Where There's Smoke (1997)

by Simon Beckett

  The phone rang. Kate gave a start, then ran into the hallway and snatched it up. "Hello?"

  "Hi, Kate, it's Lucy."

  The leaden ball settled back in her stomach. "Oh, hi, Lucy."

  "Well, don't sound so pleased. What's the matter?"

  "Nothing, sorry. Well, Alex is a bit late, that's all."

  Lucy laughed. "Got to that stage already, has it? Rolling pin behind the door?"

  Kate concealed her irritation. "No. I'm just worried. He should have been here over an hour ago."

  "I wouldn't worry. He's probably stuck on a tube somewhere. So how's it going?"

  "Okay." She felt no desire to tell Lucy she was pregnant. Not until Alex knew.

  Lucy sighed. "I can tell you're not in a chatting mood. Look, I'm sure he's fine. He'll turn up with some excuse. They always do."

  But he didn't.

  By next morning Kate felt dulled with worry and fatigue. She had slept fitfully, sometimes jerking awake convinced that the doorbell or the phone had rung. Then she would lie with her heart thudding in the aftermath of the adrenaline rush, conscious of the cold space beside her in the bed as she listened to the meaningless night-noises of the flat.

  At one point she thought of the table, still set in the lounge, and the prospect of seeing it unchanged in the grey light of morning was unbearable. She got out of bed and cleared it without turning on the light, stripping it in the near-dark so she wouldn't see what she was doing.

  Daylight and the normality of the rush-hour crowds was reassuring. Kate walked quickly out of King's Cross, the rain drumming against her umbrella and spattering her legs. She had promised herself that the first thing she was going to do was contact the centre again where Alex worked. The phone was bound to be working by now, and someone there would surely know what had happened to him, would at least be able to tell her if he was all right. She hurried along the rain-drenched streets, driven by a fearful eagerness.

  The door to the agency was unlocked. She opened it and backed in, shaking off the water from her umbrella outside.

  Closing the door, she turned and saw Clive looking at her. Two men were in the office with him. "There's somebody to see you," Clive said in a voice that was oddly flat. One of the men stepped forward. "Miss Powell?"

  He was a big, heavily built man in his fifties, with bristly grey hair, thinning on top, and startlingly thick black eyebrows. His tweed overcoat smelt like a wet dog. The other man was younger and wore a blue nylon anorak. He remained in the background.

  Kate glanced at Clive, but his face was expressionless.

  "Yes?" she said.

  "I'm Detective Inspector Collins. This is Sergeant Daikin. I wonder if you could spare us a few minutes?"

  A hollowness had settled in her stomach. "Come up to my office."

  She led them upstairs, remembering herself enough to ask if they wanted tea or coffee. Both declined. They sat opposite her across her desk, the older of the two opening his overcoat to reveal a creased brown suit. His shirt was stretched drum-tight across his heavy stomach. The younger man took a sheet of paper from the folder he was carrying and handed it to him. The Inspector glanced at it and held it out for Kate.

  "Can you tell me if you sent this?"

  It was a photocopy of the fax she had sent to Alex the day before. She fought down a rising panic. "Yes, I sent it yesterday."

  "So you know Dr Turner?"

  The hollowness in her gut had contracted, squeezing so she couldn't breathe. "Yes. Look, what's happened?"

  "What's your relationship with him?"

  "I'm a—a friend. Please, tell me, is he all right?"

  -

  The Inspector spoke matter-of-factly. "I'm sorry. He's dead."

  It was as though the air pressure in the room had suddenly altered. There was a roaring in her ears. She saw the older man watching her, a concerned expression on his face, and realised she was swaying in her seat. She put both hands on the desk to steady herself. "How?"

  She wasn't sure if she had spoken out loud, but she must have because the Inspector answered.

  "He was found in his office last night. There was a fire, and when the fire brigade went in, they found him."

