by Marcia Woolf
“Miss Bronski. That’s not your real name, is it?”
I swallowed and tried to stay calm. The second hand on the clock seemed to be slowing.
“What makes you say that?”
“A friend.”
“I think your friend is mistaken.” Keep playing for time. One minute.
“Does the name James Lloyd mean anything to you, Miss Bronski?”
So I’d been right. Obviously, I’d been over-optimistic about my technique for giving him the slip.
“I’ve heard of him. Isn’t he an author?”
Nilsson smirked.
“He’s an investigative journalist. A very good friend of mine.”
It was now thirty seconds past midday. So much for leaving the building before the shit hit the fan. At this rate, I was going to be the fan. Over his shoulder I could see Lucy take a step closer.
“And your point is?”
“He knows where you went. He knows who you are, Miss Garrity. What you are.”
One minute past twelve.
“Then you’ll know why I used a different name to get a job here.”
“I don’t like dishonesty, Miss Garrity; deception. They’re ugly words.”
“You’ve not been particularly honest, have you?”
He gave me one of his job-lot smiles. “Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire.”
“So you had me followed? You knew who I was before I came back from Chicago. Why didn’t you say anything then?”
Nearly two minutes past twelve. Where the hell are you, Ollie? Where’s the fucking cavalry when you need it?
“Because I wanted to know why you were here, what you were looking for. I must say, the British police use some very unorthodox methods, if they employ a criminal like you...”
I glanced up again and Lucy had moved even closer. Nilsson was waiting for an answer, an explanation. What he got was Lucy, leaping forward and pulling both his arms behind his back in what looked like an expert arrest move. Simultaneously, there was a thud and a shout, the double doors into the office banged open and within seconds the place was full of uniforms. I heard a lot of yelling and two armed officers went round the floor rounding up anyone unlucky enough to be in the office. Ollie emerged from the chaos and strolled over.
“I thought you’d been told to get out of here.”
“I thought you’d got lost on the way. What time d’you call this?”
Nilsson was furious. Lucy still had him in an armlock. Ollie nodded to her.
“It’s okay, Miss Carswell, you can let him go; he’s not going to do a runner.”
“Miss Carswell?” I asked.
Ollie shrugged.
“Miss Carswell? What the – you mean she’s not Lucy Fleming?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll explain later.”
I turned to Lucy, who just stood there, impassively, like a clockwork dummy waiting for orders.
“Miss Carswell?”
After a second or two she cleared her throat and spoke, as if we were a pair of debs being introduced at a garden party.
“Miss Garrity.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tuesday 2nd December (cont.)
Questions and Answers
“When did you know about this?” I hissed at Ollie as we stood outside the station.
“What? About Carswell?”
“No, about Donald Duck. Of course fucking Carswell. Well, when?”
“If you must know,” he said, stamping his feet against the cold, “About two and a half hours ago.”
“What?”
“We’re not supposed to be discussing the case, okay? Wait here while I go inside and see what’s taking so long.”
He beckoned over a young PC who came and took hold of my arm. I didn’t bother trying to pull it away. Ollie stomped off into the station, pushing his way through the crowd queueing to get inside, and disappeared indoors. The raid had resulted in everyone who’d been in the CBIB offices – about nine of us – and all the computers and stacks of boxes of files, being dumped unceremoniously on the steps, while some poor desk sergeant and his team tried to process everyone and everything into the building. Because Ollie had brought me back with him in a squad car, I was right at the back of the line. It was about minus two in the shade, which is where we were standing, of course. A thin veneer of frost still clung to the tarmac even though it was one in the afternoon. The young plod smiled at me.
“We’ll get you a cup of tea when we get indoors,” he said, cheerily.
“Lovely,” I said.
He squinted at me.
“Seen you before,” he said.
“You don’t say?”
“You in that programme on the telly? The one with the two Irish guys?”
Unbelievable.
“No. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“You know. The Alphabet Game.”
He grinned again, like he’d got me bang to rights. Yes, that’s her all right, that bird off the telly. Fortunately, before he could ask for my autograph, Ollie came bounding back down the steps and indicated that I should follow him into the station. The uniform let go, rather reluctantly I thought, and I trotted off, glad to be out of the cold.
“In here. Sit down and I’ll be back in a minute. “
I waited. I waited a bit more. It wasn’t much warmer in the interview room than it had been outside, and I was getting pretty fed up by the time Ollie returned with two other officers: a stern-looking woman about my age, and a middle-aged guy with a paunch and a nervous tic.
“DC Sellafield here will take your statement,” said Ollie. “I can’t take your statement, obviously,” he added.
He left the room and the other two officers sat down opposite me across the ubiquitous Formica table.
“Did I hear him right?” I asked, “DC Sellafield?”
“Yes,” she said, curtly.
I turned to the other officer, whose nervous tic was making him raise his right eyebrow in a way that very nearly made me laugh, except I didn’t fancy getting on the wrong side of Sellafield who looked perfectly capable of living up to her name and going all nuclear on me.
