by Louise Welsh
‘Where did Frei fit into all this?’
Stevie was driving along an avenue of trees, sunlight strobing between the leaves, turning her progress into a cartoon of alternating bright and dark. She wondered if the journalist really had been gay. His wife had made a big thing of his gentleness, but that meant nothing. Some of the gay men Stevie had met had been laddish, some of the straights fey.
‘I told you, Frei went his own way.’ Buchanan’s voice was too tired for impatience but she sensed his frustration. ‘What I’m trying to say is, the three of us shared a history. We looked out for each other.’
‘You also shared a business.’
‘Yes, we had a shared endeavour, to help sick children.’
‘You still haven’t told me why you thought Simon might have been murdered.’
An old man in a dressing gown and slippers was shuffling along the pavement, slow and determined, like a corpse making its own way to the grave. Stevie glanced in the rear-view mirror as she passed and thought his eyes had been blackened, though it may just have been the effect of shadows, settling in the hollows of his face. Buchanan’s sigh seemed to carry into the car, so close she could almost feel it against her skin.
‘I’m telling you this because it’s obvious you’re not going to give up easily. But it’s important you know that, if Simon was killed, trying to uncover the reason why could put you in danger.’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Quite the opposite. I’m warning you.’ Perhaps Buchanan realised that his answer sounded like intimidation because he sighed again. ‘Lots of boys envied Simon at school. He was handsome, good at sports and managed to excel in his studies without being a bore about them. I’m repeating myself.’ The doctor paused as if picturing his friend’s gilded youth. ‘I’ve already mentioned how popular Simon was. He made the most of his time there, worked hard, gained excellent grades, went up to Cambridge, but deep down he hated it. Simon always felt that there was something more real beyond the bourgeois confines of our world. He wasn’t fool enough to throw away his advantages, but he became a social tourist. He sought out interesting company.’
‘Like salesgirls.’
‘That was unfair of me.’ Now that he had started, Buchanan seemed keen to get on with his story, like a university don aware of the ticking of the lecture-theatre clock. ‘At first it was people in the arts: musicians, poets, writers. He even dated a rock singer for a while. A strange-looking girl, all skinny legs, multicoloured hair and black eyeliner; like an angry parrot. I got the impression it was the world these people inhabited, rather than the work they did, that attracted Simon. After a while, unfortunately, their exoticism seemed to fade. I suspect Simon discovered that most of the arty crowd were hard-working and middle class, rather like him.’
Stevie asked, ‘Why unfortunately?’
A car was travelling slowly on the road ahead, its rear window jammed with bags, as if heading for the start of a family holiday. She overtook, and caught a glimpse of the car’s occupants. An elderly white lady was at the wheel, a small Asian boy in the passenger seat. Their mouths were moving in a song, the boy waving his arms in accompaniment.
Buchanan said, ‘When their appeal started to wane, Simon drifted towards an edgier set.’ His voice softened and Stevie realised that he had reached the point her ex-editor had called ‘the golden axis’, the moment when the story took over and the interviewee needed to go on. ‘We were at a school reunion when it struck me for the first time how deep Simon was in. It was the kind of boozy all-male affair you’d probably imagine: black tie, nursery food, lots of back-slapping and blue jokes. Simon regaled us with stories of his expeditions into the seamier side of society.’
‘The sex industry?’ Stevie touched a foot to the brakes, not trusting herself to steer the Jaguar straight. ‘Do you mean he slept with prostitutes?’
‘I very much doubt it.’ Buchanan spoke slowly, as if weighing his words. ‘Simon may have met people who were involved in the sex industry. If you turn over a stone you have no control over what crawls out, but that wasn’t what I meant. Surgeons need to be able to cope with risk. Not everyone can take a knife and cut into someone else’s body. Simon was cool under pressure and fascinated by people who had the same ability. No doubt that was what attracted him to you.’
‘My job isn’t dangerous.’
