I stare at him. “Christ, no.”
“I could hardly avoid thinking it. From the very start, I always felt that you were fishing for information – about police procedures in general, and about Diane Meath-Jones in particular.”
“That’s nonsense. You’ve never told me anything that I couldn’t have found out some other way.”
“No, but I might have.” He shakes his head. “I sometimes wondered if it really was just a transaction, this thing. You gave pleasure, and I gave information in return. Quid pro quo.”
“Oh God.” I stand up and wander over to the window. Outside, the London night is thick with car fumes and artificial lights, and with intrigue. In the street below, the man in the black Toyota continues to watch and wait. “God, Neil, you can’t think very much of me. I wanted you. All right, so I asked you about the case sometimes, and what you thought of it. Of course I did; it would be stupid not to. But that wasn’t why I wanted to see you, be with you – whatever it is we’re actually doing here, and neither of us seem quite certain about that.”
I hear him get up and come to stand beside me. He lays his hands, very gently, on my shoulders.
“What are we doing here, Katherine?”
“Who knows anymore? At first it was just fun. You needed a distraction, and so did I. You wanted a new experience, and I wanted more of the same. It was all supposed to be so easy. No emotions, no complications. But that wasn’t the way it worked out, was it? I suppose we were fools to think that we could slam the door on our feelings. They always creep through sooner or later, don’t they?”
“Is that such a bad thing?”
“Given that you’re married, I’d say that yes, it probably is.”
“Katherine,” he says. I turn around to look at him. His face is very close to mine, and his expression is gentle and sad.
“I’ve told myself that too,” he says. “A thousand times or more. At first I thought I was being very daring here, playing a very wayward game. But that’s nothing compared to what we’re doing now, in falling for each other. This is really dangerous, and we might get hurt. I’ve no answers for you, and no promises. Damn it, we don’t even know each other that well, and it might be that there’s nothing here after all, nothing that we can build something lasting on. But you mean so much to me now. I can’t just walk away and pretend that it’s been nothing but fun. And if you have a problem, then it’s my problem too.”
I’ve wanted to hear these words for so long, and feared hearing them too; and now that they’ve been spoken, I find that I don’t know how to react, or how to process my feelings. Neil leans towards me, and kisses me, and though my mind is still churning I find myself responding, kissing him back. His hands slide up my back, and his body presses against mine. And then the old desire, urgent and undeniable, sparks between us, and we begin to pull at each other’s clothes, hungry for each other.
We end up lying together in a knot on the living room floor, breathless and sated. And as I lie beneath Neil, feeling his arms around me and his breath coming harsh and heavy against my neck, I know that we’ve crossed yet another boundary, and that I no longer care. And for a moment – the slightest, swiftest moment – I feel utterly at peace with the world and with myself, and I’m afraid of nothing at all.
It’s only later, when I have time to think, that I remember something about our conversation – something that seemed irrelevant at the time, but which troubles me now. Neil mentioned a conspiracy, if only to rubbish the idea. He did so without any prompting from me. Why would he do that, why would his mind turn in that direction? Because it’s the truth, perhaps? Is there something he isn’t telling me?
And the answer that I hear in my mind makes me feel momentarily sick. There’s plenty he isn’t telling me, of course. I really know very little about him; I haven’t even been to his flat. And all the time, he has been learning my secrets one by one, as if he is draining me and giving nothing in return. And suddenly I wonder who can be trusted here, and who is dominating who, and what kind of game we’re really playing, until I find that my head is spinning and I don’t know what to think at all.
~
Later, while Neil is dozing in bed, I log on to www.whathappenedtodiane.org, and find that there’s a new personal message waiting for me. I click to open it, and find that it’s from Lurker.
Hi Kittyminx, and thanks for replying. I might have guessed that you were a writer and journalist; you’re always very eloquent and logical. (By the way, I can’t help but wonder about your username – are you connected in any way with a certain journalist who covered this case in detail some time ago?!) I’m following a distance learning course while working full-time, which is hard work but very rewarding.
Your comments about Diane make sense to me, in many ways. She has become a celebrity, an icon, following her disappearance, and perhaps it’s because of the mystery that surrounds her. But, unlike you, I think that mystery is ultimately all we have in this case. There’s no strong evidence against James Sallow, nothing that would stand up in a court of law. And while everyone’s entitled to their opinions, openly stating that he is guilty of Diane’s murder or manslaughter is libel – as certain people have found out to their cost.
Yes, Sallow is wealthy and well-connected. What difference does that make? He might have been lucky, but he’s also worked very hard for what he has. Does his wealth provide us with sufficient reason to slander and suspect him? Remember, this man’s life has been, if not ruined, at least very negatively affected by Diane’s disappearance. His girlfriend and unborn child have both been lost. His parliamentary ambitions have been destroyed because of this scandal. He’s had to endure eight years of suspicion, muttered comments, and more or less open accusations. And in all that time, he’s used only lawful means to put his own side of the story across. He has used his own money to hire private detectives to find Diane, or find out what happened to her – which in itself puts an interesting complexion on the idea that he killed her.
