The Suspects

by Katharine Johnson

  I flinched as he reached out towards me. He laughed.

  “You see? You’re so neurotic. And Xanthe’s so ditsy, Stuart’s a pompous prick – and don’t get me started on Zak. Why are you all still here? You don’t even like each other.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Imogen’s the only one who actually cares about this house. But from what I’ve heard everything she suggests gets ignored. If any of you had troubled to ask her she’d explain why it’s so important for her to create a happy home, like the one she remembered as a child before she found it was all a sham.”

  It was news to me, but it made me realise that we didn’t know that much about Imogen. She’d always seemed the uncomplicated one – sorted, stable. It hadn’t seriously occurred to me that she might have problems other than her paranoia about catching Aids which wasn’t that unusual at the time. But still, whatever it was, it was Imogen’s story and I didn’t see why Rick should be the one telling me it.

  He grabbed my wrist. He was holding it more tightly than anyone would think necessary. “Come on. What are you afraid of, Emily?”

  “I’m not.”

  I yanked my hand free from his and retreated towards the phone in the hall.

  He laughed. “You are. Why do I get the firm impression you’ve been working on Imogen, trying to put her off me? What have you got against me being here?”

  “Nothing. We haven’t said anything.”

  “Good because it won’t work.”

  I turned to go again.

  “Is it my imagination or have you put on weight?”

  I ignored him.

  “You’re all so close,” he said suspiciously. “There’s something unnatural about it.”

  “Sorry?”

  I looked at his fingers drumming on the basement door, looked down the steps and back at me. I felt skewered by his stare.

  “There’s something you’ve done, all of you, some collective guilt. Don’t try and deny it. You forget what I do for a living. I’m a lawyer – I can sense these things. You’re all covering for each other in some way. I will find out. And I’ll make you pay.”

  “Don’t threaten me,” I said as coolly as I could, but my heart was thumping as I walked away. With the help of my chest of drawers I barricaded myself into my room that night but even so I didn’t sleep much.

  ***

  “Rick knows,” I said when the others were back. “He knows about Bob.”

  “Calm down,” said Stuart. “Why do you think that? What have you told him?”

  “Nothing.”

  I told him what Rick had said and the feeling I’d had about him in the basement.

  “He was trying to get me to say something, I’m sure he was. He thinks we killed Bob. Or he killed Bob and is testing to find out whether we know. Either way, I didn’t feel safe.”

  Stuart seemed most concerned about Rick having a key. “We never agreed to that. I’ll speak to Imogen about it.”

  “We have to tell her about Bob,” I said. “That’s if she doesn’t already know. We can’t let her carry on oblivious, sharing a bed with Rick. Not if he’s dangerous.”

  Stuart caught my arm. “No. We can hardly ask him how much he knows without telling him more. And we’ve no evidence it was him who killed Bob or even that he knows anything. You can’t base a theory on the fact someone’s obnoxious. And Imogen trusts him. For now, we should too.”

  “I’d trust him as far as I could throw him,” muttered Zak.

  But Stuart had a point. We didn’t say anything to Imogen. She already knew we didn’t like Rick and she’d told us he liked her less when she was with us.

  ***

  At work a few days later we saw Xanthe heading in the direction of Donald’s office half way through the morning. She rolled her eyes as she passed my desk and I assumed it was some minor problem. The blinds in his glass-walled room were down and the door shut but you could hear Donald’s ranting tones even if the words were indistinguishable from across the open plan office.

  Stuart sat up like a meerkat. Zak, in the corner, looked up from under his brows and caught my gaze. Imogen busied herself gathering some pages and took them over to the photocopier outside the publisher’s office. I saw her take a step back as Xanthe came out, pink-faced and holding back tears.

  Xanthe was escorted to her desk. Donald stood over her as she collected her belongings without making eye contact with any of us and disappeared out of the door leaving a long, powerful silence trailing in her wake. We all joined Imogen at the photocopier where she confirmed by drawing a finger across her throat that Xanthe would not be coming back.

  “No warning?” said Stuart. “That’s against procedure. She can sue them for that.”

  Imogen shook her head. “There are some things you don’t even get warnings for. She was up to her silly tricks with the false names. This time someone spotted it.”

  I closed my eyes. Xanthe had often inserted silly names for people who were prepared to comment as long as they weren’t identified. Imogen was fuming. “I can’t believe she even tried to get away with R Soul, Dick Head and Hugh Janus all in the same issue. She must have a death wish or something.”

  Zak broke into a grin. “It actually went into print? Oh shit.”

  “It’s already been spotted by a couple of major advertisers,” said Imogen. “They’ve pulled out and are placing all their ads for the year with the competitor journal but that won’t be the end of it – they’ll sue the company. It’s made them a laughing stock. Donald had no choice but to fire her on the spot.”

  “But what’s she going to do?” I said. “There aren’t any other jobs around – they all say you need two years’ experience.”

  “More to the point, how’s she going to pay her share of the mortgage?” asked Zak.

  The full impact dawned on us.