‘Perhaps not, but you present a show on live television with only the barest of scripts. Most people would find that impossible. And look at the way you’ve responded to this crisis. You could have run away, but instead you ran towards it. I’d give odds you’re the kind of person who undertakes extreme challenges for charity.’
Soon after her mother had died Stevie had abseiled down the Forth Railway Bridge in aid of Cancer Research. The thrill had hijacked her, the rush of air and sea, the moment when she had lost all of her thoughts and been no more than one of the gulls swooping above the iron girders.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I always thought those sponsored challenges were ego trips.’
Buchanan made a sound that might have been a laugh.
‘Simon preferred the kind of woman who would contradict him, strong women who weren’t afraid to rise to a dare. I daresay he had the usual moral objections to the sex industry, but it was also the wrong kind of risk-taking for him. He was drawn to people who put themselves on the line. He was especially elated the weekend of the reunion because he’d recently been introduced to a bank robber. “One more specimen for the Newgate Calendar,” was how he put it. Everyone else found his exploits hilarious. Simon was a natural storyteller. But the way his adventures were escalating worried me. I took him aside and warned him that sooner or later these people would want something from him, most probably access to drugs.’
Stevie passed an office block spray-painted with massive green letters: SO LONG AND THANKS FOR ALL THE FISH. A week ago it would have made her smile. She asked, ‘What did he say?’
‘He thanked me for my concern and told me to drink up. I was falling behind and was in danger of becoming a bore.’ The chemist paused and took a deep breath, as if marking a change of chapter, and Stevie realised that he too was a natural storyteller. Buchanan continued, ‘Around seven years ago Simon met a woman called Hope Black. I think her background excited him. Her father had been a bookie, as had his father before him, back in the days when gambling was illegal. The Black family tree was intertwined with the family trees of people most of us would cross motorways to avoid. Hope was as proud of her connections as Simon was fascinated by them. They started to see rather a lot of each other. At some point Hope introduced him to back-room poker; illicit matches, high stakes, and the potential to win the jackpot or lose your skin. Simon was fond of Hope, but he fell in love with gambling. He told me later that he felt like he’d found the thing he’d been waiting for all of his life.’
The mention of Hope’s name had chilled her. Stevie tightened her grip on the Jaguar’s steering wheel, Hope’s steering wheel.
‘Didn’t you try to stop him?’
‘I might have, if I’d known what was going on, but it was only when things reached crisis point that Simon told me the full story.’
‘What happened?’
‘It was so predictable I’m surprised you need to ask. Simon was out of his depth. He got into a bit of hot water and Hope dropped him. Perhaps she didn’t have any choice in the matter. He came to Ahumibe and me with his tail between his legs and we helped extricate him, mainly through a bloody great loan to repay the money he’d borrowed from some rather demanding creditors. We hushed it up, Simon went for treatment with a colleague in Harley Street, who is almost as well known for his discretion as for his ability with addicts. All seemed well, for a while anyway. I thought I’d noticed a certain reckless edge to him over the last few months and wondered if he might be about to suffer a relapse. But when I confronted Simon, he assured me that everything was okay. He was in love, he said, and being in love made him silly. I told him
not to be too silly and we left it at that. Now I wish I’d pursued it. If you’re looking for someone with a grudge against Simon you’re more likely to find them amongst his gambling associates than at the hospital, though as you’ll already have worked out, my advice is to let sleeping dogs lie.’
It fitted with what the lonely bookie in Better Bets had told her. Stevie thought of the thirty thousand pounds Simon had borrowed from Hope Black. It was as if Buchanan read her mind. He said, ‘Have you spoken to Hope yet?’
‘Hope Black is dead.’
‘Ah, that’s a shame. She was an attractive woman.’
His reduction of the woman to her looks irritated Stevie, but she asked, ‘You met her?’
‘Oh yes, we all met Hope.’
The doctor’s voice was cool, as if no one was dead, no brains leaked into the carpet, no body cold between soiled sheets.
‘Hope didn’t die of the sweats. Someone bashed her brains in.’ Stevie made her words deliberately crude, wanting Buchanan to picture the blood, the ruined skull. ‘I think they thought she was me.’
