All These Perfect Strangers (18 page)

‘But still an accident,' Marcus insisted. ‘An unfortunate accident.'

‘We need to know where she got the drugs from. She was carrying a substantial amount in her bag. More than you would expect for personal use alone.'

Marcus pursed his lips, pushed back his chair and stood up. He moved towards the window, looking out towards the garden once more. Everything was ordered, clipped and neat, but the colours had gone, the rose bushes reduced to grey, spindly sticks. Marcus inspected this, before turning back. He made an elaborate show of his reluctance.

‘I had hoped this was unnecessary, but perhaps it is for the best. Ms Brough has been warned twice this year already for drug use at college.' He picked up the folder that had been sitting on his desk. It looked brand new.

‘Minor matters,' he continued, ‘but I take these issues very seriously. Try to nip things in the bud. Counselling offered, but refused. Ms Brough in fact denied involvement, despite all indications being to the contrary.'

‘You didn't think to inform the police?' the constable asked, her cool stare moving from Rogan onto Marcus.

‘Too minor, I assure you.' Marcus gave his answer to the sergeant as if they could sort this out amongst themselves. ‘But Ms Brough was told that if any other evidence came forward of her drug taking or related activities, I would have no other course open to me but to put these matters in the hands of the authorities and expel her. I personally warned her of this.'

The policewoman wrote something in her notebook. ‘Do you believe she was selling drugs?'

There was the slightest flick of an eyebrow from Marcus, echoed in a tilt of the head from Rogan.

‘Unfortunately, yes,' he said, not even looking at the constable. ‘One did hear rumours. Nothing substantial and certainly no evidence presented, but rumours, yes.'

Rogan nodded his head in agreement, but he refused to look anyone in the eye and stared at his feet.

‘An unfortunate end to a rather unhappy young woman,' Marcus continued. He sat on his chair again, put down the file and took off his glasses. ‘I won't go through all the details,' he went on. ‘But there had been several violent altercations with fellow students, one at the end of our Academic Night and even last night, another, I understand. Is that not so, Ms Sheppard?'

Surprised to hear my name, I could only look at him dumbly and slowly nod my head, feeling as though I was participating in someone else's cover-up. But at the same time I had to marvel at how he was doing this. This was how you lied. Tell enough of the truth until it all binds together and becomes too difficult to pull apart. Spinning straw into gold.

‘Considerable mental health issues in her past. I think I can best sum her up as troubled. Indeed, when I heard of this accident, my initial thought was that perhaps, knowing that there would have to be further sanctions because of her behaviour, that she might have . . .'

Marcus didn't finish his sentence but merely let it float there. Then, to distance himself from his own suggestion, he looked down and flicked through another couple of pages on the file.

‘You think this was suicide?' the constable asked, her eyes narrowed.

Marcus gestured dismissively. ‘Forget I mentioned it. I'm sure it was purely an accident.'

‘Do you have the details of any doctor treating her?' asked the sergeant. Unlike the constable, he didn't seem too concerned. ‘We'll need that for our report to the coroner.'

‘I'm expecting her parents shortly. I can ask them for you.'

‘That's fine. We'll have to talk to them as well,' the constable said.

Marcus shook his head. ‘Spoke to them early this morning. Shocked, as you would expect. Only child. They live about four hours west of here. Small country town. Said they'd drive here straight away.'

At the thought of her parents I felt a wave of guilt so strong that it swept away comprehension of what was being said.

‘Just one last question, Joshua,' the constable said. ‘Why were you down by the river? That's not the quickest way back to college.'

I hadn't expected this and blankly turned to Rogan. He was surprised as well. ‘We just left by the back way. More privacy, I guess.' He gave a forced smile and put his arm around my shoulder, gripping too tight.

‘So sorry you should have been troubled by this sad event.' Marcus stood up. ‘I know you must be very busy.'

‘Over-worked and under-paid,' said the sergeant. ‘But I think that's everything. We're unlikely to need to trouble you again.'

As Marcus shook hands with the sergeant, the constable stopped at my chair and handed me a piece of paper. ‘That's my number in case you remember anything. I really am sorry about your friend.'