  He hesitated. "We've not got the post-mortem results yet, but it looks like he'd been beaten to death. Then whoever did it tipped out all the paper from the filing cabinets and tried to set fire to the room. Luckily, it was a rush job and the building's got a sprinkler system. They don't always work in old buildings, but this one did. It doused the fire before it got a hold."

  Kate felt a great detachment. There was no pain, no sensation at all. She wasn't really sitting here, hearing this. This wasn't Alex they were talking about. When she spoke the words seemed unreal, as though she was taking part in someone else's play. "Who did it?"

  The Inspector shifted slightly in his seat. It creaked under his weight. "We're not sure yet. But we know Dr Turner was staying behind to see one of his patients. Unfortunately, with the computers shorted out by the sprinkler system and the office in turmoil, everything's still a bit confused. We're hoping to have a better idea about that later this morning."

  He nodded at the photocopy Kate still held in her hand. "That was underneath him. Or rather, the original was. You didn't sign your surname, but the agency's address is printed on it. So we thought we'd come and see if you knew anything that might help us."

  Kate looked down at the piece of paper. "Your grandmother's St Christopher worked! Phone me! Love, Kate."

  She became aware that the policeman had asked her something. "Sorry?"

  "I said, can you tell me what it means? It seems a cryptic sort of message, if you don't mind my saying."

  The two policemen waited. Kate felt the paper in her hands, but didn't look down at it again. "It was just a joke. A private thing."

  The Inspector gazed across at her. "Can you elaborate on that? What's this reference to his 'grandmother's St Christopher', for instance?"

  It jolted her to hear the words from his mouth.

  "It's sort of a lucky charm he wears. He never takes it off."

  She saw the two men exchange a look.

  "Can you describe it?" the Inspector asked.

  "It…it's silver, about this big." She held her thumb and forefinger apart to show them. "It's heavy. Old."

  She could still feel its cool heft, as if she were actually holding it. She lowered her hand as the policemen's reaction penetrated. "Why?"

  The Inspector seemed to weigh up whether or not to tell her. "He wasn't wearing anything like that when we found him."

  He shrugged, as if not wanting to place too much importance on the fact. "There'd been a struggle, so it's possible it might have fallen off. We're still examining his office. It could be in there somewhere."

  He went on, quickly, leaving the subject behind. "How long have you known each other?"

  Kate had to think. "I don't know. Eight, nine months."

  The numbers meant nothing.

  "Could you tell us when you last saw him?"

  "Yesterday morning. About…about quarter to eight." She remembered Alex grinning up at her from the bottom of the stairs. His dark hair was tufted.

  "Where was that?"

  "At my flat."

  The Inspector's eyebrows raised slightly. "Bit early, wasn't it?"

  "He stayed the night."

  His disapproval showed in a faint pursing of his lips. "I take it you live alone?"

  "Yes."

  "And you didn't see or speak to him after that?"

  She shook her head.

  "Can you tell me where you were yesterday evening?"

  "I was at home. Waiting for Alex. He…he was supposed to be calling round."

  "Did you see anyone else during that time?"

  "No. A friend phoned, but that's all."

  "What time was that?"

  She tried to remember. Her thoughts were scrambled. "I don't know. Eight o'clock."

  "And what's your friend's
name?"

  Kate realised with mild surprise that he was checking her out. It didn't seem to matter. She gave him Lucy's name and address. The sergeant's pen scratched as he made notes.

  "What did you do when Dr Turner didn't arrive?" the Inspector asked.

  For an instant she felt disoriented, as an echo of the fear she had felt the previous night overlapped with the impossibility of the present. "I didn't know what to do. I tried calling the Centre, but there was something wrong with the phone."

  Comprehension came like a blow. She broke off, looking across at the policeman.

  "The phones all went down when the sprinklers cut in," he said. "That was between half past seven and eight, as far as we can tell."

  He was already dead then. He was lying there, dead, when I phoned. The thought was too immense to take in.

  "Did you do anything else? Phone anyone else?"

  "After I'd called the Centre I tried phoning him at home. But there wasn't…there was no answer."

