Lasting Damage

by Sophie Hannah

  ‘Putting you through now,’ says the receptionist. My heart starts to race. I will myself not to black out again. The only thing stopping me from pressing the end-call button is my certainty that Selina Gane won’t be in her room at two thirty on a Tuesday afternoon. She might have recorded her own voicemail greeting; some hotels I’ve stayed in allow you to do that. I wait, wondering if I’m about to hear her voice. Wondering what it might say.

  Please leave a message after the tone, and, yes, I am having an affair with your husband.

  ‘Hello?’

  Oh, God. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What do I do now?

  You want to talk to her, don’t you?

  ‘Is that Selina Gane?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  I can’t do this. Can’t. Have to.

  ‘It’s me. Connie Bowskill. I’m the one who’s been . . .’ I stop. What have I been doing, exactly? ‘I’m the woman who—’

  ‘I know who you are,’ she cuts me off. ‘How did you find out where I’m staying? How did you get a key to my house?’

  ‘I haven’t—’

  ‘Leave me alone! You’re sick! I don’t know what’s wrong with you, or what your game is, and I don’t want to know. I’m phoning the police.’

  There’s a click, then the line goes dead.

  I start to shiver, suddenly ice-cold in the pit of my stomach. When I try to subdue the shaking, it gets worse. My first impulse is to ring Sam, to get to the police before Selina Gane does and tell them it’s not true – I haven’t got a key to her house, I don’t know what she’s talking about. I can’t think straight. If the dead woman was real, am I about to be accused of her murder? How can that be, when I’ve done nothing, when I know nothing? Maybe Selina Gane’s not lying deliberately; maybe it’s a mistake. I need to explain . . .

  No. Think, Connie. If you ring Sam, he’ll persuade you to go back to the police station, back to Grint. And Grint won’t take you where you want to go.

  I need to get into that house. It’s the only way. I’ve looked at the pictures again and again and I still can’t bring to mind the missing detail, the shadow that moves out of sight whenever I try to focus on it. I need to be there in person – stand in that lounge myself, however much I don’t want to, however sick I feel at the prospect. Maybe then the missing piece will slot into place.

  I wish I did have a key to 11 Bentley Grove. If I did, I wouldn’t need to make the call I’m about to make. I fumble in my bag, pull out an old Sainsbury’s receipt. There’s a phone number written on the back of it: 0843 315 6792. I saw it on Grint’s computer screen about an hour and a half ago, wondered why I hadn’t noticed it before on Roundthehouses: the number to ring to arrange a viewing of 11 Bentley Grove, or to ask for further information. While Grint, Sam and Kit were busy staring at the blurred black car, I excused myself to go to the bathroom and wrote it down.

  I key in the number and press dial.

  ‘Connie!’

  Kit is sprinting towards me. There’s no time to run away. I curl into a ball, wrap my arm around my knees and tighten my grip on my phone. He’s not going to stop me from doing this.

  ‘Thank God. I thought you’d—’

  ‘Quiet.’

  ‘Who are you phoning?’

  ‘I said be quiet.’ Pick up. Pick up.

  ‘Who are you phoning, Connie?’

  ‘Lorraine Turner,’ I say, my voice hard. ‘She’s got a house to sell. I’m going to arrange a viewing.’

  Kit hisses an obscenity under his breath, shakes his head. I try to hear only the ringing, preferring it to the sound of my husband’s disgust. Pick up. Please.

  ‘You think they’re going to be showing people round? A woman gets murdered there, and the police don’t think to tell the agent to hold off on viewings? What the fuck’s wrong with you? Look at you, crouched on the pavement like a . . . Do you actually have any idea what you’re doing?’

  He’s right. I didn’t think. Of course Grint will have told them not to show anyone round 11 Bentley Grove; it must be full of police. ‘You don’t know anything,’ I say, keeping my phone clamped to my ear. I won’t give up, not while Kit’s watching me.

  The ringing stops. Someone’s picked up. A woman’s voice says, ‘Lasting damage.’

  I can’t speak. The breath in my throat has set, turned to concrete.

  ‘Lasting damage,’ she repeats, louder this time. Sing-song. As if she’s taunting me.

  Do you actually have any idea what you’re doing?

  Lasting damage. Lasting damage. Lasting damage.

