“So far as I could see, certainly, but I was some distance from her. Not close enough to be certain of it.”
“And she was alone? Nobody was following her, or walking with her?”
“Again, as far as I could see, no. Of course, this was in the woods; someone could have been lurking around in the trees nearby, for all I knew. I didn’t see anyone, though.”
“Were there many people in the woods that day?”
“Hardly anyone. This was relatively early on a weekday morning.” Stevenson looks mildly troubled. “It is quite a lonely place at the best of times. People are fooled by its proximity to London; they see it almost as an extension of the suburbs. They forget just how remote and quiet it can be. Not the place for a young woman, or any woman, to go walking on her own. Of course I feel sorry for Miss Meath-Jones, terribly sorry. But it was foolhardy behaviour on her part.”
“A lot of people have said so,” I murmur, suppressing an urge to slap Stevenson’s complacent face.
“People have said many things about this affair. Naturally, I understand people’s interest, but frankly I can’t see why one young woman should receive so much attention in a world where tragedies of far greater proportions happen all the time. It all seems a little unbalanced, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Many people are of that opinion, Mr Stevenson.”
“Not the readers of your paper, evidently. I suppose it’s a sound economic decision on your part, to run stories that will lead to increased circulation.”
“Sound economic decisions dominate my profession,” I agree, a little sadly.
“As they do every profession. Speaking of which,” – Stevenson stands up – “if you’ve quite finished, I have to attend to my own livelihood.”
My questions have unnerved him, I sense, and he wants to terminate this interview as swiftly as possible. I stand up, and the dog looks up with surprised, slightly reproachful eyes. Stevenson rummages in his jacket pocket, and pulls out a small business card. Of course: like many an opportunistic businessman, he must carry some with him at all times.
“Here,” he says, “take this, and tell your restaurant critic to come over one evening. And while I’m sure it’s not standard practice, if you’d like to mention the help I’ve given you—”
“I’ll be sure to do that, Mr Stevenson,” I say, putting the card in my pocket. “Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”
“And I’d appreciate a little help in return,” Stevenson says, as he leads me to the front door. “The Vine Tree does well, of course, but it could always do better.”
As I step out into the garden, a large and evidently expensive car pulls up outside. The driver is a middle-aged woman, who glances across at me as she gets out. Her clothes are obviously expensive, her hair aggressively bleached and straightened, and her make-up perfect; but beneath all of this she has a sad, hollow-eyed look that speaks of weariness and suffering. As she advances through the front gate, she pulls the corners of her mouth up into a pained smile.
“A journalist, Laura,” Mr Stevenson calls. “Just leaving now.”
“Oh,” Laura says, and hurries past me, head down. She bolts into the shadowy refuge of the house, and the last I see of her is her rather slim figure disappearing through the living room door. Such timidity is a common reaction when in the presence of journalists; but Mrs Stevenson, I think, was not just shy, but genuinely disturbed by my being here.
Stevenson, hovering by the door, shrugs.
“Our perceptions of your profession have, I’m afraid, been somewhat skewed,” he explains. “We’re private people, and resent intrusion.”
“I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mr Stevenson.”
“Well, you know how best to make it up to me. I’ll keep an eye out for your article – and for your restaurant critic, of course.”
“Of course. Goodbye.”
I walk away from the house, and something – a question, a doubt – gnaws away at some dark corner of my mind. I can’t say what it is, precisely, only that it is there. I need to think about all that Stevenson has said, and perhaps seek another opinion. I reach into my jacket pocket, where a small tape recorder is still turning, and press the stop button. Then I look down at the business card Stevenson gave me. The Vine Tree Restaurant, Richmond. I read the words again and again, trying to work out why they sound so familiar. I know that name. I just can’t remember where I’ve heard it before.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“God,” Neil says that evening, after I’ve played the recording to him. “He’s a cool customer, isn’t he?”
“Almost robotic. And – well, rehearsed. Don’t you think?”
