But when I did eventually look down, all I saw was a schoolgirl walking slowly past me and on along the street. I hadn’t heard her approaching and I watched her receding figure with a fixity of mind I couldn’t quite fathom. She was wearing school uniform – boater, blazer and pleated skirt – and was carrying a satchel over her shoulder. Her long blond hair bounced on the collar of her blazer as she walked. She was probably about Amy’s age, and I could easily imagine what Amy would say about having to wear a boater, though this girl didn’t seem to mind. She glanced back at me, or at something behind me, as she crossed to the other side of the street, then vanished from sight round the curve of the buildings.
I didn’t think any more about her until I was driving north out of the city, back towards London. Then it came to me. It was still the Easter holiday. There shouldn’t have been any schoolgirls in uniform on the streets of Chichester. Not now. Not at this point in time.
TWELVE
NYMAN HAD SO far eluded me, but Daphne surely couldn’t hope to deny her friendship with Isobel Courtney. Mary Whiting had met her at the funeral, and I’d have taken a bet she was living in Barnet at the time. Isobel had gone there to see her, perhaps to seek help in dealing with whatever affinity she felt with the lost and long-ago soul of Marian Esguard.
I couldn’t see my way much further into the mystery than that and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. There was another possible explanation for everything that had happened to me. It was the most horrifying one of all and the backward glance of the schoolgirl who’d passed me in East Pallant lingered in my mind as a glimpse of just what that explanation would mean: that nobody was to be trusted, least of all me.
But I wasn’t going to believe that until I was forced to. Next morning I went straight to Harley Street and tried the bell at Daphne’s practice. There was, as I expected, no answer, so I tried the next bell on the panel, for an osteopath called Ramirez, and talked his receptionist into letting me in.
‘Miss Sanger will be away for at least another week,’ she informed me. ‘It was my understanding that she’d been in touch with all her clients to explain the situation.’
‘She must have missed me. I need to write to her, actually. Do you have her home address?’
‘I can’t give that out, I’m afraid. But, if you write to her here, we’ll forward it on.’ With a tell-tale downward glance, she slid one envelope over another in her out-tray.
‘It’s an urgent matter. I’m not sure I can—’ I snatched up the envelope she’d just covered and looked at the name and address on it.
‘Give that back to me at once,’ she demanded, flushing angrily, though partly perhaps at her own stupidity.
‘Certainly.’ I handed it over smartly. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell if you won’t.’
It was a small house in a select reach of West Hampstead. The empty drive, the firmly latched gate, the closed windows and the milk dial set on zero told me what the answerphone had already implied: she wasn’t there. She couldn’t stay in hiding for ever, but maybe she thought she could stay there long enough to seal my fate in whatever way Nyman had planned. I could chase them, but it seemed I could never catch them.
A neighbour was eyeing me suspiciously over the hedge and I decided to capitalize on her watchfulness. Predictably, she had no idea where Daphne had gone, nor when she’d be back. But she saw no harm in satisfying my curiosity on one point. Daphne had moved into the area four years before – from Barnet. They could stay ahead, but it seemed they were never quite out of sight.
Clapham proved the point. I worked my way along Smollett Avenue, drawing blanks at every door. Five years was a long time. The name meant nothing. And why should it, when people kept themselves to themselves, and Isobel Courtney might well have done so more assiduously than most? But somebody knew something. They always do. And the elderly Asian woman at number forty-seven was that somebody.
‘Miss Courtney lived right next door, at forty-five. Oh yes, I remember her well. She was very pleasant. I liked her. Not like the couple who live there now, with their noses in the air and their big car. He drives like the man must have done who killed Miss Courtney. Hurry, hurry, hurry and hang the consequences. Miss Courtney was a very nice lady. She never said a bad word about anybody.’
‘Did she get many visitors – friends coming and going?’
‘No, no. She lived very quietly. No noise, no parties, no people. I used to say to her, “You should find yourself a good man before it’s too late.” But she never did.’ She grinned at me. ‘The men only come now it is too late.’