  I cry out, throw my phone into the road. I don’t want it anywhere near me.

  ‘Con, what’s wrong?’ Kit crouches down beside me. ‘What happened?’

  ‘She said . . .’ I shake my head. It can’t be true. It must be. I heard it, twice. ‘She said, “Lasting damage”, the woman who answered the phone. Why would she say that to me?’

  I see my confusion reflected in Kit’s eyes: blank incomprehension. Then he breathes in sharply and his face changes. ‘She didn’t say, “Lasting damage”, Connie. She said, “Lancing Damisz” – it’s the name of the agency.’

  I wrap my arms around myself, rocking back and forth to make it go away. ‘She said, “Lasting damage”.’ I know what I heard.

  ‘Connie . . . Connie! Lancing Damisz is the estate agent that’s selling 11 Bentley Grove. It’s the company Lorraine Turner works for: Lancing Damisz.’

  Lasting damage. Lancing Damisz. I’m not sure how many times Kit says the name before I allow myself to hear it. ‘How do you know? How do you know what the estate agent’s called?’

  He closes his eyes, waits a few seconds before answering. ‘I can’t believe you don’t know. The logo’s on the Roundthehouses page. Just above where it says, “11 Bentley Grove, Cambridge”. Can’t you picture it? We’ve just spent half an hour staring at it, with Grint and Sam. All in upper case, with the D hanging off the L, looped over it. I noticed it because it’s an unusual name. I thought, “They must be new – there was no Lancing Damisz in 2003, when we were looking at houses.” ’

  The D hanging off the L. Yes: navy blue letters. I didn’t take in the name because I wasn’t interested in which estate agent was selling 11 Bentley Grove; I was too busy looking for my husband in the photographs.

  ‘Are . . . are you sure?’ I ask Kit. How could I not know the name? I’ve phoned the estate agent before – last Friday, when I first saw the ‘For Sale’ sign in the garden. I asked if anyone was available immediately to show me round. No one was.

  ‘Ring them back.’ Kit glances at my shattered phone lying in pieces in the road, then tries to pass me his. ‘Don’t take the word of someone you don’t trust.’

  ‘No, I . . .’

  ‘Ring them!’ He waves it in my face. ‘Prove it to yourself. Maybe then you’ll realise you need help – proper medical help, not some crappy quack homeopath who knows a gullible idiot when she sees one.’

  What about you, Kit? Do you know a gullible idiot when you see one?

  I find the Sainsbury’s receipt again, key in the number. Drops of water fall on the phone’s screen. Tears. I wipe them away.

  This time someone answers after only one ring. ‘Lancing Damisz.’

  It’s the same voice, same woman. Same words. How could I have misheard it? I pass the phone back to Kit, who is waiting for me to admit my mistake and apologise.

  What’s the point? What’s the point of Kit and me saying anything to one another, when neither of us can be trusted?

  Chapter 14

  20/7/2010

  ‘It was only two days,’ Jackie Napier answered Sam’s question with her eyes on Ian Grint. ‘Two days isn’t a long time. I saw it on Saturday, and I phoned the police first thing Monday morning. I explained to you why.’

  ‘Could you explain it to me?’ Sam asked. Jackie tore her eyes away from Grint to scowl at him. She had taken out one of her gold sleeper earrings and was using the end of it to scrape underneath her pink-
painted fingernails. Odd behaviour for someone so well turned out, Sam thought; the immaculate presentation and the rather unsavoury public grooming seemed to contradict one another. Jackie’s make-up looked as if it had been applied by a professional, and her bobbed dark hair had been styled with architectural precision. Sam didn’t see how it was possible to achieve that rigid triangular look – not without scaffolding and an RSJ, at any rate.

  He couldn’t pin down Jackie’s age in the way that he could most people’s – she might have been anything from twenty to forty-five. She had a round childlike face, but her bare legs were covered with a tracery of prominent blue veins, like a much older woman’s. Or maybe it had nothing to do with age. If Sam’s wife Kate were here, she would say, ‘The legs might not be her fault, but the skirt is. Trousers were invented for a reason.’ Or words to that effect. Strange things offended Kate, things Sam didn’t give a toss about: people wearing clothes that didn’t suit them, clocks in public places that showed the wrong time, houses with brown window-frames, hot-air hand dryers.