There was a roundabout up ahead. Stevie ignored the give-way lines, remembering the way Hope Black’s hand had seemed to beckon her. There was a blur of movement and her stomach swooped. A Honda Civic was travelling from the right and it was almost upon her. The other car had priority but Stevie put a hand on the horn and pressed her foot down hard on the accelerator, metal touching metal. She saw an open mouth, a blur of fear and wide eyes, heard the blare of the other vehicle’s horn and the screech of rubber against tarmac, and then she was away, the Honda a reflection skewed across the road in her rear-view mirror.
If Buchanan heard the commotion of skids and warning blasts he ignored it.
‘Hope didn’t look anything like you. She was at least ten years older. She was taller and darker as well.’
He sounded faintly amused. Stevie could imagine his smile, the pale lips stretched in the white face.
‘She resembled me enough for someone who didn’t know either of us to get confused.’
‘Hope lived life on the edge. That’s what drew Simon to her. It’s very probably what drew her death too.’
‘It’s more complicated than that. Someone’s been chasing me ever since I tried to deliver Simon’s package to Mr Reah.’
‘You mean the laptop?’ She heard a faint smile in Buchanan’s voice, as if he had caught her out in some gaucherie. ‘Get rid of it then. Hand it in to the authorities, or bring it here and allow me to dispose of it for you.’
‘I don’t have it any more.’
‘In which case, you’re off the hook. What did you do? Hand it in to the police?’ Stevie let the silence hang between them, and after a pause Buchanan asked, ‘Did you manage to read what was in it?’
‘No.’ It was only a half lie. ‘I couldn’t get past the password.’
The chemist’s voice became serious. ‘It’s possible the laptop might contain confidential information about our process …’ The sentence trailed away. Stevie could almost hear the faint murmur of the chemist’s thoughts, potential scenarios turning over in his head. ‘… but that wouldn’t have prompted anyone to want to get their hands on it so desperately that they would threaten you. Simon must have encoded other information there. If he had got involved with Hope again, then it could well have been something injurious to his health.’
Stevie drew Hope’s Jaguar to the side of the road. She could imagine Simon as a reckless, put-the-whole-stake-on-red gambler. She realised that she believed Buchanan, and that if Simon was with her now, she would tell him that whatever there had been between them was over. Tears filled her eyes; she wiped them away with her sleeve.
‘If I bring the laptop to you, you’ll be in danger too.’
‘Perhaps.’ Buchanan’s languid poshness seemed more brittle than sinister now. ‘But you’re forgetting I’ve dealt with Simon’s creditors before. They belong to a small world, smaller since the advance of the sweats, no doubt, and unlike you I’m a known quantity. People can’t go around killing respected research chemists without some questions being asked.’
‘They managed it with Simon.’
‘Simon crossed the line. I haven’t. I’m not compromised and I’ve got nothing to hide. I’ll make it clear that I’m going along with things in order to get them off your back, but that if they harm either of us, the full force of the law will come down on them.’
‘Assuming there’s any law left.’
‘That’s something we can only pray for.’ Buchanan no longer sounded smug.
‘Aren’t you afraid I will give you the sweats?’
‘My granddad flew Spitfires in World War Two. Fighter pilots used to say, If your number’s on it … I’ve adopted that as my motto for this particular conflict. The priority now is to try and find a cure. Scientists all over the world are online, pooling ideas and information.’ Buchanan sounded resolute. Perhaps he was still thinking about his grandfather, a young man running across the airfield towards his Spitfire, ready to embark on another mission that might be his last. ‘I can’t leave the lab, but I took the precaution of holding on to the contact numbers of the people I dealt with last time Simon was in trouble. They’re probably out of date, but it’s a place to start.’
Stevie wondered at his willingness to interrupt his research to help her, but then Buchanan asked, ‘Are you still healthy? No reoccurrence of symptoms?’ And she decided that he was more confident of saving her from Simon’s creditors than of finding a cure for the sweats.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve had lot of exposure to people with the virus and so far I’m fine.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s extremely good news. I heard it’s getting a little hairy outside. Tell me where you are and I’ll send my son William to collect you.’
