of you. My guess is you’ll soon get your passports back and be able to come home.
In the meantime, the important thing – and I can’t emphasise this enough – is that you personally DO NOT GET INVOLVED. You’ve got used to muscling in on my investigations but the Danish police won’t like it and you’ll make them suspicious, so keep a low profile and your head below the parapet, don’t stick your oar in, lie doggo and whatever other metaphors you want to dream up – I’m sure you can find a lot more than I can. Don’t be a know-all and don’t treat the police as though they’re stupid. It never works well. Let them sort it out. It’s what they’re paid for.
Look after yourself and Freda and Annie, and try not to become everyone’s mother.
If you’re back earlier than expected, I at least will be pleased.
David
* * *
Then he reached for his phone, sent a single-word message: Ditto, and went back to bed.
12
FIVE LIVE
Of accidental judgements, casual slaughters. 5.2
My first reaction as I see Sophie hurtling into the moat is to press Freda’s face into my chest. This is so she can’t watch – and perhaps it’s also a knee-jerk urge to keep her from whatever harm is happening here. People start running towards the water but I look up to the place from which the bizarre white bundle came floating down. I just catch sight of a figure that turns away and disappears from view but it’s too brief a moment and I look back at the water, where someone has dived in. Freda is struggling to release herself from my grip in spite of my exhortations not to look, and I realise that I can’t prevent her from seeing this. I can’t go away and I can’t blindfold her so I set her down and we stand, hand in hand, watching.
The diver gets Sophie to the surface quite easily, it seems, which means, as I know from my obsessive watching of police dramas, that she has probably got air in her lungs, and that’s encouraging. He is struggling to get her out of the water, though, in spite of the efforts of bystanders to help, and it is the surly gatekeeper who saves the day, appearing at speed and hauling her up the bank. I catch a glimpse of her face, which looks very white and very dead, but when he turns her onto her front and hits her hard on her back, something gushes out of her mouth. Then he rolls her onto her back and starts mouth-to-mouth respiration, which I’ve never seen done in reality and can’t quite believe. I look at Freda, who is watching with interest but without alarm, though to me it seems rather terrible, this parody of kissing. At one point there is another spurt of watery vomit but I’m not close enough to see if her ribs are moving at all. What I do see now, though, is that a dark red stain is spreading through the tangled, wet hair at the side of her head.
Now things speed up. An ambulance and two police cars arrive and suddenly there seem to be police everywhere. Sophie is lifted, with brisk professionalism, onto a stretcher and into the ambulance and I’m wondering if I should offer to go with her, which is a stupid idea since I’ve got Freda in tow, when I get a tap on the shoulder. Ingrid Larsen is standing there.
‘Get in the car, please,’ she says.
‘What?
‘In the car. We need to ask you some questions.’
‘Can’t you ask them here?’
‘No, we can’t.’ She doesn’t waste words, this woman.
‘Why not?’
‘It will take some time.’
‘Really? I haven’t got that much to say.’
‘We will decide that. Come.’ She jerks her head towards the two police cars and I can see that James is sitting in the back of one of them.
‘I assume I’m a witness, not a suspect?’ I say.
She says nothing.
‘Well, what about Freda?’ I protest, picking her up.
Ingrid Larsen looks at Freda and shrugs. ‘She comes too,’ she says.
‘No, she doesn’t,’ I hiss. ‘She’s had quite enough of all this. I need to make a phone call and get someone to come and fetch her.’ I set Freda down at her feet. ‘Watch her,’ I say, ‘while I make a call.’
Both she and Freda start to protest but I turn away and dial Annie’s number. ‘Annie,’ I say. ‘Just listen to me and don’t argue – I’ve only got a minute. Sophie’s had an accident at the castle. The police are here and I have to go and answer some questions. It’ll take a while and Freda’s had enough of the police station. You’ll have to come and get her and look after her for the morning. No! Don’t argue, Annie. Just do it. Is Ray back with the van? Well, if he’s not, get the bus. Give Freda a treat – I’ll give you some money – take her to a playground, take her shopping, buy her ice cream. All right? I’ll expect you at the police station in half an hour.’
I glance over my shoulder. Ingrid Larsen is crouched down talking to Freda and looking almost human. I risk a second call. Hi, this is Ellie’s phone, the cheery message tells me, I’m sorry I can’t talk to you right now but leave me a message and I’ll get back to you. ‘Ellie,’ I say ‘I don’t want you to panic. Freda is fine – absolutely fine – but things have got weird here. Not just the car accident but now something else. It’s all a bit crazy and not the best atmosphere for Freda. I would cut and run and take her home but I can’t. Did Annie tell you the police have taken our passports? I’ve got to spend the morning at the police station so I won’t be reachable for a few hours. Phone Annie if you want to know more. She’ll have Freda with her. Sorry to be a blight on the honeymoon but I thought you’d want to know. Speak to you soon.’