  Stuart gripped the stair rail by the photocopier. “We’ll have to get them to change their mind. Granted it was silly, infantile behaviour but she’s only a trainee. Ultimately, she shouldn’t have to shoulder the responsibility. Someone should have spotted the names before the pages went off. They must have been first- and second-read. We can’t let them get away with this.”

  “They already have, Stuart,” said Imogen.

  He didn’t listen. “Come on, let’s go and see Mr Renton.”

  But if anything, we made it worse. The Chairman let us know in no uncertain terms that not only did Xanthe not stand a cat in hell’s chance of coming back, he would also be calling in the money she owed the company for her share of the top-up loan.

  “Well that’s going to be impossible if she’s unemployed,” pointed out Zak.

  “In which case, if you care to read the agreement you’ll see that you’re all jointly responsible for the money owing,” said Mr Renton. “I’ll have a word with Accounts and make sure your salaries are adjusted accordingly.”

  “Wait, hang on, this isn’t fair,” began Stuart but Mr Renton waved his arm and looked down at his paperwork signalling he had things to do – more important things than considering the future of a bunch of immature trainees.

  We thought about staging a walk-out, refusing to come back unless Xanthe was reinstated but after taking advice from the union we had to concede the idea stood very little chance of success and was most likely to result in the four of us being thrown out too.

  “Why didn’t she think?” Imogen asked as we drove home later.

  She stopped the car on the way and bought Xanthe some flowers and a box of chocolates although it was doubtful they’d do much to lift her mood. As we opened the door the house shook with the sound of her James CD playing at full blast. We called her name several times on the way up the stairs, but she didn’t respond. Worried she might have done something silly we opened the door anyway and found her curled into a ball on her bed, the floor strewn with balled-up tissues that had missed the bin. We finally coaxed her downstairs, but she wouldn’t talk. She spent all evening on the
sofa with her head buried in Zak’s shoulder leaving snail trails all over his shirt.

  It felt strange getting up for work the next day without Xanthe. She was always hanging about the kitchen in the mornings and we normally chatted about the day ahead, but she was nowhere to be seen and her car stood in the drive. We took the bus into work and back again. The 2CV stood outside the house.

  We knocked on her door and persuaded her to come out to see Field of Dreams with us and although it was the worst film I’d ever seen we had a good evening laughing about it but afterwards she retreated again.

  ***

  The next few weeks were a nightmare. We were all cutting back as much as we could as it was, living off pot noodles and value sliced bread but it was still a struggle. When my editor airily told me to pay for my train ticket to Durham and “just pop it on expenses” he probably had no idea that meant not eating for days except for the odd chocolate bar. Sometimes I look back now and wonder how we functioned.

  Stuart started to get twitchy about Xanthe using the electricity and the heating during the day when we were out. Imogen had flown into mother hen mood immediately after the firing, circling ads in the newspaper and spotting cards in shop windows. “Dog walker? Nanny? Catering assistant? Barmaid?”

  But each suggestion brought tears of frustration from Xanthe and comments like, “I thought I was finally getting somewhere, doing something I was good at.”

  We felt bad asking Xanthe if she’d mind tidying up downstairs or cleaning the kitchen during the day, putting on some washing or cleaning the bathroom and she never thought to do these things herself. After another trip to the job centre she said it was all a waste of time and she’d prefer to work freelance. She’d met some Swedish PR man at a trade fair who said he might be able to get her some work doing their brochures and there was an environmental magazine that had just started up and was looking for freelancers. Which was all very well but as Zak pointed out, even if she got a commission the following day she wouldn’t get paid for at least three months.

  At the end of the month she still hadn’t received her first unemployment benefit and got weepy when asked for a contribution for the water rates.

  “She can’t keep sponging off us,” Imogen said, fuming.

  So, it came as a surprise when Xanthe bought herself a new jacket just after Stuart had subbed her for a pizza. It was a thing of beauty – we’d admired it several times in a shop window as we’d passed. It cost nearly a month’s salary and was hardly a necessity.

  When questioned Xanthe said it was a gift from her sister – it was news to us she even had one – but Imogen said if her sister wanted to help her out she should pay us back some of the money Xanthe owed.

  The upshot was that Xanthe retreated more into herself which made us all feel bad. We thought at least her mortgage payments would be taken care of now she was unemployed, but it turned out things weren’t as simple as we’d thought.

  “It takes weeks before they step in,” she said after coming back from the DHSS, “and then they only pay a quarter, then half and then eventually all of it.”

  Imogen was incandescent. “We can’t wait that long. If we do, we’ll default on the mortgage and the house will be repossessed.”

  When the phone bill came in it was obvious that Xanthe had spent many hours on long-distance calls to Erik. She said it was nothing serious but I couldn’t help wondering if she’d disappear to Sweden one day. We couldn’t risk losing the house but we couldn’t afford to pay Xanthe’s share of the mortgage and bills either. When would we be able to move on from this? It was like being stuck in an unhappy marriage without the advantages.

  ***

  After long conversations with her boyfriend Imogen came up with a solution.

  “Rick says he’ll buy your share of the house.”

  Perhaps I should have seen it coming but the idea of Rick moving in filled me with horror. From the looks on their faces the other three felt the same. Xanthe was aggravating sometimes but compared to Rick she was a joy to live with.

