If she stayed here all afternoon, she realised, locked in this room, she’d go mad. But she couldn’t leave the hotel, either: she’d promised. She stalked about for a minute before she remembered the bar opposite the lobby. She could sit down there.
She found the key and let herself out into the corridor, feeling better the moment the door slammed shut behind her. At the bar she ordered a cup of coffee and carried it to a small table in the corner. When the man next to her got up to go, leaving behind a copy of the Evening Standard, she reached across and took it. The lead story was about house prices, on the rise again in London, but when she turned the page, she stopped. Top Female Surgeon Murdered in Spitalfields.
The piece took up half the page, much of the space dominated by two photographs. From the first, Hermione stared up at her. Her expression was the one Hannah had seen when she accosted her in the corridor, the polite but distant look that suggested she’d pulled herself out of a deep preoccupation to engage with the world for a moment. At the hospital Hannah had interpreted it as professionalism, a mask to help her keep her distance from needy relatives, but what she saw now was wariness and distrust.
Quickly, she read the story. There were no more details about Hermione’s death – at the time the piece must have been written, the police had still been waiting for the post-mortem – but at the end there was a quote from DI Wells. ‘We’re extremely keen to talk to Nicholas Reilly,’ he’d said, ‘who, we have reason to believe, was in touch with Ms Alleyn in the weeks preceding her death. We strongly advise anyone identifying Mr Reilly not to approach him but to alert the police immediately.’
The other photograph was at least ten years old: Hannah had seen it before in the online coverage of his trial, albeit cropped differently. If she remembered correctly, the original had shown Nick on the drive of a lovely Cotswolds house, swinging down into the driver’s seat of a convertible, tanned and laughing, but here the picture had been cut to provide the closest thing the paper could get to a mugshot, just his face, neck and shoulders, and in this context, next to the picture of the murdered woman who had once been his girlfriend, he looked unhinged: a handsome, dangerous madman.
Hannah picked up her BlackBerry and addressed a text to Mark.
Have you seen the Standard? The story’s on page 3 – it’s big.
She expected a reply immediately, he’d said he’d have his phone on all afternoon, but the minutes started to add up and none came. She told herself he was busy – he’d be talking to David or on a call; he’d probably gone to the loo – but ten minutes passed and then fifteen and she began to feel anxious: apart from last weekend, Mark had always responded straight away to any message she sent him, even right at the beginning when a lot of people might have played it cool and waited. Keep calm, she told herself, there’ll be a simple explanation, but after twenty minutes, her nerves got the better of her and she brought up his number and called him. The phone rang and she felt herself relax a little but it kept ringing and then voicemail clicked in.
‘Hi, it’s me,’ she said, hearing the worry in her voice. ‘Will you call me when you get this?’
She rang off and sat for a moment, phone in hand. Her mind filled with images of Nick, a confrontation, Mark hurt or . . . No: she stopped herself. It would be nothing; she was overreacting. She made herself wait for five minutes then tried again. Again, though, there was no answer.
She brought up his direct line at work and dialled. This time the call was answered after two rings. ‘DataPro.’
‘Mark,’ she said, ‘thank God. It’s me – I got in a bit of a stew: I was trying your mobile but . . .’
‘Is that Mrs Reilly?’ a voice cut in. ‘This is Leo, David’s assistant.’
‘Oh.’ Hannah was taken aback for a moment. ‘Sorry, Leo – you sounded just like Mark. Could you put me through?’
‘He’s not actually here at the moment.’
‘Has he popped out?’
‘I don’t think so – I haven’t seen him at all today. Hang on a sec, let me check with David.’ He put her on hold and Hannah got a snatch of Vivaldi before he came back on the line. ‘No, sorry. David hasn’t seen him either. He said he thought that he’d be in a while ago but he’s not here yet.’
Hannah felt another jolt of alarm.
‘Has he heard from Mark at all? This afternoon?’
‘I’ll ask.’ Another burst of Vivaldi, jarringly upbeat. ‘Mrs Reilly? No, David says he hasn’t heard from him since this morning – an email.’
‘Could I talk to Neesha, Leo?’
‘She’s not here either, I’m afraid. Hence my answering Mark’s phone. I—’
‘Could you ask her to call me when she gets back to her desk?’
‘Of course,’ he said ‘but it won’t be today. She’s taken the day off. She was pretty upset yesterday so David suggested that she . . .’
‘Upset? Why?’
Leo seemed to pause. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I thought you’d probably know about it. She’s been put on a warning.’
‘A warning?’ Hannah felt herself frown.
Leo hesitated again and when he spoke, his voice was quieter. ‘Apparently she messed up some figures,’ he said. ‘Mark told David it’s happened before so . . .’
‘Oh,’ said Hannah. ‘No, I didn’t know. Look, if Mark comes in, could you ask him to call me? Straight away? It’s urgent.’
As soon as she hung up, she tried Mark’s mobile again. Still nothing. The lobby was hot but not hot enough to account for the sweat she could feel prickling under her arms. Where was he? From the newspaper Hermione stared up, her eyes now full of warning.