There was no conspiracy. Conspiracy theories are for fantasists who refuse to accept the essentially mundane and arbitrary nature of life. I’m not accusing you of being a fantasist, Kittyminx. It’s just that I think you’ve put two and two together and come up with five.
James Sallow has a fairly watertight alibi. At the same time a witness saw Diane walking her dog in the woods, he was in the City. Cell phone records, and his colleagues’ statements, confirm as much. What is your answer to that, out of interest?
Lurker.
I stare at the words until they are reduced to a black scrawl on the screen, without meaning. Again, I sense an undercurrent of hostility beneath Lurker’s apparent friendliness, and wonder why. It seems far more than the usual tension to be found between those who hold opposing views on a given subject. And why, again, this mention of a conspiracy, when I made a point of denying being a conspiracy theorist in my original message? Lurker seems almost to be echoing Neil’s words of this evening.
As I’m reading the message again, something else suddenly comes into my mind: Martin Stevenson’s restaurant. The Vine Tree, Richmond.
I type Stevenson’s name into a search engine, and trawl through a dozen or more web pages detailing his involvement in the Meath-Jones case. There’s little here that’s new to me, and eventually I start to look at the more general material. I visit the Vine Tree website, and look at photographs of the restaurant: billowing white curtains and matching tablecloths, French windows thrown open upon a sunny garden, glasses of sparkling wine. There’s a photograph of Stevenson, standing in his kitchen and grinning complacently, surrounded by his staff. Having explored the site, I click away and start going through the tail-end of the search results, expecting little. Then I come upon a small feature, published nine years ago. It’s archived on the website of a restaurant called La Sosta, an upmarket place near Aldgate.
Staff from the exclusive City recruitment agency Morgan Clearey held their annual Christmas celebration at La S
osta this year, the first line reads. I scroll down, reading more carefully now, but at first am rewarded only by information about special Festive menus. Then, about midway through the article, I see a photograph that shows several businessmen in sharp suits smiling as they pose with a man in chefs’ whites. I see Martin Stevenson’s face first, his strangely ageless features and short white hair above a plump body. Then my eye is caught by one of the businessmen. He’s smartly dressed, as always, and smiling sardonically. Brown curls surround and lend definition to a handsome but strangely anonymous face. Sallow.
I read the caption: Morgan Clearey staff (l-r) Thomas Morgan, Rupert Clearey, James Sallow and Jonathan Pierce, with La Sosta chef Martin Stevenson (centre).
“God Almighty,” I whisper, and feel my heart contract beneath my ribs.
Of course, in and of itself this means little. Why shouldn’t Sallow have patronised a very popular restaurant near his offices, where Martin Stevenson just happened to work? It’s the kind of coincidence that means little, and means nothing at all as evidence. But it does prove that the two men met before Diane’s disappearance. I take a screenshot of the page, mindful as ever of how web pages sometimes have a habit of disappearing, and then click back to the search engine, and type in “Vine Tree Richmond”.
The first few results I have already seen, but as I scroll down the page I find a mention of the restaurant in about the last place I would have expected: Larry Mortimer’s website. Larry Mortimer, the PR guru who was employed by Sallow in the wake of Diane’s disappearance. And, according to his own proudly-displayed list of clients, he has also worked for Martin Stevenson and the Vine Tree. Doing what? Whipping up favourable publicity, persuading his starry clientele to eat there? No wonder Stevenson is doing so well. But how could an ordinary chef and restaurateur afford Mortimer’s services, when they cost so much?
I return to the search engine, and after a little more exploration I locate an old article from The Richmond Courier, a small and now defunct local paper. Dated seven years ago, it talks about the opening of the Vine Tree. None of it is very interesting, until I reach the following passage: “The restoration of the Vine Tree was partially funded by a range of business partners, including the City advertising agency 20/20.”
20/20. Another name, another vague sense of familiarity. I return to Google, and type the name into the search bar. A list of websites flashes up, one of them the Companies House entry. I click on this and, after some searching, find the names of the company directors. One of them, I see immediately, is Gerald Sallow, James Sallow’s father. Media mogul, City businessman and millionaire, Gerald Sallow has involvement in various companies and institutions – one of them the company that helped to fund Martin Stevenson’s restaurant.
I stare at the words, reading them again and again, allowing the implications to sink into my mind. Stevenson met Sallow the year before Diane disappeared. Later, when he said that he saw Diane in Bucklock Wood at ten o’clock on June 16th, he provided Sallow with a watertight alibi. Less than a year later, Sallow’s father’s company invested in Stevenson’s restaurant. I look up from the screen, and feel a smile creeping across my face.
“Gotcha,” I whisper.
~
The shop just off Oxford Street is busy at this time of day. Tourists wander around the aisles, fingering clothes and jewellery, chatting together excitedly. Shoppers pick items off the rails and hold them up against themselves, wondering how they will look. In the background, music jangles away on a sound system and cash registers ring. I am idly looking through a rack of thin summer blouses when I catch sight of Mr Walsh, the former concierge at Lexwood House, walking into the shop.
Meeting anyone you recognise in London by chance is an almost freakishly improbable event. In a city so large, so populous and so busy, the odds of running into someone you know even slightly seem tiny. I smile at him as he approaches, and move towards him in a way that suggests that I’d like to talk to him.