‘Men?’
‘You’re not the first to ask about Miss Courtney. You’re not even the best-looking. But don’t worry. You’re not the worst-looking. There was a gentleman in a pink bow tie I didn’t at all—’
‘Quisden-Neve?’
‘That could be his name. He gave me his card, but I don’t …’ She frowned thoughtfully. ‘Quisden-Neve. Yes, it was something like that.’
‘When was this?’
‘I forget. Two years. Three. Who knows?’
‘What did he want?’
‘Same as you. Same as the first one.’
‘The good-looking one?’
‘Yes. He came about a year after Miss Courtney’s death. Very smart. Very handsome. Very … well spoken. Who were her friends? What happened to her possessions? What did I remember about her? Always it’s the same. She’s dead. Why don’t you let her rest in peace? There’s nothing I can tell you. She was here. Then I heard she was killed. I went to her funeral. I met her parents. Good people, very sad. A van came and the house was emptied. Then it was sold. What more can I say?’
‘The first man. Was his name Nyman?’
‘I don’t remember if he said.’
‘But handsome? Blue eyes? Grey-blond hair? Maybe just blond then? Tanned and well dressed? Touch of the film star about him?’
‘That would be him to a likeness.’
‘Then it was Nyman.’
At last I had something to show for my efforts. Isobel Courtney was a common denominator between Nyman, Daphne and me. She’d played a part in all our pasts. Now I knew so for a fact, I was determined to force the knowledge on Faith and oblige her to take my allegations seriously.
I could think of only one way to be absolutely sure of speaking to her alone. I phoned her office in Hounslow, checked she was at work that afternoon, then drove out there and parked just far enough down the road to be able to monitor arrivals and departures without drawing attention to myself. I had a clear view of her car in the car park. It was only a matter of time.
She left early, which I’d half expected with Amy home from school. She was clearly in a hurry as well, though not enough of one to slip past me. I was at her side while she was still stowing her bag and an armful of files in the boot. And I was waiting to surprise her when she closed the boot and turned round.
‘Oh my God!’ she said, starting backwards. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘We need to talk, Faith,’ I replied, reminding myself to sound calm and reasonable.
‘I disagree.’ She made to move past me to the door, but I blocked her path. ‘Please, Ian,’ she said, pulling up and treating me to the tight-lipped frown I knew so well. ‘You’re being impossible.’
‘I just want to talk. It won’t take long.’
‘But I don’t want to.’
‘A few minutes of your time. That’s all I’m asking for.’
‘No, it’s not. You’re asking me to listen to more of the kind of paranoid nonsense you served up on Sunday.’
‘A few minutes, Faith.’ Despite what she’d said, I could see she was softening. She still felt something for me, even if it was mostly pity. ‘Come on.’
‘All right.’ She shook her head in irritation. ‘But if you start accusing Conrad of conspiring against you again––’
‘I won’t accuse him of anything. I just want to draw a few facts to your attention. It’s up to you what you
make of them.’
‘A few facts? Somehow I doubt it. But get in the car anyway. If we stand here arguing any longer we’ll have an audience.’ She nodded towards the office windows behind me, then brushed past.
She’d already started the engine by the time I lowered myself into the passenger seat. With a crunch of gears, she started off, sweeping out of the car park and round two corners to a quieter road bordering a school playing field. There she pulled in and stopped.
‘Well? What are these facts, Ian? As far as I’m concerned, the clock’s started ticking on your few minutes.’
‘I’d better come straight to the point, then. You remember Isobel Courtney?’
‘Of course I remember her. What’s she got to do with this?’
‘Daphne Sanger, my psychotherapist, the one who contacted you, she knew Isobel Courtney. She even went to her funeral. What’s more, five years ago she was living in Barnet. Isobel must have gone there to see her.’
‘“Must have” doesn’t sound like a fact to me.’