  If he had a share in the house he’d have a say in how we did things which would have been unwelcome at the best of times – but with the Bob situation the very last thing we needed was Rick nosing around while a disgruntled Xanthe waited outside to spring her revenge.

  “That’s if I want to sell,” said Xanthe.

  “You can’t expect us to carry you forever.”

  I could see Xanthe shrink. “How much?” she asked at last.

  Imogen’s tone was cool and reasonable. “We can’t give you any money for it – your share’s not worth anything now that house prices have come down. But you’ll get your deposit back. And it will free you up to move on somewhere else, make a new start.”

  “Er – that would be my deposit,” Stuart murmured.

  Xanthe looked from one to the other, her eyes huge and desperate. “You can’t just take it off me.”

  Imogen sighed. “The house is worth less than we paid for it. Rick would be taking on the debt. We’re actually being quite generous.”

  “In that case I’m not selling.”

  But Imogen’s voice took on a steely tone. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice. Sorry but we can’t put the house at risk by defaulting on the payments.”

  We looked at each other.

  “Hold on a minute,” said Zak. “You can’t make a decision like that without our agreement. The house belongs to all of us. And I don’t agree.”

  Imogen rolled her eyes. “You wouldn’t. Are you saying you have a problem with Xanthe giving up her share or Rick having it? Because at least you know him. It’s not like a stranger coming in. And he’s away in London most of the week. We’ve got to do something about it and it’s going to be pretty difficult to find someone else who’s willing to buy a fifth of a house, isn’t it?”

  “Especially this one,” said Rick. I thought I saw a look of triumph flash through his eyes.

  But Stuart refused too. “It’s nothing personal but if Xanthe sells – or even gives – her share to Rick that in effect gives you two votes instead of one for every decision we make, which isn’t democratic.”

  Imogen clutched her head. “Not this again.”

  “I’m not selling,” repeated Xanthe.

  What is it you're afraid of?"asked Rick. The look he gave me sent a shiver right through me. “If you have a problem with me taking on Xanthe's share, why don't you all buy out Imogen's share instead so she and I can buy somewhere of our own?”

  His expression dared us to come out and say the reason we couldn't sell the house.

  “Or let Rick and I have your shares - then you'll be free to go wherever you like,” said Imogen.

  The idea was attractive in a way. I could ditch the job and start a new life somewhere else, miles from Bristol and Bob. Zak could travel and do charity work and join environmental campaigns, and Stuart would be in with a chance of getting a job on a national paper if he moved to London.

  But when I thought about it, it just wasn’t fair. We couldn’t leave Imogen there in the house that had been a tomb – especially if Rick was dangerous. What if the police unearthed another clue in the future and came to investigate and she ended up getting blamed for everything?

  “You can’t do this, Imogen,” I said.

  She gave an indignant snort. “What do you mean, can’t? We’re offering you an opportunity you won’t get again.”

  “But think about it – you’d be taking on a massive debt between you and who knows if house prices will ever recover?”

  She smiled. “Please don’t worry on our account — Rick’s not badly paid and prices will recover one day – they always do. These things are cyclical as I’m sure Stuart will tell us. It’s an investment for us. My dad says he’ll help us out.”

  We exchanged looks. Trust her bloody father to interfere.

  “What about the agreement?” I asked feebly. “We said we’d all stay for two years.”

  Rick laughed.
“Did you sign anything? I thought not.”

  “You know what I think this is, Emily?” said Imogen. “Sour grapes. You don’t want to hang onto the house, but you don’t want me and Rick to have it either. You’re like a spoilt child sometimes.”

  Her hand shook with tension as she lit a cigarette.

  “Rick and I want to get engaged. You lot are holding us back.”

  Engaged? It was the first I’d heard of it – although perhaps that wasn’t so surprising given that we’d had other things on our minds.

  “Aren’t you rushing things a bit?” asked Zak.

  Imogen gave him a withering look. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

  He shrugged. “So, get engaged if you want to – we’re not stopping you. But we’re not moving out.”

  She drew on the cigarette and curled her feet up under her. “Why not? You don’t care about the house. None of you understand what it means to me to be able to create a lovely home. I know this place is just bricks and mortar to you – but it could be so much more than that. It’s a beautiful house and it could be a lovely family home one day. I grew up in a house like this in Cheltenham, but we lost it. I don’t mean to lose this one.”

  Her words reminded me of something Rick had said to me on the basement steps that time.

  “You always say I’m materialistic, but it has nothing to do with money – and as it happens I do know what it’s like to have nothing.”

  Her outburst took us all by surprise.

  “Christmas 1983. Everything was normal – perfect, actually. I remember looking around and asking myself if it was too perfect. And then telling myself it wasn’t. My dad had taken a few days off. We did all the things we used to do as children like picking out our tree from the forest and bringing it home. Hanging stockings up by the fire.

  “My dad gave Mum a pair of earrings. We’d all known about them for weeks – we helped him choose. God, I was so excited waiting for her to open the box. The look in her eyes when she saw them...

  “I got a Human League album, some makeup and a Swatch watch with different coloured straps. My sister had a Care Bear.”