by Carla Banks
And Jake had no option but to leave.
Faith decided she would stay at her grandfather’s for the next couple of days. She could finish off the work Katya had started. There were still crucial documents missing among the mountains of paper he had accumulated over the years–the deeds of the house, his share certificates, anything that might be converted into money to pay for the care he would need.
She went home to pack a bag, and stocked up at the supermarket. She didn’t know how long this was going to take. It was after eight by the time she pulled into the drive. The house looked as if the life had gone out of it and now it was starting to decay. In the moonlight, she could see the ivy growing over the windows, the peeling paint and the water stains where a fall pipe had come away.
She let herself in through the front door, feeling the cold close round her. She switched on the heating and turned the thermostat up full blast. She went through to the kitchen and cleaned out the fridge before putting away her shopping. Warmth began to leak into the air as she worked, accompanied by the roar and clank of the boiler. She could remember this kitchen from her childhood. The red lino was still the same, and the wooden cupboards, but in her memory it was warm and bright, and it smelled of herbs and of cooking as Grandpapa worked. She blinked, and she was back in the empty, dimly lit room.
She scooped up all the stuff she had discarded from the fridge and bagged it. She unlocked the kitchen door and dumped the rubbish in the bin. As she came back in, her phone rang, vibrating on the hard surface of the table. Her first thought was that the hospital was calling, and she took a deep breath before she answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Faith. It’s me.’
It was Helen’s voice. The phone almost slipped from her fingers, then she realized the voice had the reedy timbre of male adolescence. It was Finn.
‘Finn! Are you okay? Is everything all right?’
‘Yeah. I just…I wanted…’ She heard him breathing, then the words came in a rush. ‘I called you at home and you didn’t answer.’
‘I’m at my grandfather’s–what’s wrong, Finn?’ There had to be something wrong if he was calling.
‘The police came round to see Dad.’
‘The police? What did they want?’
‘I listened,’ Finn said. ‘Outside the door. They didn’t want to tell me, but I’ve got a right to know. She was my mum. They came to tell him that it wasn’t that caretaker guy that…you know…hurt her. Killed her. They told Dad. I heard them.’ Finn sounded distressed. He had been directing his hate and anger towards this man, and now he didn’t have anyone to blame.
‘How do they know?’
‘They found her watch, mum’s watch. It was broken–it got smashed up when he…when…It got broken. They had to do some tests, but now they know what time it said. So they know when it happened.’
Helen’s watch. The mysterious new watch with the delicate silver band. And it had recorded the time that Helen had died.
She didn’t ask, but Finn told her anyway. ‘They said eight fifteen. It happened at eight fifteen.’
Her mind flew back to that evening, trying to remember what she had been doing, but she had no recollection. Finn must have been thinking the same thing. ‘I was reading Hannah a story,’ he said. ‘She wouldn’t go to sleep because of her party, so I was reading her a story.’
‘I’m sorry, Finn,’ she said. There wasn’t anything else to say.
‘Who do you think they’ll look for? Now? They’ll start looking again, won’t they?’
‘Yes. Of course. They’ll find the person who did it, Finn, I’m sure they will.’ She could hear the hollow note in her voice as she spoke.
When he spoke again, his voice was tentative. ‘Do you think…if someone…’ He fell silent.
‘What, Finn? What is it?’
He spoke quickly. ‘Nothing. I’ve got to go.’ She could hear sounds, voices in the background, then he rang off, and she was left staring at the silent phone.
Helen had died at eight fifteen. For some reason, that put Nicholas Garrick in the clear. Helen’s watch–the expensive new watch–had been broken, had been smashed-up, Finn had said. She had a sudden picture of a heavy boot stamping on the watch, powered by a jealous rage.
Her mind was filling with images of things she didn’t want to see, and there was something nagging at her, something Finn had said that had alarmed her, but she couldn’t pin it down. He’d said…She suddenly remembered the day they’d talked outside the school gates. Finn had said something about a visitor, about Daniel having a visitor the night Helen had died, and he’d watched her with an odd expression. His face had been speculative, almost sly. She’d said: Exactly how stupid do you think I am? And he’d said: That’s what I’m trying to find out.
