‘Would she?’ said Sam dejectedly. ‘Fliss Benson’s agenda in all this is starting to worry me. We can’t find her, we can’t alibi her for Monday . . .’
‘If Benson’s a killer, I’m Barack Obama.’
‘Sellers and I were in her office this morning. She’d left her email inbox up on the screen. While we were there, someone emailed her a photo of Helen Yardley’s hand, holding a card like the others – same numbers, same layout – and a copy of Nothing But Love.’
‘What?’ First a card, then a photograph of a card . . .
‘You said Benson was odd,’ said Sam. ‘Do you think there’s a chance she could be sending these things to herself?’
Simon thought about it. ‘No.’
‘I’ve just got off the phone with Tamsin Waddington,’ Sam told him. ‘She’s worried Benson’s losing her grip on reality – that’s how she put it. Benson rang her with a story about having locked Angus Hines in her flat, and could Tamsin go round with the spare key and let him out. When Tamsin got there half an hour later, the flat was empty – no Angus Hines in sight, no broken windows, everything the same as always. Hines couldn’t have opened a window and climbed out – Tamsin found them all closed and locked, which could only be done from inside. Benson also apparently claimed she’d been to Rachel Hines’ parents’ house in Twickenham.’
‘Did she lock them in too?’
‘Rachel Hines’ parents don’t live in Twickenham, never have. I’ve just spoken to them. They live in Winchester.’
‘So Laurie Nattrass and Fliss Benson join a police artist’s drawing of a skinhead with bad teeth at the top of our “most wanted” list. Are we stepping up our efforts to track them down?’
‘I am.’
‘There’s one more thing I need to do, then I’m straight back,’ Simon told him.
‘A sandwich, right?’ Sam sounded suspicious. ‘Please tell me you’re talking about buying a sandwich.’
‘Two more things,’ said Simon, and pressed the ‘end call’ button.
Ten minutes later, he was sitting on a sofa made out of bean-bags at number 16 Bengeo Street, drinking bitty yellow lemonade and watching horse-racing with four-year-old Dillon White. So far his attempts at conversation had been unsuccessful; the boy hadn’t uttered a word. It occurred to Simon that one thing he hadn’t tried was talking about horses. ‘You’ve seen this race before, then?’ he asked. Dillon nodded. His mother had mentioned that it was a recording, Dillon’s favourite of a large collection. ‘Because his favourite horse always wins,’ she’d added, laughing.
‘I wonder who’s going to win,’ Simon said.
‘Definite Article.’
‘Do you think? He might not.’
‘He always does in this one.’
‘It might be different this time.’
The boy shook his head. He wasn’t interested in Simon and his strange ideas, didn’t take his eyes off the screen.
‘What do you like about Definite Article, then?’ What was it Proust had said? Try, try and try again, Waterhouse. ‘Why’s he your favourite?’
‘He’s a vegetarian.’
Simon didn’t know what answer he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t that. ‘Are you a vegetarian?’
Dillon White shook his head, eyes still on the screen. ‘I’m plain.’
Plain as in unattractive? No, he couldn’t mean that. Wouldn’t all racehorses have pretty much the same diet? Weren’t they all herbivores?
Stella White appeared with a large cardboard box, which she placed at Simon’s feet. ‘Here’s my box of fame,’ she said. ‘There’s quite a bit about JIPAC and Helen in there – hope it helps. Sweet-pea, I’ve told you, you’re not plain – that’s the wrong word. You’re white. Or pink, if you want to be pedantic about it.’
‘He said Definite Article was a vegetarian,’ Simon whispered to her over her son’s head, feeling like a grass.
Stella rolled her eyes. She sank down to her knees so that she was the same height as Dillon. ‘Sweet-pea? What does vegetarian mean? You know what it means, don’t you?’
‘Black skin.’
‘No, it doesn’t. Remember, Mummy told you? Vegetarian means you don’t eat meat.’
‘Ejike’s a vegetarian and he’s got black skin,’ said Dillon tonelessly.