To my surprise and dismay, though, Mr Walsh seems horrified to see me; he shrinks back, almost flinching, and looks for a moment as if he might turn and run out of the shop. Then his face settles into grim lines. I notice that he looks far less well than he did before. He has the gaunt, hollow look of someone who has lost far too much weight far too quickly. His expression is tense, his eyes surrounded by dark shadows. For a moment, I wonder if he is ill.
“You,” he breathes, and his voice is laced with venom.
“Mr Walsh? Are you all right?”
“No, thanks to you and your meddling.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“No, of course you don’t. You journalists are the scum of the earth. You look at people’s lives as stories, things to fill up column space or TV schedules. You don’t care that you’re wrecking lives in the process. It’s all a game to you. What you don’t seem to understand is that the rest of us have to live with these things. You kick up the dust, but it’s other people who have to wait for it to settle.” His voice cracks slightly, and his shoulders slump; for one alarming moment, I’m afraid that he’ll burst into tears, here in the middle of the shop floor. “Why did you have to come to my house? Why did you have to come to me?”
“Mr Walsh, I only asked you a few questions.”
“And I was stupid enough to answer, God help me.”
I look into his desperate, frightened eyes, and my heart lurches, and a sick feeling comes over me.
“James Sallow,” I mutter. “What has he done to you?”
“Not much, yet. And if I want to keep it that way, I have to keep my mouth shut.”
“What? Mr Walsh, you have to go to the police.”
“The police?” Mr Walsh looks at me as if this is the most stupid thing he’s ever heard. “What makes you think the police would be on my side?”
“If Sallow has engaged in criminal behaviour—”
“Sallow has got money and influence. He can engage in any bloody behaviour he wants. That’s the kind of country we live in.” Mr Walsh dabs at his eye, where a tear has formed. “Why the bloody hell did you name me in your article? I trusted you not to. You promised you wouldn’t.”
I look at him. “Mr Walsh, my story was never even published.”
“Then how did Sallow find out that I’d talked to you? Did you tell anyone?”
“No,” I say; but no sooner is the word out of my mouth than I remember that I did tell someone: Neil. A splinter of ice punctures my heart. Could Neil have betrayed me? No, my mind screams. But who else could it have been?
“You must have told someone,” Mr Walsh insists. “Sallow knew. He knew.”
“Mr Walsh,” I say, as calmly as I can, “I don’t know how Sallow could have found out that I’d visited you. Are you sure that it was him who did this to you?”
“He wasn’t there himself. Too clever for that. But the gorillas he sent around left me in no doubt about who they were working for.” He brushes his tears away with his sleeve. “You’re not to come near me or my house again, got it? Stay away from me. I’m too old to be caught up in stuff like this.”
“I won’t bother you again, Mr Walsh,” I say. I feel defeated, hollow – and afraid.
“Please don’t. And if you want my advice, you’ll leave the Diane Meath-Jones case well alone.” He glances around furtively, and his voice drops a little. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing, you stupid woman? Don’t you understand?”
“Mr Walsh—”
“There are forces at work here that you don’t understand. They won’t be stopped. You might as well stand in the path of a whirlwind.” His shoulders sag, and he suddenly looks, not angry, but defeated. “Some fights are just too big for little people like us. Turn and walk away. It’s the only thing you can do.”
With that, he turns and lumbers out of the shop. I watch as he slips into the crowd outside, and then disappears. I feel sick, and frightened. The only person I told about my visit to Walsh was Neil; a short while later, Wal
sh was threatened by Sallow, or by someone working on his behalf. Did Neil betray me? Could he have?
The idea doesn’t seem so incredible, from a certain point of view. Corruption is inevitable, in all large organisations, however fine their motives or benign their purposes. Eventually, deception and hidden agendas will take root. Besides, how can any institution remain pure, when faced with wealth and power? People can be bought; failing that, they can be intimidated.
But Neil isn’t like that, I tell myself. He joined the police for all the right reasons, and I’ve never had cause to doubt his honesty and sincerity. I trust him. But – the thought intrudes like an unwelcome guest – am I right to do so? What do I know about this man, really?
For months I’ve talked to him about myself, my past, and my work. We’ve spoken together about Diane, James Sallow, everything. Looking back now, it seems to me that those conversations were often instigated by him rather than me. Was that deliberate? Was he pumping me for information, and then passing it back to others? But if that were so, why then did he warn me that someone – Sallow, perhaps – was watching me? Some kind of trick? A genuine moment of weakness and compassion? Or, perhaps, an attempt to intimidate me?
But if all of this is true, what can I do? Break off our affair? Refuse to see him again? If there’s no trust between us, what kind of relationship can we possibly have? Even as I think of this possibility, though, I know I won’t do it. I want Neil, so badly. And, in my heart of hearts, I can’t believe that he’s been deceiving me. I won’t believe it. Perhaps Sallow found out about my visit to Walsh because, even then, I was being spied on. That’s a plausible explanation, and it exonerates Neil. I cling to it like a life raft in a stormy sea.
A Wayward Game Page 15