“Maybe he comes across that way.” Neil frowns, seems to turn the question over in his mind. “You have to bear in mind that he’s told this story dozens of times. Constant repetition can have that effect: the story becomes not just fixed, but almost ossified. Doubts are cleared up, untruths become the truth. That’s how the mind works. It isn’t necessarily sinister.”
I gaze out of the living room window without really seeing the view beyond. Not that there is much to see at this time of night, anyway: just a row of crumbling Victorian buildings, the street down below, and the city lights in the distance. I invited Neil over to my flat to listen to this interview and give me his impressions of it. I was surprised, and pleased, when he agreed. Simple socialising has never been one of our priorities until now, but tonight I wanted him with me. Not for the games; I’m too tired, too preoccupied, for those tonight. I just want to sit here with him, talking, drinking wine, and behaving as any normal couple might.
The problem, for both of us, is that we’re not really sure what being a normal couple entails. Everything about our lives has been highly abnormal for a long time, or so it seems. I’m not talking about the games, either: they are little more than a rarefied version of the innocent foreplay involving silk scarves and blindfolds that couples all over the world enjoy. Our problem, frankly, is that we have never thought of ourselves as being a couple in the normal sense of the word, and we cannot get used to the idea now. We are uncertain how to behave; Neil is polite, almost formal, and I am trying almost too hard to make him feel at home.
Neil is watching me, waiting for me to say something. He has become used to playing his cards close to his chest – one of the legacies of his job, I suppose – and is often unwilling to be the one to break a silence or move a conversation forward.
“The one time he seemed to slip up a bit,” I say, “is when I asked him why it took him so long to contact the police.”
Neil shrugs. “People are often unwilling to come forward. They’re afraid that they’ll come under suspicion, or end up being investigated for some other reason. Let’s imagine, for example, that Stevenson was caught up in something illegal but fairly trivial: minor fraud, something like that. He wouldn’t have wanted the police casting their eyes over his affairs if that were so. It wouldn’t necessarily be because he was wilfully withholding information about the Diane Meath-Jones case, specifically.”
“All right,” I say, grudgingly – I don’t want to believe his words, even though they make sense to me. “One thing I don’t understand is how Stevenson got enough money to buy his own restaurant. He’s from a pretty normal background, as far as I can tell, and never had any particularly highly-paid jobs or wealthy relatives. You should see his house, too. It’s filled with antiques; all of that stuff must have cost a bomb.”
“Perhaps he inherited some money, or won some on the lottery. Perhaps his wife has money. Perhaps he just worked hard and saved up. Perhaps he’s actually up to his ears in debt and spending money he doesn’t have. You don’t know.”
“Stevenson’s restaurant,” I say. “The Vine Tree, Richmond. There’s something about that place. I can’t put my finger on it. Are you familiar with the place at all?”
“Only by reputation. It’s patronised by the great and the good, I understand. It’s not quite the Ivy, you
understand; it doesn’t have that kind of exclusivity. It’s a lot quieter and a lot less showy. But some fairly important people go there – MPs, media types, various celebrities.”
“But why is Stevenson running a place like that? He’s just an ordinary bloke.”
“Does an ordinary background debar someone from running a restaurant?” Neil looks at me, a little sharply. “Look, Katherine, you seem to be desperate to find something against this guy. The problem is that you are in no position to judge here. You’re getting up to some pretty dodgy stuff yourself these days: acting under false pretences, flashing fake ID, telling people you’re working for a paper you left years ago. It’s dishonest, and it could harm your reputation if it ever got out. It’s not for you to do the police’s job for them.”
“If the police were doing their job properly, I wouldn’t have to.”
There’s a moment of silence, during which Neil finishes his wine and puts the glass back on table. His shoulders are taut now, his face tense; my words have stung him.
“That’s bloody unfair, and you know it,” he says at last, quietly. “You know that we can’t press charges if there’s insufficient evidence. And sometimes, no matter how hard we try, there are cases that just can’t be solved.”