‘I think I can prove it if I have to.’
‘You don’t have to for my benefit. I don’t care why she was there. I know all too well why you were.’
‘You spoke to Daphne. You know she exists.’
‘So?’
‘She’s gone missing. From home as well as from her practice. Phone her yourself and see.’
‘Why should I want to?’
‘Because Conrad also knew Isobel Courtney. Her old next-door neighbour in Clapham will happily describe the man who called round asking questions about her within a year of her death. And you’ll recognize the description. I promise you that.’
‘No, I won’t. If you think I have the slightest intention of—’
‘It was him, Faith. Don’t you see? Isobel. Daphne. Conrad. Me. You. We’re all connected.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘How much do you know about him?’
‘Enough.’
‘Precious little, I suspect, when you analyse it. I’ll bet he’s a biographical blank. A man of mystery. Maybe that’s part of his appeal. But ask yourself this: what’s he hiding?’
‘Nothing. He’s a sane and sensitive man. You just don’t recognize the type.’
‘Where was he born?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t asked him.’
‘Are his parents still alive?’
‘I … He hasn’t mentioned them.’
‘Any brothers or sisters?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘What did he do before Nymanex? I mean, what career path has he followed?’
‘Stop it.’ She turned round in her seat and glared at me. ‘I’m not going to let you interrogate me. Certainly not about Conrad.’
‘You haven’t been able to answer a single question about him, Faith.’
‘Where are the facts you promised me?’
‘In front of you. The ones I’ve turned up. And the ones you haven’t.’
‘I haven’t been trying to. I dare say Conrad couldn’t quote my life history back at you if you challenged him to. Are you suggesting I’m hiding something?’
‘Just think it through. You met at the National Gallery, right? Who made the first move? Who spoke to who?’
‘Mind your own business.’
‘It was Conrad, wasn’t it?’
‘What if it was?’
‘You’ve been set up. Just like I have.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair in a typical gesture of exasperation. ‘This is getting us nowhere. I’d like to drive home now, Ian. Alone.’
‘Promise you’ll be more inquisitive about his past.’
‘I’ll promise nothing.’
‘He’ll be evasive. And, if you persist, he’ll lie. I guarantee it. He’s not what you think.’
‘You don’t know what I think. I’m not sure you ever have.’
‘At least keep Amy away from him.’
‘Get out of the car. Please.’
‘All right. I’m going. But for all our sakes, Faith, don’t trust him.’
‘I’ll tell him what you’ve said. All of it. Just because I do trust him.’
‘There’ll come a day when you won’t.’ I eased the door open and searched for some parting words that would linger in her mind after I’d gone. ‘I don’t expect you to admit to any misgivings about him. But I’ll bet you have some. I’ll bet, deep down, there’s something about him that worries you. Believe that feeling even if you don’t believe me.’
‘Goodbye, Ian,’ she said firmly, though no more firmly than she would have done even if my warning had struck home.
I knew better than to say any more. I could only hope I’d said enough. I climbed out onto the pavement and watched as she drove away. It could go either way now. She might see through him. Or not. And I wasn’t sure which was the more dangerous outcome.
I had no wish to return to the all but empty flat that was the closest I had to a home, so I stopped off at Tim’s lab. He was just packing up and needed little persuading to step down to the White Horse for a drink. I told him more or less everything that had happened since Sunday, everything that I could swear to anyway. He seemed less impressed by my discoveries than I’d hoped and unconvinced by my tactics where Faith was concerned.
‘You should have waited till you had some hard evidence. I don’t think Nyman will have much difficulty talking his way out of what you’ve come up with so far.’
‘I can’t afford to wait. He may spring some new surprise on me at any moment. I don’t like him being close to Faith. And I especially don’t like him being close to Amy.’
‘She’ll be back at school and out of harm’s way next week.’
‘Yes. So she will. But next week seems an eternity away. I have to pin something decisive on him. And I have to do it quickly.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. There’s no-one else I can question about Isobel Courtney.’