And…now she remembered what it was that had worried her. Finn had said: I was reading Hannah a story. Finn didn’t read to Hannah–he always refused if Helen asked him, always refused if Hannah nagged. He thought Hannah’s books were lame and girly and spaz. But if he’d been left alone with his little sister who wouldn’t sleep, then maybe he’d had no choice. And then Helen had phoned, and the children had listened to her voice on the machine, but they couldn’t answer because Helen was not to know that their father had gone out and left them alone. Hannah had tried to tell her–and Finn had taken her away.
She knew, suddenly, that when he had told her there had been another witness to Daniel’s presence in the house that evening, Finn had lied. But the police must have had the same story. They would have talked to whoever it was Daniel claimed had been there. And the fact that Daniel had phoned Helen back in response to her message didn’t mean he’d been in the house. Finn could easily have contacted his father.
The phone rang again, it’s sudden vibration unnerving her. She grabbed for it, almost dropping it as she picked it up and answered it before she thought to see who was calling. ‘Yes? Hello?’
It clicked off to silence.
She checked the number. It was Daniel’s phone. She knew what had happened. Daniel had come in and seen Finn talking on the phone. He’d checked by the simplest expedient who his son had called, and she’d answered.
Jake drove straight home. He wondered what had happened since he last saw Sophia Yevanova to make her son issue his ban. He wondered where Nick Garrick was, and what had happened on the case while he’d been away. Thinking about this, he stopped and picked up a local paper.
The flat was empty and unwelcoming as he let himself in. The letters waiting for him were all in buff envelopes. For the first time in his life, he felt lonely coming back from a trip. He wondered what it would be like to have someone waiting, someone whose face would light up because he had walked through the door. For Christ’s sake, he told himself exasperatedly, if you want that, get a dog.
He picked up the phone and checked his messages. There were several When are you back? queries from his editor–who knew perfectly well. Their relationship was still edgy from the Juris Ziverts incident. He wanted Jake’s next column e-mailed through by nine the next morning. There was also a message from Cass, who’d called not long before he’d got in. Are you there? I know you’re home today. Listen, developments. Give me a ring.
He lit a cigarette and poured himself a glass of whisky, then dialled Cass’s number. ‘Cass? It’s Jake.’
‘Oh. You’re back then.’
‘No, I’m in Turkmenistan…’
‘Really? Oh…For God’s sake, Jake, spare me the wit. Did you get my message?’
‘Developments. Sounds interesting.’
‘Well…’ she said, drawing it out, ‘It’ll probably be in the papers, but I know the details.’
‘The Kovacs murder? Nick Garrick?’
‘Garrick-Smith,’ Cass said. ‘And there’s ne-ews.’ She drew it out on a teasing note.
She was making the most of it. News about Garrick–Miss Yevanova hadn’t said anything. He waited, knowing that any sign of impatience would just make her wors
e.
‘Don’t you want to know?’ Cass said.
‘Do you want to tell me? Or shall I just check the paper? I’ve got it here–’ He rustled it encouragingly.
‘Oh, all right. Garrick’s out,’ she said.
He was disappointed. ‘Is that all? He was out before I went away.’
‘No,’ she said impatiently. ‘I mean, he’s out of the picture. He’s in the clear.’
That was news. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. They’ve managed to get a fix on the time of death.’
If that was the case, then the phone call that Sophia Yevanova had made would be crucial. He made a quick note–he wanted to check this with Burnley. ‘So who’s in the picture now?’
Cass was revving up to play games with the information again. He put his hand over the phone, but not in time to stop his sigh of impatience reaching her.
‘What’s wrong with you? You sound as if your pet goldfish died.’
He needed to explain his lack of response. ‘I’m tired, that’s all.’