“And I suppose that Sallow’s money and connections don’t have anything to do with that, do they?”
“Only insofar as they give him access to good legal advice. Katherine, use your brain. Most conspiracy theories are untrue because, apart from anything, they’re impractical. A police conspiracy to protect Sallow would require a huge number of people to be involved, from senior officers to ordinary constables and civilian staff – people who have no reason to give a damn about Sallow, or want to protect him. And all it would take to bring the whole thing tumbling down would be for just one person to break ranks and speak out. Believe me, outside of fiction these enormous conspiracies just don’t exist. There’s mismanagement, of course, and negligence, but they’re completely different things. Come on, Katherine: don’t be paranoid.”
“Paranoid?” I smile in spite of myself. “You’re the one who mentioned a conspiracy, not me. And you’re the one who’s convinced that I’m being followed or watched.”
“Caution and paranoia are hardly the same thing.” Neil looks at me for a moment, as though he’s uncertain whether to speak. “By the way, if you go over to the window you’ll see a black Toyota parked opposite the flat. It’s been there since I arrived this evening, and someone’s been sitting in the driver’s seat all that time. Go and have a look if you don’t believe me.”
I creep over to the window and look around the edge of the curtain. It’s just as he says: the car is parked almost directly opposite the flat, and when I peer through the dark windscreen I can just make out the shape of a man sitting in the driver’s seat. I duck back behind the curtain, and turn to Neil.
“Is that paranoia?” he asks softly.
“Neil, I don’t understand this. Who the hell could possibly be so interested in me? Is it a stalker?”
“Stalkers aren’t generally so organised. I think it’s something else entirely. Someone who feels threatened by you, perhaps.”
“Such as?”
“Well, James Sallow, for one.”
I feel my heart give a scared thump as the import of Neil’s words sinks in. I’ve always suspected that Sallow was ruthless, and I’ve always thought that he’d take drastic action in his own defence if necessary; but for some reason I never before imagined that he might one day turn his sights on me.
“James Sallow doesn’t know me,” I say.
“You might be surprised at what he knows. Jesus, Katherine, you’ve been watching him for all this time. Do you think he hasn’t been watching you in turn? He’s hired private investigators in the past, you know.”
“He always claimed that they were employed to find Diane.”
“Nobody really knows what they were employed for. Only them, and Sallow.”
I sit down heavily on the sofa. Neil is within touching distance, and I’m in the middle of a big city, yet for one sickening second I feel utterly alone, and horribly vulnerable.
“Do you really think that Sallow might be having me watched?” I ask at last.
“I don’t know. Perhaps. You’re an obvious target. You wrote a supposedly libellous story about him. You never openly apologised for that story, or distanced yourself from it. And now that the internet is part of everyone’s lives, nobody can be silenced entirely. You have a voice even now, if you want to use it. You have contacts, and all the skills of an investigative journalist. You have the potential to be a considerable thorn in his side. And now, to cap it all, you’re on intimate terms with a police officer. If Sallow has heard about that, it’s hard to believe that he’s not feeling a little jumpy.”
“What do you think he might do?”
“Nothing, probably. But you’d better be on your guard, just in case.”
I turn my wine glass around in my hands, thinking.
“Tell me,” I say, “do you think that Sallow killed Diane Meath-Jones?”
“I’ve already told you. There isn’t enough evidence to charge him.”
“That’s the police officer speaking. I want to know what the man thinks.”
“All right,” he says slowly. “My personal opinion – and I warn you, Katherine, this is off the record – is that the evidence points to Sallow having been involved in her disappearance in some way. But legal guilt and actual guilt are two separate things. If you don’t have sufficient evidence, if you can’t prove something beyond reasonable doubt, then legally that person is innocent. There just isn’t enough evidence against Sallow; and believe me, Katherine, after all this time you’re probably not going to find any.”