It was her genuine concern that nearly got me. I almost told her everything. She hesitated, as if knowing I had something more to say, but all I stammered was, ‘I'm really sorry too.' The most truthful thing that had been said in this room.

The sergeant signalled to her and she moved away, both following Marcus out. As the door shut, Rogan took a couple of deep breaths.

‘Why do you think she gave you her phone number? Do you think she believed us?' He looked at me as if it was my fault. ‘I mean, he did, I'm just not sure about her. Still, I'm glad that's over.' His voice wobbled. ‘Never had to talk to police before. Kinda freaked me out.'

Straightening, he stood up and stretched, walked over to the window and pretended to look outside. Starting to relax, he began turning back into the handsome stranger I had watched from across the room at the start of the year. He looked so relieved I was tempted to let everything be, but I just couldn't. Talking in a low voice to make sure we couldn't be overheard, I asked, ‘What was that all about?'

‘What do you mean?' He made an exaggeratedly puzzled look, mouth pulled down, shoulders raised.

‘Rachel didn't deal drugs. She didn't receive warnings about drugs.' I almost started laughing, partly in relief that the interview was over, but also because it was ridiculous.

‘What would you know about anything?' His voice hardened.

‘I know . . . I mean, I knew Rachel.'

‘Really? How well? Did you know that she grew up in some rural backwater or were you under the impression that she spent most of her time living in New York? That her diplomat mother is actually a part-time cleaner? Marcus made quite a few discoveries when he spoke to them this morning. She was a mental case. You said it yourself, a liar. That phoney American accent she put on. Smacking Joad. What about those scars on her wrists? Fucking crazy.'

He turned away from me, furious now. I tried to mentally unravel what he was saying. I might have called Rachel a liar but it was the truth that I had been worried about.

‘You heard what the police said. A walking pharmacy. She overdosed. She died. End of story. Pretty simple. No need for anyone to make it more complicated.'

He had moved across the room, until quite by accident, he was standing between me and the picture. The sun threw up strange shadows, and for one moment, I had the sensation that the boy who had been lying down, was now standing there alive and menacing. Maybe I had been wrong about the boy. Maybe he was someone to be scared of.

Rogan looked at his watch. ‘I'm getting out of here. Going away for the weekend. Away from this fucking place.'

He left me standing there as abruptly as he had the night before at the bar. Except this time there was no jukebox and he wasn't with Rachel.

Everywhere I look, thoroughbreds are lunging for lines, noses out, tails flying, muscles rippling in their flanks. One horse has all four hooves off the ground, the jockey on his back about to vault over the head. Another is a tightly cropped headshot, showing a luxurious mane, long narrowed face and a pair of enormous flared nostrils. It reminds me of Emelia. I am surrounded by winners, which is the way Bob likes it, even if most of the pictures, faded and sun-damaged, are of races held before I was born.

Sitting here in my lawyer's reception area, I realise that my life is a purgatory of waiting rooms and file notes. There's Frank's file, police files, my student file and now Bob's one, buried somewhere in his office, a combination of scribbled words on coffee-cup-ringed paper and the official sort, demanding money. If I disappeared tomorrow all these files would still exist, purporting to be a record of me. Another reason to write my own version. The true account. While I think about this, I stare up at Bob's favourite photograph, which has pride of place behind the desk of his secretary, Jan.

‘Smooth Criminal edging out Ruffian and Copperfield in a photo finish.' Bob wanders in. ‘Who says crime doesn't pay?' He strides off. ‘Well, hurry up,' he calls over his shoulder, ‘we've had a response.' Bob is full of short bursts of small-man aggression.

‘Robert J. Cochrane – Barrister & Solicitor' is painted in old-fashioned gold lettering on the door, but everyone calls him Bob. His office is on the first floor, above the stock feed agents in the main street. Bob was a day boy at the posh boarding school on the outskirts of town. Today he is wearing his old school tie.