  The Inspector's face was impassive. "There wouldn't be. His wife was visiting her mother. Otherwise we might have known he was missing sooner."

  Kate stared at him. "His wife?"

  He gave her a quizzical, disbelieving look. "Dr Turner's married."

  She shook her head. "No…No, he isn't."

  "I've just spoken to his wife. I can assure you he is. I'm sorry, I assumed, as his mistress, you'd know."

  A wind of dizziness was blowing over her, like nausea. Mistress. "He can't be!"

  The denial was wrung from her. "I'd have known! I've been seeing him for—for months! He gave me his home telephone number! He wouldn't have done that if he was married!"

  "What number did he give you?"

  Kate struggled to clear her thoughts enough to remember. The sergeant wrote it down as she stammered it out. He leafed through his notes, then looked at the Inspector. "Different number, sir. That isn't his home phone."

  He avoided Kate's eyes. She turned back to the Inspector. There was something that might have been pity in his eyes now. "Did you ever go to his home?" he asked.

  "No."

  It was a whisper. "He—he said he was living in a studio flat until he found somewhere to buy. He told me it was a dump, and he'd be embarrassed at me seeing it."

  She remembered his reluctance, how he had always insisted on dropping her off first when they shared a taxi. It was a physical pain in her chest.

  The scratching of the sergeant's pen had stopped. There was an uneasy silence.

  "I'm sorry," the Inspector said. "I know this must all have come as a shock."

  Kate didn't respond. She stared down at the surface of her desk. There was a scratch on it she had never noticed before.

  The policeman coughed. "I don't suppose Dr Turner made any mention to you about who he was seeing last night?" he asked.

  It was an effort to shake her head. "He doesn't talk much about his work." Or anything else.

  "So there was nothing out of the ordinary at all?"

  She gave another shake of her head.

  The Inspector took out a crumpled handkerchief and blew his nose. The handkerchief was returned to his pocket. "Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against him?" he asked. "Dr Turner, I mean?"

  "I thought you were looking for one of his patients?"

  "We certainly want to question whoever he saw last night, but we're not ruling out any other possibility either."

  Kate began to say no, then stopped.

  "Yes?" the Inspector prompted.

  "I had…well, a run-in with an old boyfriend in a restaurant. He hit Alex. But I don't think…"

  "When was this?"

  "About…about three, four weeks ago." It seemed an age now.

  "What's his name, please?"

  "Paul Sutherland. Look, I don't want to cause any trouble for him," she added, seeing the sergeant write down the name.

  "Don't worry, we'll just check it out. Can you tell us anything more about him?"

  Kate told him about the court case. The detachment had returned, sealing her off as she spoke. When she had finished there was a pause. The Inspector rubbed his nose.

  "There's one more thing," he said, slowly. "The body hasn't been formally identified yet. His wife isn't really in any fit state to do it, so I wonder if you would?"

  The sergeant glanced up from his book. He looked unhappy. "We could ask someone else, though, couldn't we, sir?"

  Collins stared him down. "We could, but now we're here I'd like Miss Powell to do it." He turned back to Kate. "If you don't mind."

  She answered from within a core of unnatural calm. "All right."

  The mortuary was part of a 1970s concrete and glass building. Kate walked between the two policemen down tiled steps into the basement. The smell was similar to—yet subtly different from—a hospital's. They came to a row of plastic chairs in a corridor. Kate stayed there with the sergeant while the Inspector disappeared through a nearby door.

  She tried to remember the sergeant's name, but couldn't. She could tell he was uncomfortable, and felt distantly sorry for him. But other than that nothing penetrated the numbness that surrounded her.

  Only once had the actuality of Alex's death seemed real. During the car journey she had been sitting in the back, staring out of the window, when the knowledge had come to her like a scream. Alex is dead. There was an instant of terrible loss, like falling, but then the feeling of unreality gripped her again, putting an anaesthetising screen between her and her feelings. She almost welcomed it.

  Collins came back out. He spoke in a subdued voice.