I switch off the phone and turn round. ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’
We pass the car James is sitting in and I can see him, sitting very upright with his head leaning against the back of the seat. He seems quite impassive except that there are tears running down his face. I bend down and mouth, ‘What happened?’ through the window but Ingrid Larsen hurries me past and into the other car. No-one, I’m glad to say, puts a hand on my head to push me into the car, as they do when people are arrested on television, but I’m in no doubt that I am not here just as a witness, and I find that I’m feeling a bit
shaky. It’s shock, of course but, if I’m honest, I think it’s also fright. I look at Freda, who is sitting up, taking an interest in the world outside the windows. ‘Well! A ride in a police car!’ I say. ‘This is fun, isn’t it?’
Shortly afterwards my phone rings. I answer it without looking at the caller ID assuming it’s Ellie. ‘Hello darling,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry about all this.’ There is a pause on the other end and then a very deep male voice says, ‘Is that Mrs Gray? Here is Theodosios Christodoulou.’ Christodoulou! Do you remember him? Father of the infuriating and unfortunate Anastasia whom I left recovering from an overdose in Marlbury Hospital five days and a lifetime ago? ‘Mr Christodoulou,’ I say.’ I’m so sorry. I thought it was my daughter calling.’
‘No problem.’ He chuckles happily. ‘Mrs Gray –’
‘I thought she would be calling,’ I interrupt, ‘because we have something of a family crisis going on at the moment, so –’
‘- I have wanted to speak with you,’ he continues, unperturbed, ‘because –’
‘– I really think it would be better to have this discussion –’
‘– I wanted to say –’
‘ – later. Later, Mr Christodoulou. I am at this moment in a police car in Denmark, so this is really neither the time nor the place. I have your number and I will call you as soon as I’m free.’
There is a pause. ‘Well, I wanted to thank you,’ he says, ‘but if you don’t wish –’ and he hangs up.
He doesn’t believe me, of course. He thinks I have invented an insultingly implausible story to fob him off, and he is offended. But for what can he possibly be thanking me?
I wait a long time for my interrogation, not in the big room with the coffee machine where we waited before, but in a small, airless room which I tell myself not to think of as a cell. When Annie turns up, she is less cross than I expected and more intrigued. We are being watched closely by the young policewoman who is in charge of me but I manage to murmur some minimal information while making a performance of counting out twenty-kronor notes. ‘Sophie in the moat,’ I mutter.
‘Dead?’ she mouths.
I make a could go either way hand movement and she mutters, as she folds up the notes, ‘Zada’s acting weird.’ Then she turns away. ‘OK Freedie-weedie,’ she says. ‘I’ve stolen all Granny’s money and we’re going to have a girls’ day out.’
Freda is doubtful. ‘Why isn’t Granny coming?’ she demands.
‘Because,’ Annie says, picking her up, ‘Granny is old. She needs to stay here and have a rest.’ And she marches out.
I feel bereft – ready to weep, in fact – so I get assertive and request coffee. My request is turned down but making a scene about it proves a useful distraction. When that fails, I rummage about in my bag for reading material. I am threatened by another pang of self-pity when I come across the emergency supplies I gathered so hopefully this morning for a ride to the beach, but among them I find not only The Very Hungry Caterpillar but my copy of Hamlet. Appropriate reading enough, even if this production of ours will never now stalk the halls of Kronborg Castle. ‘What have you, my good friends,’ Hamlet asks Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, ‘deserved at the hands of Fortune that she sends you to prison hither?’ It’s a question I could ask myself and I would have to say that all I’ve done to tempt fortune is to allow myself to be bullied by my daughter. Imprison every woman guilty of that crime and you couldn’t build jails enough to house them.
I turn to Ophelia’s first mad scene, though it’s painful to read it now, remembering how well Sophie played it and how pleased I was with the torn wedding dress idea to match her song, which is all about ruined maids and broken promises. It takes me down a long, confused and not very fruitful thought train, from which I am summoned to my interview with Anders Mortensen.
We are not in the pleasant office this time but in a proper, windowless interview room, and my bag is taken from me before I go in. Anders Mortensen and Ingrid Larsen sit facing me across a table.
‘I asked you,’ Mortensen says without social preamble, ‘to inform me if you had any more information about the death of Conrad Wagner. Is it possible that you lost my card?’
I am completely wrong-footed – as I suppose I’m intended to be. ‘Well,’ I stutter, ‘if you mean this morning – the – seeing Sophie fall off the battlements – I haven’t had –’
He cuts me off. ‘No, I shall want to hear about that later. I mean the information – significant information – that Sophie Forrester gave you yesterday.’