I follow his billiard-ball head down a corridor of postmortem grey into a room covered in an avalanche of beige files and lever arch folders. The only splash of colour is an advertisement for the upcoming Cherry Blossom Races –
Get Your Backside Trackside
– with a picture of a jockey whipping his horse so hard the hand blurs.

Bob looks as if he wants a whip because he can't find my file and begins barking for Jan. He sounds like the terrier on Tracey's farm. Nipper had no fear and would take on mongrels twice his size. Then he started on the sheep. Tracey loved that dog but she was a country kid, she knew the score.
‘Chained up all day, that's no life for anyone. Better to be dead,'
she told me when I asked her about what happened. I didn't find out until much later that her father had made her shoot Nipper.
‘Your dog, your responsibility,'
he told her.

A taste for blood is bad in a dog, but it makes for a good lawyer.

Jan sticks her head round the door, waving the file in her hand. ‘You left it on my desk this morning.'

Jan makes up for the corpse-like colour scheme by wearing lime-green pedal-pushers and bright dangling earrings in the shape of parrots. She has been Bob's secretary for years. ‘Saw Mum at the hairdresser's,' she says to me. ‘How's the perm going?'

‘She hates it.'

‘Dries your hair out something shockin‘. I said, Shirl, lover boy will leave town and you'll be left looking like you stuck your finger in the electricity socket.' Jan gives a gum-showing grin. Efficient and precise about her work, she paddles her make-up on thick. Late on summer afternoons, her face resembles melted wax.

‘Out you go, Janice,' Bob interjects. ‘Important business to discuss.'

‘Hair's important too, for those of us that have it,' is her parting shot before closing the door.

Bob laughs like a car back-firing and then begins reading the letter to me. It is full of careful words; ‘not accepting liability,' and, ‘money given as a goodwill gesture.'

‘They've made an offer,' says Bob.

‘That's good. How much?'

‘Piss-off money. I've already rejected it.'

I start protesting but he keeps on talking. ‘They've already given money for the shrink, which implies you've incurred pain and suffering for which they are responsible or they wouldn't have paid for it.' He throws the file on top of a tower of paper which threatens to topple. ‘Rule One of being a lawyer: find the weakness, apply the pressure. I've already sent them Frank's report.'

I've probably heard about five different Rule Ones in the time I've known Bob. The first one was three years ago when I was arrested, sitting in a police interview room because they didn't want to put a minor in a holding cell. I knew Tracey was in the room next to me, because I could hear her father's voice through the wall. Shouting at the police or at her, I couldn't tell. When Bob strutted through the door, ready for a fight, he told my mother that Rule One was ‘never take on a client who can't pay', and he pocketed her pay packet right there in the room as his retainer. I tried to talk to him, to tell him what had happened but he held up his hand. ‘Rule Two,' he went on, ‘is to know when to shut up and listen to your lawyer. A policeman has been murdered. You're lucky to be in here and not strung up from the nearest tree. They will stop at nothing to get a conviction. No sob story is going to make the slightest difference, especially one with no corroborating evidence. Tracey's fingerprints and DNA are all over the car. No matter what you say, she is going down for it. You were with her that night, but we can still save you, though only if you listen to me.'

I blink away the memory.

Bob is talking about the responses he has had from all the parties we are suing but I don't pay close attention. I'm a digger looking for a lucky strike. I don't really care who pays up as long as someone does.

‘Now we've got the report from Frank saying you are a basket case due to their negligence, we'll see a proper offer,' says Bob. ‘But their own quack wants to assess you.'

That must have been in the letter.

Frowning, I say, ‘I'm not even sure I want to keep seeing Frank now that we've got the report.'

‘It adds to the overall picture,' says Bob. ‘You don't have to see him every day. Just make the odd appearance so we can say you remain in treatment. You'll have to look the part as well. Scar's impressive. Make sure you wear your hair off your forehead so the doctor can get a good look. No make-up covering it either. And your clothes, none of this rubbish.' He returns the frown, looking at my Doc Martens. ‘How about that lovely frock you wore last time? Made you look like Little Miss Muffet. They'll want to see how you'll present in court. Not that we will get that far.'