‘I’ve managed on my own so far.’
‘That’s the kind of thing Hope would have said.’
‘I’m not Hope.’
‘No, she’s dead.’
‘And I’ve no intention of joining her. There’s someone I need to check on. As soon as I’m through I’ll deliver the laptop to you.’
‘It would make more sense to let William …’
Buchanan started to make some objection but Stevie killed the conversation and ignored the melody of his return call. She recognised the streets now, she was only a block or two from Iqbal’s apartment, but she turned on the robot voice of the satnav and let it guide her. The sound of a familiar voice, even a recorded one, was a comfort.
Thirty-Six
It was like going back to the beginning again, the smell of decay, the silent apartment, the slow patrol through empty rooms, except this time there was music softly playing, a repetitive not-quite melody she had never heard before, notes criss-crossing, as haphazard as colours on a harlequin’s costume. Everything in Iqbal’s flat looked as it had on her previous visit, its contents tidy and tastefully arranged, but the air was tainted. Stevie took Hope’s gun from her bag. The weight of it unnerved her, but she kept it in her hand, the barrel pointing away from her.
‘Iqbal?’
Stevie had meant to shout his name, but it came out barely above a whisper and was lost in a tide of notes.
The screens of the computers ranked along the desk beneath the stairs were dead. Stevie noticed Simon’s laptop amongst them, a small pile of printouts stacked neatly by its side. She ignored it.
‘Iqbal?’
The room was almost white with light, the brightness of the day cutting through the picture windows. She lowered the blind and saw that the reading lamp beside the couch was on, although the couch itself was empty, its cushions plumped as if no one had sat there for a while.
‘Iqbal?’
Stevie ran the tips of her fingers along the surface of the breakfast bar, raising a thin coating of dust. She brushed a hand along the wall as she climbed the stairs, though she had never been afraid of heights.
‘Iqbal?’
The music w
as fainter upstairs. Years ago she had gone on impulse to a boyfriend’s house and found him in bed with a woman she had never seen before. For some reason the moment came back to her, the feeling she had got when she had walked into his hallway, the sense that something was out of balance, the world not as it should be.
Iqbal’s bed was hidden behind a Japanese screen, white paper stretched on a cherry wood frame. A lamp glowed softly behind it. She said his name again softly, ‘Iqbal?’ The music rose in a wave and shattered, notes splashing around her, but nothing broke the gleam of light beyond the screen.
‘Jesus.’ Stevie ran a hand over her hair, still surprised to find it shorn. She could go downstairs, collect the laptop, bundle the papers Iqbal had left into her bag and head for Buchanan’s lab. If she went now, she might be able to convince herself that Iqbal was waiting out the sweats in comfort somewhere else. Stevie took a deep breath and stepped behind the screen.
In life, Iqbal had been lean, with features clean enough to be carved in stone. Death had robbed him of his beauty. Stevie saw the empty pill bottles on the bedside table and whispered, ‘Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.’ She had an urge to kick the bed, to shake his body back to life and slap some sense into it. ‘Why would you do this?’ She felt a pain in the palms of her hands and realised that she had clenched her fists so tightly her nails were digging into them. ‘Stupid.’ She had thought the sweats senseless, but to submit to the dark rather than taste even the first tide of suffering was worse.
Stevie pulled the sheet over the face that was no longer his and went downstairs. The music was coming from an iPad resting on one of the bookcases. She tried to close it down but the small screen confused her and the music rattled on, unbearable and pointless. Stevie took the tablet out on to the balcony, looked at the empty street below and then cast it down on to the concrete. She went back indoors and sank on to the couch. The gun was still in her hand. She stowed it in her bag, took out her mobile and phoned Derek. An automated voice informed her that the number she was calling was no longer available. He had gone to Norfolk, she told herself, to be with Francesca, the woman who had stolen him away from Joanie.