Keep Me Close

by Francis, Clare

  “I’m sure he will, once he gets back.”

  She shot him a curious look. “Yes, why is he away? There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

  “Like I said, he had to rush off.”

  She shook her head and murmured admiringly, “Ben!”

  This reaction had a dreary familiarity for Simon, who had yet to meet a woman who wasn’t prepared to forgive Ben behaviour that would be judged totally unacceptable in anyone else.

  They stopped at some lights.

  “Why didn’t she get the calls traced?” Simon asked.

  “Mmm?” Emma had leant her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.

  “Why didn’t Catherine dial 1471? Or get an intercept put on the line.”

  “Didn’t take it that seriously,” Emma murmured groggily.

  “She told you, though. She mentioned it to you.”

  After a while she muttered, “I don’t think you can get an intercept on a mobile, can you?”

  They were moving off again and Simon was forced to look at the road.

  “The calls came on her mobile?”

  “Mmm.”

  “You didn’t say that.”

  Reopening her eyes, Emma peered blearily ahead. “I definitely said it was her mobile.”

  Letting this pass, he asked, “How long ago did it all start?”

  Emma pressed her forefingers into the corners of her eyes, the scarlet talons like tears of blood. “November?”

  “And they’ve been going on all this time?”

  “Haven’t a clue. You see? I’m really not the person to ask.”

  “And Catherine had no idea who this guy was?”

  Emma’s golden hair swung around as she slowly shook her head.

  “Someone who had her number at any rate.”

  “Oh, that could have been anyone, couldn’t it? You know how it is in her line of work.”

  He didn’t know, and said so.

  “Well, all her clients would have had her number for a start, wouldn’t they? And all her would-be clients. And her suppliers. And all the little men who lay paving stones and build arbours and plant trees, who might have got the hots for Cath over the nasturtiums, or whatever it is that turns garden people on. And then there’s the TV. Once you’re on TV well, you’re inviting weirdos, aren’t you?”

  Remembering the three or four rather serious-minded programmes on garden design that Catherine had made for a minority network, Simon failed to see how this followed. “Weirdos?”

  “Sad people. Men in anoraks. People who get fixed on someone they see on TV. That’s how I got on to the idea of a stalker. Though come to think about it, far more likely to be a wanker, isn’t it? An anorak who wants a quick thrill with a soggy newspaper cutting.”

  Simon winced. He could never get used to the way some women talked, the coarseness of their thinking, the ugliness of their language. “But her number how would he have got hold of it?”

  “Oh’ she spun a hand through the air ‘a thousand ways.”

  “Like?”

  “Oh God She couldn’t believe she was having to explain something so

  obvious. “Well, he could phone the TV producers saying he wanted Cath

  to design this massive park for his stately home and could he have her

  number please, or he might phone the owners of one of the gardens in

  the programmes and say he was longing for a divine little knot garden

  just like theirs and what was the number of that clever little designer

  person, or-‘

  “I think I’ve got the picture,” Simon interrupted caustically, not taking kindly to being talked down to in this fashion. Staring glassily ahead, he maintained a firm silence and when he next glanced across it was to see Emma fast asleep with her head wedged against the window.

  She groaned when he woke her. “Shit. I hope this doesn’t take long.”

  The lobby of Netting Hill police station was built to withstand the assaults of an ungrateful public. The duty officer sat behind reinforced glass, and when Wilson appeared it was through a heavy steel pass door that swung shut behind him with a deep thud.

  The sergeant was a lean wiry man of about forty with a straight back, a rapid handshake and an intense manner that suggested honesty, energy and dedication. His mouth shaped itself into a brief professional smile. “Good of you to drop by, Miss Russell.”

  “I wouldn’t have called it dropping by exactly.”

  Wilson looked mildly enquiring. “Weren’t you on your way to the hospital?”

  She frowned at him. “I wasn’t on my way anywhere.”

  “Good of you to come in specially, then.”