‘He’s got very dark brown skin, and yes, he’s a vegetarian – he doesn’t eat meat – but that doesn’t mean all brown-skinned people don’t eat meat.’ Stella looked at Simon. ‘If it’s not about horses he doesn’t listen,’ she said, standing up. ‘I’ll leave you to it, if you don’t mind. Give me a shout if you need an interpreter.’
Simon decided to give the boy a break, let him watch his racing in peace for a few minutes. He took a handful of newspaper cuttings from the box Stella had given him and started to look through them. It didn’t take him long to piece together her story: she’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer at the age of twenty-eight. Instead of feeling sorry for herself and waiting to die, she’d immediately set about turning herself into a world-class athlete. She’d sought out marathons, treks, triathlons; set herself physical challenge after physical challenge; raised hundreds of thousands of pounds for charities, including JIPAC.
Halfway down the pile, Simon found an article about Stella’s relationship with Helen Yardley: how they’d met, how much they relied on one another’s friendship. There was a picture of the two of them together: Helen was sitting on the floor at Stella’s feet and Stella was leaning in over her shoulder. The headline was ‘Two extraordinary women’. Beneath the photograph, a quote from Helen had been isolated and put in a box, separate from the main text: ‘Knowing Stella won’t be here for ever makes me appreciate her more. I know she’ll always be with me, even once she’s gone.’ There was also a quote from Stella in a box, further down the page: ‘I’ve learned so much about love and courage from Helen. I feel as if my spirit will live on through hers.’
Except that Stella White wasn’t the one who died. Helen Yardley was.
‘So you like Definite Article because he’s got black skin?’ Simon asked Dillon.
‘I like black skin. I wish I had black skin.’
‘What about the man you saw outside Helen’s house on Monday, when you were on your way to school? Do you remember?’
‘The man with the magic umbrella?’ Dillon asked, still watching the horses.
So now it was magic. ‘What’s an umbrella, Dillon?’ If vegetarians were people with brown skin, and white people were plain . . .
‘You hold it over your head to keep the rain off you.’
‘Did the man with the magic umbrella have black skin?’
‘No. Plain.’
‘You saw him outside Helen Yardley’s house on Monday morning?’
Dillon nodded. ‘And beyond. In the lounge.’
Simon leaned forward. ‘What does beyond mean?’
‘Bigger than infinity,’ said Dillon, without hesitation. ‘One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, ninety-nine, a hundred, a thousand, infinity, beyond. To infinity and beyond!’ The last part had to be a quote; Dillon sounded as if he was mimicking someone.
‘What’s infinity?’ Simon asked.
‘The biggest number in the world.’
‘And beyond?’
‘The even biggest number of days.’
Days.
‘Definite Article’s going to win.’ Dillon’s face lit up. ‘Watch.’
Simon did as he was told. When the race was over, Dillon reached for the remote control. ‘We can watch it again from the beginning,’ he said.
‘Dillon? When did Definite Article win the race we’ve just watched? Did he win it today?’
‘No. Beyond.’
‘You mean a long time ago?’ said Simon. He was sorry Dillon was only four; he’d have liked to buy him a pint. Gently, he took the remote control from the boy’s hand. For the first time since
Simon had arrived, Dillon looked at him. ‘The man you saw outside Helen Yardley’s house on Monday morning – it wasn’t the first time you’d seen him at Helen’s house, was it? You saw him before, a long time ago. Beyond. The first time you saw him it was raining, wasn’t it? That was when he had his magic umbrella. Not on Monday.’
Dillon jerked his head up and down: clear agreement.
‘You saw him in the lounge. Was anyone else there, in the lounge?’
More affirmative head-jerking.
‘Who?’
‘Auntie Helen.’
‘That’s good, Dillon, that’s really helpful. You’re doing brilliantly. You’re doing as well as Definite Article did when he won that race.’
The boy’s face lit up, and he beamed. ‘I love Definite Article. When I grow up, I’m going to live with him.’
‘Was it just Auntie Helen and the man, in the lounge?’
‘No.’
‘Who else was there?’
‘Uncle Paul. The other man. And a lady. And Mummy and me.’