‘Information?’ What is he talking about? I can’t seem to make my mind work. It’s like one of those dreams where you’re trying to run but your legs won’t work. I must not cry. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, as briskly as I can, ‘but I don’t know what you’re talking about. I know violent incidents are all in a day’s work for you but for the rest of us they’re rather shocking. I saw someone I know nearly drown – and for all I know she may be dead. Is she dead? You won’t tell me that, will you? The information here has to be all one way, doesn’t it? Well, I’ve had no time to recover, I’ve got bundled into a car and brought in here, no-one has told me anything, I’ve got a three-year-old child I’m responsible for, she’s had a shock too and I haven’t been allowed to –’ I stop because he is speaking, not to me but to Ingrid Larsen. I’m pretty sure I catch the word kaffe. She gets up and goes out of the room and I feel a whole lot better not only at the prospect of coffee but at seeing her being sent off to fetch it.
Mortensen says nothing while she is gone. I look for my bag, remember it has been confiscated and rummage in my jacket pocket to find a crumpled tissue, on which I blow my nose. Ingrid returns with the coffee and a sachet of sugar, which I stir in, and Mortensen lets me take a swig or two before he says, ‘I will explain.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You had a conversation with Sophie Forrester yesterday evening.’
‘Yes. I did. She was upset and I –’
‘Where did you have this conversation?’
‘In the corridor at the villa where we’re staying. Sophie shares a room with me and my granddaughter and she – Freda – was asleep in there, so we went outside to talk.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘Sophie was very distressed.’
‘About what?’
‘Well, I’d just told her that you had taken James Asquith in for questioning.’
‘And that distressed her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, she was already upset by Conrad’s death and now James… I mean, she and James were – are – going through a bad patch but I think she still hoped they’d get back together and now suddenly it looked as though you were going to charge him with murder.’
‘Why did she think we would charge him with murder?’
I laugh. ‘Well, you‘d taken him in for questioning – and this morning you’ve done it again!’
‘Did she say anything to you that suggested she thought he was guilty?’
I stare at him. ‘She was very upset. She wasn’t really thinking what she was saying.’
Ingrid Larsen gives a little huff of impatience and Mortensen leans forward across the table. ‘That is not an answer to my question, is it?’ he says, looking hard into my face, which starts to go hot in response.
‘She said something wild about Conrad blackmailing James,’ I mutter.
He leans back in his chair. ‘And here we have it,’ he says. ‘An interesting information which you have known now since last night but which you did not pass to me.’
I want to tell him that information is an uncountable noun, so you can’t talk about an information but I realise that this is not the time. Instead, I ask, ‘Who told you about our conversation?’ This is, of course, almost equally unwise as a response since it suggests that I was hoping to keep it secret. He just looks at me but he doesn’t need to answer since I’ve worked it out. Zada’s acting weird, Annie muttered
. Of course she is. She heard us when she was in the bathroom and she’s ready to sell anyone if it will get her passport back and a flight home to Daddy.
‘Something wild?’ Mortensen enquires softly.
‘Yes. She just blurted out that Conrad was trying to blackmail James and then rushed off to bed and refused to say any more. I asked her to explain but she wouldn’t.’
‘So you decided to forget about it.’
‘No. No, I didn’t. In fact, I –’ I stop. Actually, best not to say that I included it in an email to my policeman boyfriend. ‘I lay awake thinking about it,’ I say – truthfully, as it happens.
‘Did you come to any conclusion that you would like to share with us?’
‘In the end I decided that I didn’t believe it.’
‘Really? Why was that?’
‘I couldn’t see what anyone could blackmail James about. What could he have done at twenty-two with a background like his that he could be blackmailed about? People get blackmailed over adulterous affairs or criminal activities, don’t they? And I can’t see James involved in either of those. And anyway, there are no secrets any more for the young – every last detail of their lives gets laid out on Facebook. James seems completely conventional: good school, good ‘A’ levels, good degree, one girlfriend. And he strikes me as a careful young man – not someone to get led astray or go in for risky behaviour.’
‘But he smokes heavily.’
‘Well, yes, but –’
‘So much that he becomes very uncomfortable if he is deprived of cigarettes.’
I laugh. ‘Well, I’ve been a smoker myself and I know what that’s like. It didn’t make me a criminal, though.’
‘I think,’ he says, leaning back in his chair, ‘that you are missing my point.’
‘So what is your point?’
The question comes out quite rudely and he says nothing – just goes on leaning back in his chair, tipping it so that it balances on two legs. The teacher in me wants to tell him off – it’ll slip and you’ll end up on the floor – but I restrain myself and eventually he says, not answering my question, ‘If there was no blackmail, why did Sophie Forrester say there was?’
One May Smile Page 12