  As the implications of Wilson’s remark sank in, Emma threw Simon a suspicious glance.

  Studiously ignoring this, Simon told Wilson he would go and wait outside in the car. “Though I’d be glad of a brief word afterwards, if I may.”

  “Sit in, if you like,” Wilson said. “I’ll find us some coffee.”

  Simon said appreciatively, “If that’s all right. Thank you.”

  “Dropping by!” hissed Emma sarcastically as they followed Wilson to an interview room.

  Seated in front of Wilson with a coffee and a cigarette, Emma went through one of those transformations that left Simon wondering not for the first time at women’s disconcerting ability to change moods at the drop of a hat. The petulant child vanished, replaced by a sympathetic and amenable woman, Catherine’s dearest friend who was anxious to help in any way she could.

  The story was much the same as before until Emma said, “Sometimes he called twice a day.”

  “Were these regular times?” Wilson asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. Except ... I think Cath said usually in the day. Yes,” she declared with greater certainty, ‘the day.”

  “What about weekends?”

  She scooped her hair back from her forehead and tapped the ash thoughtfully off her cigarette. “She didn’t say.”

  Wilson was about to ask another question when Emma interrupted with a wave of her hand, a slow dipping of splayed fingers that accelerated into a flutter as she summoned up a half-buried memory. “Yes there was something else that stuck in my mind something I couldn’t work out at the time. Not sure I can now, really, but anyway she said it was someone really sad. No .. .” She went trawling through her memory again. “It wasn’t so much sad ... I think she said it was a very unhappy person. Yes, a very unhappy person. Now in one way I thought, yeah well, it would be an unhappy person, wouldn’t it? But then I got this feeling she was talking about someone in particular, that she knew for sure that this person was unhappy, if you see what I mean.”

  Wilson gazed unblinkingly at Emma. “Knew for sure? But you say Catherine didn’t know who this person was?”

  “That’s right. I mean not a name.”

  There was a pause in which Wilson seemed to be waiting for Emma to go on. “You’re suggesting’, he said eventually, ‘that though she had no name for this person, she knew something about him? Something to make her think he was unhappy?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. Yes.”

  “The caller only ever spoke once, is that right?”

  “That’s what she told me, yes.”

  “So it was from this one conversation?”

  Emma raised a shoulder and turned her mouth down in a Gallic shrug. “I suppose so.”

  “Catherine didn’t tell you what he said?”

  “No.”

  Wilson went through the motions of asking more questions but it was obvious he wasn’t expecting to learn much else and, winding things up briskly, he thanked Emma for her time.

  When they reached the front hall Simon managed to catch Wilson’s eye and gesture him to one side. As soon as Emma had gone ahead, Simon said, “I was just wondering if you had any news that I could pass on to the family.”

  “Nothing as yet, I’m afraid.”

  “No leads?”


  “Not really.”

  Simon wondered if Wilson’s air of efficiency was a cover for ineptitude. He was, after all, still a sergeant. “Nothing from the labs?” Hearing himself say this Simon thought not without a certain pride that he was beginning to sound like a criminal lawyer.

  “Nothing concrete,” Wilson replied carefully. “However, there is one thing we are particularly keen to establish, and that is the identity of the man who called the ambulance.”

  This was the man Simon had come to call The Good Samaritan. “A neighbour?”

  “Seems not. We’ve checked them all.”

  “Not Ben Galitza?” Simon knew that it wasn’t Ben, but he needed to play the part of the dispassionate professional.

  Wilson shook his head. “Barely conscious when the ambulance arrived.

  No, we’re thinking along the lines of a passer-by. Saw the open door.

  Looked in. Spotted Catherine lying there.”

  Simon had a vision of darkness and blood and silence, of a man rushing into the house and dropping onto his knees beside Catherine, staring down at her in horror, taking off his jacket and laying it over her. “You think he might be able to help, this man?”

  “Might have spotted a person leaving the scene. Could have been the very thing that made him go into the house seeing someone running out in suspicious circumstances, leaving the door wide open.”