‘How many people altogether?’
‘All of us.’ Dillon nodded solemnly.
Simon looked around the room, hoping to see something that might help him. Then he had an idea. ‘One: Auntie Helen,’ he said. ‘Two: the man with the umbrella . . .’
‘Three: the other man,’ Dillon took over, speaking quickly. ‘He had an umbrella too, but it wasn’t magic so he left it outside. Four: Uncle Paul, five: the lady, six: Mummy, seven: me.’
‘The other man and the lady – can you tell me anything about them, what they looked like?’
‘They were plain.’
‘What was magic about the magic umbrella? In what way was it magic?’
‘Because it came from outer space and if you opened it you could make a wish and that wish would definitely come true. And when the rain dripped off it onto the carpet, it turned it into a magic carpet and you could use it to fly to space whenever you want and come back whenever you want.’
‘Is that what the man told you?’
Dillon nodded.
‘This man, did he . . . did he have hair on his head?’
‘Vegetarian.’
‘Brown hair? Did he have funny teeth?’
Dillon started to nod, then stopped and shook his head.
‘You can say no if no’s the right answer,’ Simon told him.
‘I want to watch the race again.’
Simon gave him back the remote control, and went in search of Stella. He found her in a small utility room at the back of the house, ironing and singing under her breath. She looked thin, but not unwell – not like someone with terminal cancer. ‘Do you remember taking Dillon round to the Yardleys’ house a while back?’ he asked her. ‘Helen and Paul were there, you and Dillon, two other men and one other woman. It was raining. The two men both had umbrellas.’
‘We went round there all the time.’ Stella frowned. ‘The place was always full of people. Everyone wanted to be around Helen. People flocked to her.’
‘All the time?’
‘At least twice a week, she’d have us round, usually with other people – her family, friends, other neighbours. Anyone, really. It was more or less open house.’
Simon tried not to look disappointed. He’d assumed that the occasion Dillon had described would stand out in Stella’s memory; he should have realised not everyone was as unsociable as he was. Simon had never had seven people in his living room at the same time, not once. The most he’d had was three: him and his parents. The prospect of a neighbour crossing his threshold would unsettle him to the point of sleepless nights, he suspected. He had no problem with meeting people in the pub; that was different. ‘Can you remember anyone you ever met at Helen’s house telling Dillon his umbrella was magic?’
‘No,’ said Stella. ‘I wouldn’t put it past Dillon to have made that up. It sounds like the invention of a four-year-old to me – not something a grown man would say.’
‘He didn’t make it up,’ said Simon impatiently. ‘A man said it to him, the same man you saw outside Helen’s house on Monday morning, the same man who killed Helen. I need you to put down that iron and start making a list of everyone you can remember meeting at the Yardleys’ house – anyone at all, even if you only caught their first name, even the vaguest physical description.’
‘In the last . . . how long?’ Stella asked.
How many days ago was beyond?
‘Ever,’ Simon told her.
Charlie didn’t know how long she’d been lying face down on Judith Duffy’s kitchen floor. It could have been ten minutes, thirty, an hour. When she tried to speculate about time, it seemed to warp, loop back on itself. Duffy’s murderer sat cross-legged beside her, holding the gun against her head. She was all right – she kept telling herself that – not injured, not dead. If he was going to shoot her he’d have done it by now. All she had to do was not look at him. That was the only thing he’d said to her: ‘Don’t look at me. Keep your head down if you want to stay alive.’
He hadn’t told her she couldn’t speak. Charlie wondered if she ought to risk it.
She heard a series of beeps. He was ringing somebody. She waited for him to start talking.
Nothing. Then the beeps again. ‘Fucking answer,’ he muttered. A smashing sound told Charlie he’d hurled his phone at the wall. She saw it in her peripheral vision: it had fallen and landed by the skirting board. She heard him start to cry, and the knot in her stomach tightened. If he lost control, that was bad news for her – he was more likely to kill her, deliberately or by accident.
‘Stay calm,’ she said, as gently as she could. She was on the point of losing control herself. How long would this go on for? How long had it gone on already?