‘Well, you flew with Polish airlines,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit third world, isn’t it?’
‘There was nothing wrong with it.’ He couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice. What was the matter with him? Why couldn’t he make a joke of it, tell her about the pilot’s accent, the pretty hostesses, anything to get the talk flowing? ‘I’m just tired,’ he said again. ‘I’ve been up since six this morning.’
‘Okay,’ she said. Her voice was suddenly cool. ‘They’re checking up on the husband again–apparently he was threatening to take Kovacs to court over custody of the kids–but he’s got an alibi. He was at home. Kovacs spoke to him after seven thirty, and he had someone with him from about eight thirty. No way he could get there and back in the time. They think there was a boyfriend, but they haven’t managed to track him down. The professor is a prime suspect there. He denies it, the secretary denies it…’
‘Oh well, that’s conclusive.’ Jake was suddenly alert.
‘It probably is,’ Cass said. ‘Secretaries usually know. But he’s got an alibi as well–he was at home looking after his sick mum. Bless! Mick Burnley–he thinks they got it right first time.’
‘Garrick?’ His mind was working quickly. If the time of death coincided with the phone call, then no matter what Burnley’s not inconsiderable gut told him, Nick Garrick was in the clear.
He let his mind go back to the afternoon in Sophia Yevanova’s garden, Nick Garrick leaning on the spade he had dug into the earth, talking about the way she had taken care of him when he was a child. Garrick had looked as though he’d be more at home on the rugby pitch, or on the rock faces of Derbyshire than caught up in the dark coils of a past that had nothing to do with him. Jake realized he was relieved that he no longer had to watch Garrick with suspicion.
And the suspicions about Antoni Yevanov? Something told him that if Yevanov was involved in anything criminal, he would have covered his tracks far more effectively than had Helen Kovacs’ killer.
‘So what are you doing tonight?’ Cass was saying. ‘We could celebrate your return.’
‘Cass, I can’t. I’ve got too much to do.’
‘Since when did you become such a fucking workaholic?’
‘Since always. It’s what I want to do, Cass.’
‘Rather than see me?’
He didn’t say anything.
‘Okay,’ she said. Her voice was bright and brittle. ‘Fuck you then. Just…’
He thought she was crying. ‘Cass…’ But she’d hung up. He reached to phone her back, then decided there was no point. He couldn’t say anything she wanted to hear, and he didn’t have the energy for a row. She was hurt, but maybe it was better now than later. He’d let it drift for too long.
He was just…The faded black and white of old images floated at the back of his mind: rubble and dead babies and the anguished face of the girl choking her life away on the end of a rope…Shit! He pressed the button on the TV remote, then turned if off again just as quickly as the imbecile babble of a quiz-show presenter filled the air.
He unpacked his bag and shoved the dirty clothes into the washer. His eyes felt sore and gritty. He looked out of the window. The London rain had followed him up the motorway. The pavements shone in the dull afternoon light. He’d try and make contact with Miss Yevanova tomorrow, choose a time when Yevanov was likely to be out of the way. He’d accept his dismissal if he heard it from her, but not before.
There was something else he needed to do, and he felt a heavy reluctance. He needed to talk to Marek Lange again. NKVD. He hadn’t expected that. If he closed his eyes, he could see the burial pits vanishing into the shadows under the trees. Lange had survived the war. He had been in Minsk before the Nazi invasion–Minsk had been attacked and overrun in days. A soldier trapped in Minsk would not have had a long life expectancy, but somehow Lange had lived through it, and escaped.
In Minsk, in those days, there had been another way of surviving. What was it that Lange had said? I should know. I did know. It is wrong. Wrong. What was wrong? Kurapaty or collaboration? Or both?