  Simon nodded sagely. “The call was taped, presumably?”

  “Indeed.”

  Well, tell me, you bastard. Don’t force me to ask. “Any clues there?” he enquired solemnly.

  Wilson shrugged. “Some.” For a moment it looked as though he wasn’t going to elaborate, and Simon had to stifle the cry of frustration that sprang into his throat. Then Wilson was saying ruminatively, “An educated voice decidedly. Calm sort of type. Very businesslike. Very factual. And informed on medical matters, in the sense of having done a first-aid course, I would say. Something of that nature.”

  Educated, calm, businesslike. This image flew around

  Simon’s mind, seeking shape and substance. “The ambulance crew saw this person, presumably?”

  Wilson gave a sigh. “Indeed they did, but according to them he disappeared so smartish that they can’t give a description. For which read: they didn’t take a real look at him, didn’t ask his name, didn’t see him go.”

  Wilson moved purposefully towards the main doors and Simon was forced to follow.

  “No description at all, then?”

  “Nothing worth having. The three of them might as well have clocked three different people.”

  Wilson led the way out into the street.

  Simon said, “If this man had seen someone running away, surely he’d have reported it by now.”

  “You’d think. But people don’t always realise the importance of what they’ve witnessed. Believe me.”

  Simon made a gesture, as if to defer to Wilson’s superior knowledge.

  “You’ll keep me in touch? You’ve got my number?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Wilson turned as if to hurry away, only to think better of it and strike an awkward pose of informality, hands thrust into his pockets, face lifted to the sky. “Ah, sun.”

  A few yards away, Emma was leaning against the wing of Simon’s car. Seeing her heavy shoulder bag lying on the bonnet, bristling with studs and buckles, Simon tried not to think of the scratches it would make when she dragged it off.

  Wilson appeared to make up his mind about something. “Look, there is one other thing,” he said in a low confidential tone, ‘but I will ask you not to mention it to the family at the present time. No point in upsetting them, if you understand me.”

  Simon felt a surge of tension. “Of course.”

  Wilson thrust out his chin. “There would appear to be a somewhat’ he searched for the word ‘bizarre factor in all this.”

  Simon thought: Dear God, what’s coming now? Will I be able to stand it? Outwardly he didn’t move, didn’t alter his expression of grave concern.

  “I can’t give you details, of course. But suffice it to say that we found some articles that give us reason to believe that the assault had overtones of how shall I say? - a sexual or psychotic nature.”

  Simon felt a rush of heat, his heart seemed to lift in his chest.

  “No reason why your average burglar shouldn’t be a bit of a psychopath, of course. On the side, so to speak. Or a fantasist, or any of these things they get off of the videos nowadays. But there we are, we have to take it into account.” Simon must have looked as startled as he felt because Wilson added, “See what I mean best not to mention it to the family.”

  “When you say, articles .. .?”

  “Well, I can’t give details. You understand.”

  But I don’t understand, Simon wanted to argue. “Of course,” he said.

  “I’m just shocked.”

  Wilson was on the point of leaving. Desperate to detain him, Simon almost reached out to grab his arm. “You’re not saying she was sexually assaulted?”

  “No no evidence of that. It’s just that this man appears to have been a bit well, sick.”

  Sick? He couldn’t begin to think what he meant by this. His imagination roared off in a dozen different directions, all of them wild and disturbing and hopelessly mixed up. Found some articles? Sick? Feeling his cheek jump uncontrollably, he turned it away. “So you’ll be looking for someone with a ... record of this sort of thing?”

  “Let’s just say we’ll be keeping an open mind as to whether this person broke in with burglary or assault in mind.”

  Simon almost laughed. “So these calls .. .?”

  “Oh, yes. Could be very significant.”

  “I see.” With that, Simon was finally lost for words.