Increasingly alarmed, Hannah tried him once more then brought up Neesha’s mobile number. She hesitated but anxiety overrode her misgivings and she made the call. It rang and she cleared her throat to talk but then – again – she got voicemail.
‘Neesha,’ she said, ‘this is Hannah Reilly. I know you’re not at the office today and I’m really sorry for calling you when you’re off but I wondered if you’d heard from Mark at all this afternoon. If you have, could you call me? It’s pretty urgent so . . . Thanks.’ She left her number and hung up.
Perhaps she should call Wells, she thought now. Maybe it would turn out to be nothing and she’d look crazy but better that than sitting here doing nothing while . . . She shook her head to stem the images that came spilling out of the dark corners of her mind. Quickly, she stood, picked up the newspaper and made her way back across the lobby towards the lifts. Mark had left the detective’s card on the desk upstairs in case she needed it. He’d entered the number into his phone and now she was angry with herself for not doing the same.
‘Hannah!’
Spinning round, she saw Mark standing just inside the revolving door from the street. Relief swept over her.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said, drawing her to one side, away from a couple waiting to check in. ‘Has something happened?’
The relief changed to anger. ‘Why didn’t you answer your bloody phone?’ she demanded. ‘I texted you – I’ve been calling and calling. I thought something had happened to you, Mark. I called DataPro – I was on my way upstairs to call the police.’
‘Sorry . . . I’m sorry. I was driving.’
‘Driving? For Christ’s sake! Couldn’t you have pulled over? And when did you get so law-abiding? Your brother, a murderer, is out there and you just—’
‘Shhh.’ He looked around quickly.
‘No, I won’t. What’s going on? Why are you doing this? You told me you were going to work but you haven’t been there, have you? They said they hadn’t seen you all day.’
‘They haven’t.’
To her amazement, Hannah saw that Mark was smiling. She held her hands up in disbelief. ‘What the—?’
‘I didn’t tell you I was going to the office.’
‘You did – you did! This morning.’
He shook his head. ‘You assumed I was and I let you believe it becau
se it was the easiest thing. I said there would be a police car at the office but I didn’t say I was going there.’
Hannah shook her head. ‘Forget it. I can’t take any more of this. Here.’ She thrust the newspaper at him.
He took it then reached for her hand. ‘Come with me.’ He started walking back towards the door.
‘Now what? Mark . . .’
‘Just come with me.’ He was smiling again.
Outside, he led her twenty yards along the pavement then stopped. ‘What do you think? Do you like it?’
‘What are you taking about?’ For several seconds she didn’t understand.
‘This.’ He handed her a car key.
She stared at it and then, looking up, she followed his gaze to the car parked at the kerb, a navy blue Audi TT.
‘It’s yours,’ he said.
She looked at him.
‘I ordered it a while ago – the navy blue was a custom colour; it had to be painted specially – but it arrived yesterday.’
‘Mark . . . I . . .’
‘In a way, it’s perfect timing. It’s still a present but it’s an apology now, too, for all this . . . the situation. I’m so sorry you’ve been dragged into it, Han. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’
Chapter Twenty-two
The bathroom door opened and Mark emerged in a cloud of steam scented with his sage cologne, a towel wrapped round his waist. The hair on his chest was matted with water.
‘It’s Saturday,’ she said.
‘I know, and I hate leaving you, I really hate it, but it’s just a few more days.’ He looked at The Times that had been delivered with the breakfast tray. Nick and Hermione were on page seven. ‘I was lying awake all night thinking about it,’ he said. ‘If the papers are using the old photographs of him, it means they’re looking at the old stories, doesn’t it? David got a call from a guy at the FT yesterday who’d heard a rumour about the buy-out – if someone puts two and two together and Kevin Meyer at Systema hears about it, we’re buggered. I’ve got to get this deal done before it all blows up in our faces, and the only thing I can do until Tuesday is make sure everything’s ready.’
He bent to get his jeans out of his bag. ‘Why don’t you give your brother and Lydia a ring? I’d feel better if I knew you weren’t on your own. You could go over to theirs or have lunch somewhere, go to a gallery. That new Matisse show must be open now – I don’t mind if you see it first.’
‘I’m meant to be seeing Tom for a drink on Monday. But, yes, I’ll ring him.’
‘Good.’ Mark pulled a jumper over his head then picked up his phone and car keys from the bedside table. ‘It might be later rather than sooner this evening, maybe sevenish. Perhaps you could take me for another spin in your new wheels when I get back?’
He smiled and she smiled back, trying to look natural. ‘I should think that could be arranged.’
The car. In the strange hinterland between wakefulness and sleep this morning, she’d really wondered for a moment whether she’d dreamed it. It was gorgeous, exactly what she would have chosen herself if she’d ever had that sort of money to spare, but the suddenness of it, the fact that he’d bought it without telling her, and that it had arrived now, in the middle of all this, made it feel odd and unreal. They’d driven out towards Heathrow last night so she could try it on the motorway and as she’d accelerated, feeling the power of the engine as it went from seventy to eighty, almost to ninety, without any strain at all, she’d felt as if she’d stolen it.
‘Will you text me when you know where you’re going to be?’ he said.