He’d liked Lange when he’d interviewed him. He’d enjoyed the old man’s curmudgeonly independence and his sharp mind. And he knew that he could be on the edge of something with Faith Lange, something that could be valuable, something that could be worth having. But if Lange was implicated–either in Kurapaty, or in the Nazi atrocities on the streets of Minsk–Jake wouldn’t shield him. He couldn’t. He thought about the crosses under the trees of Kurapaty, the sunken earth marking the death pits, the dying girl on the end of the rope. There was nothing morally ambiguous about exposing a war criminal.
He felt more tired than he could remember.
He picked up the newspaper and checked through it, looking for any references to the Kovacs story. It had been relegated to the inside pages. The police were ‘no closer’ to making an arrest. Nothing new there, then.
He almost missed it. It was a small paragraph tucked away at the bottom of the page: Local businessman and philanthropist Marek Lange was admitted to hospital earlier this week after collapsing at home. Doctors said that his condition was ‘causing concern’.
Lange. But it had been Sophia Yevanova who had joked about dying, who had said, I may be ashes next time we meet. Without stopping to think, he found Faith’s home number in his diary and called her, but her phone rang and rang unanswered.
The call had left Faith nervous and edgy. She didn’t know what to think. The man they thought had killed Helen was innocent. Finn was telling lies. She knew that the children had been alone that evening. Which meant…Even now, even after the events of the past few days, she found it hard to accept that Daniel, a man she’d known for twelve years, could have killed Helen, could have coldly and deliberately strangled his wife.
She couldn’t settle. She found herself wandering through the house trying to distract herself by making mental notes of everything that needed doing before Grandpapa could come back, as if this might make his return a possibility. She switched the lights on as she went, trying to counteract the loneliness of the house, but the lights were dim and cast shadows as she moved. The rooms were silent and unused.
She shivered. The wind was picking up and the house seemed to be getting colder. She could hear the trees swaying, and remembered her childhood fantasy that the house was in the middle of a forest. As she listened, she realized that the noise of the boiler had stopped. It had shut down. She sighed, and went through to the kitchen to see if she could start it up again.
The wind rattled the kitchen door, and she heard the sound of something falling over and tumbling across the yard outside. She yanked the cover off the boiler, and saw that the pilot light was out. She relit it, after a struggle. Thank God for the gas fire in the front room, antique though it was. Grandpapa had coped with the cold by shutting the house up, room by room.
And now it seemed alive with sounds, the wind that sighed in the nigh
t, the susurration of the trees. It was starting to rain. The twigs scraped and clawed, and the raindrops rattled against the panes. She could hear an owl calling, and the high-pitched bark of a fox. The hunters were out in the night.
The wind guste d, making the doors rattle, and she heard the crunch of gravel in the drive. A car. Someone had driven through the gate. At first, she thought it might be Katya, relented and returned, but Katya had left on the train. Then the door bell sounded, ringing in the back of the house, in the kitchen. She had no idea who could be calling at the old house so late. The bell sounded again. She went to the door, making sure it was locked and on the chain. ‘Who’s there?’ she said.
‘Daniel Kovacs.’ He must have pressed the bell again because it shrilled with a long peal. ‘Are you going to open this door?’
Now the cold was inside her. She could still see his face as he’d advanced on her in the house, his eyes cold with menace and the muscles in his arms bunched. ‘I don’t want to talk to you, Daniel,’ she said. ‘Go home.’
The door rattled as he shook it, but the lock held. She could see the piece of cardboard she’d taped over the broken pane a few evenings ago. She hadn’t had time to get it fixed. The porch was dark. He might not notice it. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Go.’ The fear was like a lump of ice in her stomach, but her voice was steady.
He didn’t answer, but hit the door once, hard. She held her breath, listening. She’d left her mobile on the kitchen table, but there was the phone in the hallway. She could hear the crunch of his feet on the gravel as he moved away. He was going. The footsteps faded down the drive. She had a sudden conviction that when he had told her there had been another witness to Daniel’s presence in the house the evening Helen died, Finn had been lying. But the police must have had the same story. They would have talked to whoever it was Daniel claimed had been there.
There was something nagging at her, something she’d forgotten.
She straightened up, still listening. Silence.