They asked me a lot of questions. A lot. Santa Claus had given Sellafield the Big Book of Questions for Nosy Girls and she was determined to make good use of it. After about an hour I think even Nervous Tic was getting a bit depressed by it all, and we took a break for about ten minutes. Then Ollie came back in, with my one-man fan club for backup.
“You’re not supposed to talk to me,” I said.
“I’ve been listening in,” he said, pointing to the two-way mirror.
“And?”
“I just wanted to say, about Carswell, I honestly didn’t know, okay? I’m sorry you thought I was lying.”
“So who is she, then?”
“I can’t tell you. You’ll find out soon enough.”
He went towards the door.
“Ollie?”
“What?”
“You know, we have to stop meeting like this.”
He laughed, shook his head, and left the room with the young officer, bemused, following.
About four hours later they let me go home. The flat was cold and dark and the monitor lights on the security system were blinking on and off. A power cut. There was a card on the mat from the electricity company saying they were working on the problem and they hoped to get the lights back on within an hour. The card had a little clock face on it, and the hands had been drawn on in marker pen to show the time it had been posted. 2.15pm. Bloody optimists. I could just about make out the shelf where we kept candles, and managed to light a couple. Through the window I noticed that there was still some snow lying in the square; dirty patches of grey-white in corners of the walkway where nobody ever trod. On the balcony of a nearby flat there was a Christmas tree, not quite perpendicular, silhouetted against the orange-indigo of the city skyline, its fairy lights thwarted by the power cut gremlins. I’d hardly given a th
ought to Christmas. It was everywhere, of course, in its full jingly-belled tinselly-tat go-on-force-yourself merriness. I sat down. Even the fake fire had given up on me.
After a few minutes I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself and look at the positives. At least I wouldn’t have to go to work in the morning, so that was a start. I felt around in the gloom and found a bottle of whisky and a glass, and poured quite a large drink. In the light of the candles even I could see it was actually a good deal larger than was good for me. Jesus, I thought. I really am turning into Shirley. I have to get on top of this.
I was wondering what to do next when there was a knock on the door. Anybody could have come up the stairs: the intercom buzzer wasn’t working. Thinking it was some apparatchik from the electricity company, I opened it a few inches and peered out into the darkened hallway. A tall figure in a dark coat was blocking out what little illumination there was from the emergency lamps. Then a familiar voice.
“Cookie! What are you doing here in the dark?”
“Dirk! I thought you’d gone back to Chicago?”
I opened the door wider and he came in, feeling for the hall table so as not to crack his knee. He followed me into the sitting room.
“What’s going on? Is all the power off?”
“The whole building. It must have been off since about two o’clock. Sorry, it’s really cold in here.”
He accepted my offer of a whisky and we sat huddled together for warmth on the sofa. After a while he said, “This is crazy. We should go out to eat. If the power stays off, we can get you a room at the hotel.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Claridges.”
“I’ll think about it.”
He laughed. Then he said, “I want to talk to you about something.”
“Okay. What is it?”
He drew himself away so that I was obliged to look up, and his face was deadly serious, even in the half-light of two thin candles.
“It’s about Hayden.”
A wave of nausea washed over me; my whole body instantly colder, even in the bone-chilling cold of the empty flat.
“What about him?”
“I want you to tell me what happened the night he died.”
I shook myself free and stood up.
“Why? You already know what happened.”
“I know what you told the police. I know what Jack said happened. I know what Shirley said. But I don’t believe it.”
“Don’t be stupid. I don’t know what you’re talking about. It was an accident.”
“Tell me, Cookie. Tell me the truth. There’s only you and me here in this room. No-one else will ever know. Hayden was my friend, my partner. He was the best friend I ever had. He was a good man, and I miss him.”
“Why are you saying this? It was an accident.”
“Tell me.”
“You know all there is to know already.”
He pursed his lips, so I began to recite, like telling a bedtime story to a child who’s heard it a hundred times before.
“It was St Patrick’s Day, 17th March. My father – Hayden – always gave all the staff the day off. It was traditional: Papa Houlihan started it, and every year it carried on. It was the one day of the year when the family stayed home and made their own meal and took care of themselves. I cooked the dinner that year, because Shirley was too drunk. More drunk than usual. After the meal, I went to my room and Jack was downstairs, watching TV. Hayden was in the library, working, reading – whatever he did in there. Around eight o’clock I could hear shouting. I thought it was the TV, and I came out onto the landing to tell Jack to cut the noise, but then I realised it was Shirley and Hayden having a fight. It went on for a long time. I wanted to ignore it, but Shirley was screaming and then I heard something hitting the wall, like a vase or a glass breaking. Jack had come out of the TV room and we stood together outside the library and we were frightened. I said to Jack that we had to go in and try to stop them. I went in first, and I could see that Shirley was really raging drunk – she could hardly stay upright. I don’t know why, but Hayden was standing up on the library steps, high up on the top one. Shirley was shouting at him to come down, but he seemed to be looking for something. He reached up, like he wanted to take a book off the shelf, but…”
“What?”