‘You’ll have to go after Nyman himself, then.’
‘Yes. Which means talking to Nicole. She may be able to give me some clues about his past. But she isn’t going to like being asked, I can tell you. I virtually had to promise she wouldn’t hear from me again just to get his address out of her.’
‘Do you want me to ask her?’
‘You?’
‘Why not? At least I’ll be able to reassure her you’re not in the grip of a personal fantasy.’
‘Are you sure I’m not?’ I looked him in the eye, offering him the chance to say whatever he truly felt.
‘As sure as I can be.’ But he hadn’t quite met my gaze as he’d replied. Even for Tim, there remained an element of doubt. Just as there did for me.
‘You know,’ I began, ‘while I was in Chichester …’ Then my voice trailed into silence as my desire to confide in him faded. Some secrets were better not shared. ‘Forget it. It doesn’t matter.’
‘What about Nicole – do you want me to speak to her?’
‘Yes, please, Tim. It’s a good idea.’
‘Well …’ He beamed at me. ‘Somebody has to have them.’
Tim’s good idea left me nothing to do. And nowhere to go. I should have gone back to the flat after we’d parted. Instead, I drove across Putney Bridge and round to Castelnau. I parked some way from the house and approached on foot. There were lights in the downstairs windows and one on in Amy’s bedroom as well. If she twitched back the curtain, she’d see me standing beneath the streetlamp, looking up at her. But the curtain didn’t move and I went no closer. It was too soon to try again. If Nyman was there, it would end badly. And, if he wasn’t, it might end no better. Tim was right. I needed more than second-hand coincidences. I needed proof. Until I had some, I could only turn and walk away. Like a wandering loner who sees the lights of someone else’s home and feels a stab of envy as he passes by, I couldn’t afford to stop.
Back at the flat, I stared round at the bare walls and spar
se furnishings. The place looked and felt unoccupied. I’d been living in it for nearly three months without even unpacking. It held nothing of me. Maybe, I thought, as I ran my finger through the layer of dust on a tabletop, there was nothing of me to hold.
I walked across to the bed and lay down, letting my eyes rest without focusing on the blank grey ceiling. Fear was creeping up on me. I could sense its approach. It wasn’t some sudden panic. It was a gradually mounting terror of what I’d be if this went on for another three months. Everything was slipping away from me: job, family, lover; security, self-confidence, sanity. I’d walked into quicksand and all my struggles had only sucked me in deeper.
I started with surprise at the first bleep of the phone, jumped from the bed and hurried across to where I’d left it on the table.
‘Hello?’
‘You’ve been busy, Jarrett.’ It was Nyman’s voice, cool and dark as the night beyond the uncurtained windows. ‘Hope I’m not interrupting anything important.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I’d like to arrange a meeting. Just you and me. For a confidential word about matters of mutual interest.’
‘I’m on to you, Nyman. I know what this is about.’
‘Clearly you think you do. Faith was quite upset by your allegations. I really can’t have you harassing her in this way. Since you believe me to be orchestrating a conspiracy against you, I suggest we discuss it man to man and put an end to the whole sorry saga.’
‘Suits me.’
‘Good. Now, as you know, I’m a very busy man. Accommodating you in my schedule at short notice is far from easy, but it can be done. I have a breakfast meeting tomorrow morning at the Savoy. The company launch will be collecting me from Charing Cross Pier at ten o’clock to take me back to Canary Wharf. Why don’t you join me aboard and we can talk on the way?’
‘Makes no difference to me where we meet, Nyman. I just want the truth.’
‘Excellent. I’ll see what I can do for you. Tomorrow at ten.’
It was another ludicrously perfect spring morning when I walked down through the parks next day to Whitehall, along the Embankment and under Hungerford Bridge. The cherries were in blossom, the tourists were out, and nothing – absolutely nothing – in the riverside vista echoed my sense of imminent crisis.
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