As soon as the door closed after him, silence flooded the room. She put the television on and left the bathroom door open so she could hear it while she showered. Shutting her eyes, she let the water drum on her face. In the surprise and confusion about the Audi last night it had been pushed to the back of her mind but during her now-usual early-hours vigil, it had come pressing on her again, even stronger, the nagging sensation that there was something she’d forgotten.
There was half a cup of coffee left in the breakfast pot, and when she was dressed she poured it and turned on her laptop. Opening Google, she typed in Nick and Patty’s names and started going through the links one by one, looking for the story that had used the picture of Nick with the sports car. Perhaps they’d be lucky and it would be one of the pieces that hadn’t mentioned DataPro directly, but either way, Mark was right: it could only be a matter of time before someone made the connection and the whole thing came out again. How much time, though, might make all the difference to whether or not he could get the deal done.
She clicked through fifteen or twenty stories before she found it and, when she did, she saw that it had been printed with the long Sunday news-review feature. Hannah was surprised by how accurately she’d remembered it: the silver car and the lovely golden-stoned house, Nick’s pale cotton shirt, its sleeves rolled back to the elbow.
Her eyes flicked to the start of the text. The curtains were drawn this week in the front windows of the two-bedroomed bungalow where Nicholas Reilly spent his childhood, as if his parents, who still live in the house, want to close their eyes against the reality of the crime of which their son was this week found guilty.
Who still live in the house – Hannah read it again, just in case, but she hadn’t made a mistake: according to the journalist, this Carole Temple, at the time Nick stood trial and went to prison, his parents were still alive. But that couldn’t be right. Since the very beginning, their second date at the Mulberry Street Bar back in New York, Mark had told her that his parents had died when he was in his mid-twenties, and when he’d told her the whole story on Tuesday – finally, said the voice in her head – he’d said it again: ‘I’m just glad that when it happened, the really bad thing we’d been waiting for, for all those years, my parents were already gone.’
She stood up and started pacing the small area of carpet in the centre of the room. The journalist was wrong, it was the only explanation: people didn’t make mistakes about when their parents died. Mark said that his had died when he was in his mid-twenties, a year apart, and he’d been thirty when Nick had gone to prison. She tried to remember the actual years of the senior Reillys’ deaths but found she couldn’t. Had he ever told her? He must have. But actually, why must he? She’d never pushed him for that kind of exact fact; what was relevant was how long ago it had been, what stage of his life he’d been at, and he’d told her that. She’d let him talk about them when he wanted to, at his own pace, trusting that gradually she’d get the full picture.
She sat back down, feeling a little better. The journalist had got her wires crossed; that was all. Patty’s death had happened not long after they’d died, a couple of years, maybe; perhaps Mark hadn’t sold the house immediately, or perhaps another older couple had moved in and Carole Temple had mistaken them for the Reillys. That was quite likely, wasn’t it? It was usually older people who lived in bungalows.
Hannah hit the back button and returned to the list of hits but as she clicked through the stories, realising now just how many had mentioned DataPro, she felt more and more uneasy. When she reached the Gazette piece with its Sick Nick headline and lurid capitals, she put her head in her hands.
She closed the page, shut her computer and stood up. She stacked the dirty dishes on the breakfast tray and put it outside the door. The corridor stretched away to left and right, empty. Back inside, she made the bed meticulously, plumping the pillows and smoothing the sheets until they were wrinkle-free. In the bathroom she drank a glass of water and rested her forehead against the cold glass of the mirror. Then she went back to her computer.
How did you find out when people had died? Into Google she typed ‘UK death records’. The first link was to the General Register Office, the official government site. She clicked on it and skimmed down the page until she found a link promising information on birth, marriage, death and adoption records. When it opened, however, there was no access to records, ju
st advice on registering a new death.
The National Archives advertised themselves to people looking for records of a birth, marriage or death in England or Wales. Hatched, matched and dispatched – Hannah heard her own mother’s voice. The site was clearly designed for genealogical research but while marriage certificates could be viewed online, birth and death certificates could not. A section titled Indexes to Birth, Marriage and Death registrations (1837 to present) had a link to a site transcribing the Civil Register but she quickly discovered that so far, the transcription, at least for deaths, hadn’t progressed beyond 1970. If Mark’s parents had died when he was twenty-six or seven, say, she was looking for 1998 and 1999.
Findmypast.co.uk offered records to 2006. The search boxes on the home page asked for first and last names, the range of years in which the person might have died, the country within the UK and then the county. She filled them as far as she could, entering ‘Elizabeth Reilly’, 1995–2005, England and Sussex. There was a box for her year of birth, too, and Hannah tried to think. How old had Mrs Reilly been when she died? She had no idea. How old had she been when Mark had been born, then? They’d never talked about that, either. She made an estimate, working on the theory that the previous generation had had their children younger, on the whole. If she’d been twenty-six, for example, when she’d had Mark and he’d been twenty-seven when she died in 1999, she would have been born in 1946. God, if that was right, she’d died far too young – she’d only be sixty-six if she were alive now. Hannah entered 1946 with a range of five years on either side. She hit return and waited. No results found.
Before We Met: A Novel Page 24