“But he overstretched, and lost his balance. He fell, head first. Just straight down, like he’d been shot. It was weird. He just – plummeted – and struck his head on the corner of the fireplace. That big old marble fireplace that Papa Houlihan was so proud of. And there was a noise – a crack – he sort of groaned, and rolled face down onto the rug.”
Dirk let out a sob. He’d heard it before, almost word for word. It was what I’d told the police when they came, and found Hayden lying there and Shirley, staring at him, catatonic.
“Then I went over to him, and – I didn’t know, but I was pretty certain – he wasn’t moving or breathing. Jack didn’t do anything. He sort of froze. Shirley stopped screaming and just stood there, rooted to the spot. I dialled 911.”
Dirk breathed out, shakily. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. I waited.
“Now,” he said, “tell me what really happened.”
“Jesus, Dirk! What are you talking about? That is what really happened! I know it was difficult for you, for all of us. It was sudden and it was horrible but it was an accident.” I couldn’t see his face clearly but I could hear Dirk’s breathing start to even out. I wasn’t sure if he was angry. He stayed sitting very still. The room was like ice. I was shaking, but only partly from the cold. Then I heard a rustling noise from somewhere by the front door, and the footsteps of someone coming in. Dirk couldn’t have closed it properly. We both turned and focused on the shape in the doorway. It was Dora. She'd been waiting outside, listening.
“Miss Charlotte? Mr Dirk? I can’t see you too well in this dark.”
“We’re here, Dora. Come over towards the candles.”
She shuffled cautiously closer to us, hands outstretched to check for obstacles. When she got near enough, she reached out and took hold of my arm.
“Dora, what’s going on?”
Dirk said, “Tell her, Dora. About the night Hayden died.”
She cleared her throat.
“That evening, Miss Charlotte, I know all us staff was meant to be out enjoying our St Patrick’s Day, but you know, I got halfway through my meal and I began to feel sick. I had a real bad head, and I said to the others that I was going back to the house for an early night.”
I began to shake even more violently now, with the cold, and the dread of what was coming.
“I got home just around nine o’clock, and came in the back way same as usual. I was planning on heading up to my room, but then I heard Miss Shirley shouting and hollering and going on some, and I walked along to the lobby and I saw the light was on in the library, so I was about to knock on the door and ask if Miss Shirley was all right, when I heard something that stopped me right there in my tracks.”
“The door was closed,” I said, “but go on.”
“The door was closed, Miss Charlotte, but I know what I heard. Miss Shirley was shouting some bad things about you and Mr Jack, and Mr Garrity was very angry. I could hear him stomping up and down on that wooden floor, his heels banging. I heard him thump his desk so hard.”
“How do you know it was him stomping up and down and thumping the desk? It could have been any of us, Dora. You weren’t in the room.”
“I know it was Mr Garrity. I’ve given it plenty of thought since that night and I know – I know – because Miss Shirley, she was so drunk: she wasn’t doing no marching. I know it wasn’t you, Miss Charlotte, because you’re too light to make so much noise stamping your little feet. And I know it wasn’t Mr Jack because when that door opened and I went in later, with the police, he wasn’t wearing shoes. He was in his bare feet.”
“So you heard stamping and shouting. And someone banged a desk. I sai
d all of that. They were arguing.”
“You was all arguing, Miss Charlotte. Not just Mr and Mrs Garrity. I heard you.”
“Dirk, I don’t know what idea Dora’s put in your head, but this is nonsense.”
He stood up, came over to us and patted Dora on the shoulder.
“Tell her the rest.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” I said.
“No,” said Dirk. “I don’t suppose you do. But I want you to hear it. Dora, carry on.”
She hesitated. He patted again.
“You told me you could do this.”
“Very well. Miss Charlotte, I heard Mr Garrity tell you and Mr Jack that he was disgusted and sick to his stomach about your carrying on – your behaviour – and he was going to do something, he said – I don’t know what he meant exactly. He said he was going to have Mr Jack taken away because he was not right in the head and it was Miss Shirley’s fault. Then there was a lot of shouting and I thought there was some kind of fight going on, and then Mr Jack yelled no, no, over and over again. I was all about to burst in and tell you all to stop but there was a thud – and then Miss Shirley screamed, and I heard you say—”
“That was Hayden falling off the library steps. The thud.”
Dora shook her head.
“No, no, Miss Charlotte. That was no fall from a height. I’ve had time to think about that, too. Then I heard you say—”
Again she hesitated, but Dirk told her to get on with it.
“I heard you say, quite clearly, Miss Charlotte, you said, he’s dead. Then you said to Mr Jack that he should move something – and I heard a kind of dragging noise – and then a bit more, like some furniture being moved. And you said, Jack, we have to tell them it was an accident. That’s when I heard you phone for the police, and I went back down to the kitchen and waited until the police arrived, and I came in through the back way like I just got home and never heard nothing happen.”