“So that’s it, then. We just give up on Diane because there isn’t enough evidence.” I laugh – a hollow, bitter sound. “Evidence. That’s a damn cold word, you know. It only translates in a world where there’s no feeling.”
Neil is looking at me, intently, his face half hidden by the shadows. He looks suddenly tired, and older.
“Katherine,” he says, “your interest in this goes far beyond that of a reporter. That much is clear. Did you know Diane? Personally, I mean?”
I look down into my empty glass. For years, I think, I’ve been – not lying, exactly, but not being entirely honest either. And suddenly I’m sick of it all, sick of hiding and pretending. I can’t live like this anymore. I want to live with the truth, because the lie is too heavy a burden to bear.
“Yes, I knew her.” My voice sounds quiet, tinged with resignation.
“Was she a friend? A relative?”
“She was my lover.”
Neil is silent for a long moment. It is not, I think, a shocked silence; when I glance across at him, he is looking down, his face almost entirely devoid of expression. He senses my eyes upon him, and looks up. To my surprise, a faint smile crosses his lips.
“I did wonder sometimes,” he says. “The way you talked and felt about her – it was obvious that you loved her. I didn’t know you were bisexual, though.”
“The subject never came up. Do you mind?”
“Of course not.” His smile widens, and then, abruptly, vanishes. “Were you involved with her at the same time as Sallow?”
“No, of course not. We broke up before he even met her. We remained friends, though.”
“Did you ever meet Sallow?”
“I haven’t had that dubious pleasure, no.”
“Does he know that you were Diane’s lover?”
“I doubt it.” I remember how much Diane longed for normality, and how afraid and ashamed she was of her own desires. “She wouldn’t have told him. She wouldn’t have told anyone. But he might have known that I was her friend. She might have mentioned me, and even if she didn’t – well, we went to the same university at the same time, we lived in the same Hall of Residence. It’d be easy to join the dots.”
; “Does it seem so unlikely now that someone might be watching you?”
“No,” I concede.
“Remember just one thing, Katherine: legally, Sallow is in the clear. You’re the one who’s on shaky ground here. You wrote an arguably libellous article. You’ve interviewed witnesses under false pretences, and you’ve used false ID. For God’s sake, be careful. And that’s a warning from somebody who cares.”
I look across at him. His gaze is steady and unwavering, and seemingly sincere. For one weak, pitiful moment, I feel like my heart is breaking; but I learned to control my feelings long ago, and I don’t want him to see my distress.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, with a shrug. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“Are you quite sure about that?” He doesn’t look away. “You don’t always have to be so cool, you know. Everyone’s allowed a few moments of vulnerability.”
“I can’t afford them.”
“You can.” He leans forward, and kisses me. It’s not the other kisses we’ve shared; it’s gentle, passionless, compassionate. He reaches out and strokes my hair, and all at once it seems that he is the dominant one here, he the one who warns and reassures. I am unused to this, but I find it consoling; few things are more comforting than to give up, let go, and allow someone else to take control.
The kiss ends, and he leans back slightly and smiles at me.
“Nobody can be dominant all the time,” he says. “I don’t expect you to be. You’re human, Katherine, not a machine.”
“I know. It’s just that I’ve got to keep going. I can’t be sidetracked. You think I can’t make a difference, and maybe you’re right, but I’ve got to try, damn it. And crying and feeling scared and sorry for myself – those things won’t help. They won’t.”
“You can’t burn out over this, and you can’t put yourself in danger. You’re obsessed, Katherine, and it’s not healthy.”
“I’m not obsessed. Diane meant so much to me. I can’t just forget that she ever existed.”
“I’m not saying you should, but there’s far more to life than just this one case.” He frowns. “It’s taken over your entire life; it’s like there’s no part of your existence that hasn’t been touched. And the thing is, I’ve sometimes wondered whether I’m just part of that. Whether you’ve just been using me as your eyes and ears at Scotland Yard.”
A Wayward Game Page 14