  "Are you ready?"

  Kate rose to her feet. She moved towards the door he was holding open for her. She could see through into the room beyond. Facing her was a large window, looking into yet another room.

  And suddenly it hit her. Where she was. What she was doing.

  She didn't know she had stepped backwards until she bumped into the sergeant.

  "Come on, love." He spoke softly and took her arm. Her legs were weak as she let him lead her towards the window. She kept her head down as she took the last few steps up to it. Her feet seemed a great distance away.

  "All right."

  She wasn't sure who had spoken, but she looked up. On the other side of the glass was a steel table. A body lay on it, covered by a sheet.

  That's Alex, Kate thought. That's him, that's Alex. She closed her throat on a moan.

  The sheet covering the body was perfectly still, unruffled by breath. A woman in a white coat, whom Kate hadn't noticed till now, took hold of it at the top and pulled it back.

  Kate looked. His dark hair was singed and matted, clotted with blood. She could see where his skull under it had been crushed. One eye was swollen shut, the flesh around it discoloured, but the other was partly open, a thin sickle staring up at the ceiling, seeing nothing.

  Kate felt a pulse throb in her temple. She took a breath, forced herself to speak.

  "No," she said. "That's not him."

  CHAPTER 14

  The police took her to her flat. They asked for a photograph of Alex. The only one she had was from their picnic at Cambridge, when the Japanese man had taken one of them both together. Alex had mounted it in a clip-frame and given it to her a few days later, a little nervous but obviously pleased about making a gift of it. Kate looked at the colour print before handing it over to the Inspector. She and Alex stood side by side, smiling self-consciously at the camera. Behind them was the river, a corner of the punt just visible under an overhanging willow. They looked tanned and happy.

  She watched Collins put the photograph into his overcoat pocket. "I will get it back, won't I?"

  "Just as soon as we've finished with it."

  The policemen left. They had offered to take her back to the office, but she had declined. She needed time alone. The relief she'd felt at discovering it wasn't Alex's body had been replaced by reaction, and now she felt drained.

  She called C
live to tell him that she wouldn't be in. He had made no comment when she had left with the police, but she had seen the concern in his face. It was in his voice now, when he asked, "I know it isn't any of my business, but is everything okay?"

  She began to formulate a polite response, then abandoned the attempt. "No, not really."

  "Is it anything I can help with?"

  "Thanks, but no, I don't think it is."

  He didn't speak for a second or two. "Let me know if you want to talk about it."

  She said she would and rang off. She stood in the hall for a while. There seemed no particular reason to go into either the lounge or the kitchen. Finally, with the vague idea of making something to eat, she went into the kitchen.

  Without bothering to see what flavour it was, she took out a tin of soup from one of the wall cupboards. It was only when she looked for a saucepan that she remembered they were still on the cooker from the night before.

  Kate stared down at the cold vegetables, and then grabbed the pans and tipped them down the sink. The potatoes had dissolved into the water. It formed a scummy tidemark on the stainless steel. She scooped out the congealed lumps that were too big to drain down the plug hole and dumped them into the bin, then turned on the tap and rinsed the sink sides.

  Leaving the water running, she pulled open the oven door and pulled out the foil-wrapped salmon, dropping that into the bin too.

  The water had begun to run hot. Kate squirted washing-up liquid onto the saucepans and scoured them until her arms ached. When they were dripping on the draining rack, she looked around for something else. She took the heavy metal frames from around the gas rings and plunged them into the soapy water. Then she started on the cooker itself.

  Her confusion was like dark water under thin ice. Only by moving could she hope to keep from plunging through, so she scrubbed and wiped and polished, moving from the kitchen to the bathroom, then down the hall to the lounge. She was vacuuming the lounge carpet when the doorbell rang.

  The sound was thin and reedy over the howl of the cleaner. Kate froze, then switched it off. The doorbell rang again as it whined into silence. She flew into the hall and down the stairs, but the hope sagged out of her when she saw two figures through the stained-glass panel.