  Sam had the impression that Jackie Napier had been expecting Grint to take the lead, and resented this hijacking of proceedings by a newcomer who wasn’t even local, but Grint had decided Sam should direct the interview and had so far contributed nothing. He was sitting in the far corner of the room, using a radiator as a footstool. Sam thought his disaffected schoolboy posture was inappropriate, and would have preferred him to put his feet on the floor, but he had no illusions about who was in charge. Wherever I go, someone else turns out to be in charge, he thought. It worried him only indirectly: he spent a lot of time wondering if he ought to try to assert himself more, and always ended up concluding that he’d rather not have power over others, not if he could help it. What he would have liked was for those with power to behave as he would if he were them.

  ‘I’m not criticising you,’ he told Jackie. ‘You’ve given us some very useful information, and, as you say, two days isn’t a long time.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. What am I supposed to do, ring the police and say, “Excuse me, but I saw a dead body on a property website, except now it’s disappeared?” Who’s to say it was ever there at all? No one would have believed me. I’d have looked like an idiot.’

  ‘And yet you did come forward,’ Sam pointed out.

  ‘Well, I couldn’t just leave it, could I? I mean, maybe I imagined it, maybe it was never there at all, but I’ve still got to tell someone, haven’t I? What if I didn’t imagine it? I worried about it till it did my head in, asked all my mates – waste of time, they all gave me different advice. Some said, “Don’t be daft, you couldn’t have seen it”, some said, “You’ve got to tell someone”. Most just laughed at me, to be honest. It wasn’t funny, you know,’ she said indignantly, as if Sam had said it was. ‘Monday morning, I woke up and thought, this is going to bug me if I don’t get it off my chest. It shouldn’t be my responsibility, should it? No one pays me to worry about people getting murdered. So I rang the police.’ Her accent sounded like Essex to Sam, but perhaps it was Cambridge. Was there such a thing? he wondered. If so, it wasn’t one of the better known regional accents, like Brummie or Scouse.

  ‘You did the right thing,’ he said.

  Jackie nodded. ‘I’ll swear to you right now: I didn’t imagine it. That’s just not me, I’m not an imagination sort of person. Do you know what I mean?’

  Sam did. Jackie Napier was about as different from Connie Bowskill as it was possible to be. They were at opposite ends of the scale. With a dead woman lying in her own blood smack bang in the middle of the space between them.

  ‘Two things about me . . .’ Jackie counted them off on her fingers. ‘One: I’m as loyal as they come. If I’m on your side, I’m on your side for keeps. Two: I live in the real world, not fantasy land. I don’t get ideas, I don’t kid myself about my life, pretend it’s better than it is: I prefer to see things how they really are.’

  Did she mean she didn’t get ideas above her station? Sam wondered. Fancy, far-fetched ideas? Or ideas, period? She’d given him one: maybe he could garnish his deficiencies with a bit of inverted boasting. He imagined himself saying to Proust, ‘Two things about me, sir: I avoid confrontation wherever I can, and I let my DCs run rings around me.’ That would go down well – about as well as Sam’s having devoted today to helping Ian Grint with his maybe-real-and-maybe-not murder, as if he had no cases of his own to attend to.

  ‘What time was it when you saw the woman’s body on Roundthehouses?’ he asked Jackie.

  ‘I told DC Grint: about quarter past, twenty past one.’

  And Grint could have told Sam. But Sam was glad he hadn’t, now that he’d got this far, now that Jackie was looking at him, finally, and no longer grimaced at everything he said. When, earlier, he’d asked to be debriefed, Grint had chuckled and said, ‘Too much effort, not enough time.’ Sam had walked into the interview room knowing only Jackie’s name, and that she claimed to have seen what Connie Bowskill had seen. As a result, he was experiencing her first-hand, undistorted by whatever conclusions Grint had drawn based on his prior meetings with her.

  Grint was right: it was a better way to do it. Sam wasn’t fooled by the outward flippancy; Grint cared about 11 Bentley Grove’s disappearing dead woman. When you were in the presence of someone who really cared about something – above and beyond professional conscientiousness – you could feel it in everything they said and did. In Grint’s company, Sam had that feeling – as if there was adrenaline in the air, in the walls, in the furniture – and he knew he wasn’t the one generating it. Grint’s like Simon Waterhouse, he thought. He’d have put money on the two detectives hating one another.