  He had intended to drive straight to the hospital and leave Emma to pick up a cab there, but he was so agitated, his mind so numb, that he found himself driving her all the way back to her flat in Chelsea. At one point she asked what Wilson had told him during their huddled conversation. He fumbled for an answer, muttered something that made little sense and was unable to finish.

  “You are in a state,” she remarked. “What is it, for God’s sake?”

  He said with a break in his voice, “They think he might have meant to harm her. Might have intended to, right from the outset.”

  Emma absorbed this with a heavy sigh and a shake of her head. After a while he became aware of her watching him. She said, “You think a lot of Cath, don’t you?”

  He couldn’t answer, except to give an anguished nod.

  “Ah, Mr. Jardine. You’ve got me into a lot of trouble.” Sister Jones spoke in the weary tones of someone who is far too tired to get angry.

  Simon looked suitably mystified, though having an idea of what was coming he felt the first stirrings of injured pride.

  “The family say you’re not representing them at all. They say we shouldn’t have let you in to see Catherine. They say you aren’t to be allowed to see her again.”

  This pronouncement bore the stamp of Alice’s vituperative little mind, but Simon was wounded all the same because Duncan obviously hadn’t stood up for him. Even allowing for Duncan’s erratic grasp on loyalty, he counted this an outright betrayal.

  “They’re under a lot of stress,” he said in a forgiving tone. “I think everything will get sorted out as soon as Catherine’s husband gets back.”

  “But he is back.”

  “Here?”

  “Here.”

  Startled, Simon looked at his watch. “When did he arrive?”

  “Oh .. . ten minutes ago?”

  Simon covered his surprise with a brisk nod. Trying not to think of the work piling up at the office, he stationed himself by a window overlooking the atrium, which also offered a view of the passage leading to Catherine’s room, and settled down to wait. He tried to work out where Ben could have got to last night that enabled him to fly back to London, get through the airport and into town by ten f
ifteen in the morning. Not Warsaw Simon knew the timetable off by heart. Zurich? Paris? Guernsey? Not far away, that was for sure. But it must have been one hell of a panic to send him rushing all over town for three days and then off on a plane, one hell of a panic to make him leave Catherine’s bedside. But listen, he wanted to say to Ben’s face, what’s so serious that you can’t tell me about it? What’s so momentous, so overwhelming that it doesn’t involve me or the business in some way? Times are hard, Ben, remember? We’ve had a bad year, we lost the Polska CMC deal, we’re seriously broke, if we’re going to be in a panic about anything it should bloody well be the business. Listen, Ben at this point he would look him dead in the eye if you can’t trust me who the hell can you trust, for God’s sake? It’s me, I’m your partner, remember?

  There were seven messages waiting for Simon on his mobile; with the fifteen calls already listed on the white card in his breast pocket and the three meetings scheduled for the afternoon it was going to be a nightmare of a day. He needed no reminding that, yet again, he was shouldering most of the load. When it came to Duncan’s wine company, this wasn’t a problem. Since Simon had knocked it into shape and installed a half-decent manager it more or less ran itself. RNP was a different matter, however. RNP was a hands-on company that relied on vast amounts of time, effort and nurturing. How often had he said to Ben, We’re in the nurturing business? Nurturing contacts, nurturing deals, nurturing the possibility of deals. In an average year, if he and Ben gave it their best shot and had a bit of luck, they managed to pull off four or five medium-sized deals. The simplest were straight sales, a shipment of grey-market Levi’s from Detroit to Hungary, a cancelled order for amber from Poland to Singapore. But more often they were three-way deals, cash at both ends and a trade in the middle: a consignment of Laotian teak marooned by bankruptcy in Singapore that they traded to the Poles for a warehouse of glass, which they sold on, strictly cash on delivery, to a discount warehouse in Chicago.

  They had decided right at the beginning that they weren’t going to get involved in any deal so big that the whole business had to ride on it. Far too risky; they wouldn’t let themselves fall into that old trap. For the first three years it hadn’t been hard to stick to this policy for the simple reason that nothing very large had come their way.