‘I shouldn’t have done what I did,’ he said. A Cockney accent. ‘She didn’t deserve it.’
‘Judith Duffy didn’t deserve to be shot?’ He could have been talking about Helen Yardley. Check. Simon would say check.
‘You get too far in and then you can’t get out,’ he said, sniffing. ‘She did her best. So did you.’
Charlie’s stomach turned over. When had she done her best? She didn’t understand, and she needed to – understanding might save her life.
He murmured an apology. Charlie swallowed a mouthful of bile, thinking this was it, this was when he was going to shoot her.
He didn’t. He stood up, walked away. Charlie raised her head and saw him sitting on the stairs next to Judith Duffy’s body. Apart from his shaved head, he looked only a little like the police artist’s sketch she’d seen in the paper – his face was a different shape. Charlie was sure it was him, though.
‘Head down,’ he said without feeling. His mind wasn’t on Charlie. She had the sense that he didn’t care any more what she did. Lowering her head only a fraction, she watched as he pulled a card out of his jeans pocket and placed it on Judith Duffy’s face.
The numbers.
Seeing him coming towards her again, she twisted away from him, but all he wanted was his phone. Once he had it, he headed for the front door. Charlie pressed her eyes shut. Being so close to free and safe was hard to bear. If it went wrong now, if he came back . . .
The front door slammed. She looked up and he was gone.
Part III
15
Monday 12 October 2009
‘If I’d known Marcella was going to die when she was eight weeks old, I’d never have left her, not for a second,’ says Ray. ‘I thought I’d have her for the rest of my life, years and years to spend together. Instead, I only had her for eight weeks. Fifty-six days – it sounds even shorter when you say it like that. For nine of those days I wasn’t even there. I walked out on my own daughter when she was only two weeks old. For years that made me hate myself. Sorry, should I look at you or at the camera?’
‘The camera,’ I tell her.
She inspects her fingernails. ‘You can always find a reason to hate yourself if you’re that way inclined. I tho
ught I was getting better at forgiving myself, but . . . I hated myself yesterday, when I found out what had happened to Judith. I’m not overly fond of myself today.’ She tries to smile.
‘Did you kill Judith Duffy?’ I ask. ‘Because if you didn’t, then it’s not your fault that she’s dead.’
‘Isn’t it? People hated her because of me. Not only me, true, but . . . I contributed, didn’t I?’
‘No. Tell me about walking out on Marcella.’ I sense she’s trying to put it off; talking about Judith Duffy is easier.
She sighs. ‘I’m scared you’ll judge me. Isn’t that ridiculous? It didn’t upset me at all when we first met and you told me you thought I’d probably killed my children.’
‘Because you knew you hadn’t, so my judgement didn’t apply to you. But now you’re going to tell me about something you did do.’
‘I used to have a business: PhysioFit. It was extremely successful. Still is, even though I’m no longer part of it. As well as individual clients, we provided physiotherapy for businesses. Let’s use your company as an example – Binary Star. Let’s say your boss decides that you all spend too long sitting hunched over your computers. She can see your posture deteriorating, you’re all complaining of back pain, the office is a breeding ground for vertebral occlusions. Boss decides to introduce routine physiotherapy provision for all Binary Star employees. First thing she does is invite several companies to tender for the contract.’
‘Like PhysioFit?’
‘Exactly. Assuming this is years ago, when I was still involved, what would happen is that my colleague Fiona and I would go to Binary Star’s offices and give a presentation that would last two or three hours. Fiona would talk about the business side of things, contract terms – all the stuff that I’m not particularly interested in. Then when she’d done her bit, it would be my turn to talk about the physiotherapy itself: what it involves, what conditions it’s particularly useful for, how it’s not only a last resort for chronic pain but something that can be preventative as well. I’d talk about postural training and cranial osteopathy – that was my specialism – and about the foolishness of believing, as some people do, that a machine can provide physiotherapeutic services as efficiently as a human being. Of course it can’t. When I put my hands on someone’s neck, I can feel—’
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