  ‘Do you normally go on the internet late at night?’ he asked Jackie.

  ‘Lord, no. I’m a nine-o’-clock-to-bed person, me. I was jet-lagged. I got back from holiday last Thursday, and I’m never right for a few days afterwards, if it’s long-distance.’

  ‘Where did you go on holiday?’

  ‘Matakana in New Zealand. You’ve never heard of it, have you?’

  Sam had, but he pretended he hadn’t, guessing that Jackie would enjoy enlightening him.

  ‘My sister lives there. It’s a pretty little place. She runs a café. Well, it’s an art gallery, really – but they do cake and coffee and stuff. It doesn’t know what it is – it’d make more money if it did. I always say, it’s great for a holiday, Matakana, but you wouldn’t want to live there.’

  Same wondered how often Jackie had said this in the presence of her sister, while enjoying her hospitality.

  ‘Do you mind my asking what you do for a living?’

  Jackie jerked her head in Grint’s direction. ‘Hasn’t he told you anything?’

  ‘It’s helpful for me to hear it from you,’ Sam told her.

  ‘I’m an estate agent. I work for Lancing Damisz. We’re the ones selling the house where the body was, 11 Bentley Grove. Why do you think I was looking on Roundthehouses?’ She frowned. ‘Are you one of those people who hates estate agents?’

  ‘No, I . . .’ Sam heard a scraping sound, and turned; Grint had chosen this moment to adjust the position of his chair. An estate agent. That was the last thing Sam had expected, as Grint well knew; it explained the hint of a smile on his face.

  ‘When I couldn’t sleep Friday night, I thought I’d have a look at what had come on the market while I was away,’ said Jackie. ‘I knew 11 Bentley Grove’d be there – I knew she was selling it, the doctor that owns it, Dr Gane. I’d have dealt with the sale myself, only I was due to go to New Zealand, so I handed it over to Lorraine – my colleague, Lorraine Turner?’

  ‘So . . .’ Sam felt as if he was lagging behind. ‘Sorry, you might have to clarify something for me: you said you were looking at Roundthehouses to see what had come up for sale while you were out of the country . . .’

  ‘That’s right. To see what had sold, too, and what was under offer. Keep an eye on our competition, check they weren’t sel
ling more than us. The property market’s strong in Cambridge. The downturn didn’t hit us as badly as it did some places, and things are really picking up now. Any house or flat in the city centre that comes on for less than about six hundred grand gets snapped up within days, unless it’s a huge refurb job or on a busy road. It’s a supply and—’

  ‘Sorry, if I can just stop you there.’ Sam smiled to compensate for the intrusion. ‘So essentially you were trying to get up to speed before you went back to work.’

  ‘Yeah. See, the thing about me is, I love my work – it’s a vocation more than a career for me. I even miss it when I go away. There’s no job I’d rather do, and that’s the God’s honest truth.’

  ‘I think that might answer the question I was about to ask.’ The question I’d have asked some time ago, if you weren’t quite so keen on the sound of your own voice. ‘Why did you play the virtual tour of 11 Bentley Grove? I suppose you need to see a house’s interior to know whether it’s fairly priced,’ Sam answered his own question, imagining how he might feel if selling homes were his passion in life.

  ‘You do.’ Jackie nodded enthusiastically. ‘Too right you do. Still, I’d already seen inside Dr Gane’s house, twice. I looked at the virtual tour because I was curious to see if she’d moved out like she said she was going to. Just being nosy, really. She told me she wouldn’t be able to stay there after what had happened, said she’d have to go to a hotel. I said to her, “That’ll cost you a bomb – staying in a hotel till you’ve sold, and bought somewhere else.” She’d gone and done it, though – I could tell from the tour. She’d left most of her stuff in the house, but there was no toothbrush, toothpaste or loo roll in the bathroom, no pile of books or water glass on her bedside table.’ Jackie tapped the side of her nose. ‘I’ve got an instinct, when it comes to houses – and the people that live in them.’

  And the people that die in them?

  ‘I remember thinking, “She’s only done it – moved into a hotel, at God knows what cost. Silly woman!” And then the picture of the lounge came up, and I saw that body lying there, all that blood . . .’ Jackie shuddered. ‘I don’t want to see anything like that again, thank you very much.’