Die of Shame (15 page)

‘And I’m sorry, too,’ Knight said. ‘But, there it is.’

‘Catch 22,’ Chall said.

Tanner nodded, nowhere else to go, but she struggled to keep the irritation from her face. She had heard much the same things from Robin Joffe and Christopher Clemence. There was every chance she would hear them again. It was starting to wear very thin. ‘Well, I’d like to say you’ve been a great help, but…’

The woman reached down for her shopping bags.

‘It’s frustrating,’ Chall said. ‘That’s all. The lot of you are spouting all this secrecy and solidarity stuff, refusing to tell us anything, and at the same time you’re all claiming to be her friends.’

Diana Knight looked rather shocked. ‘I told you when we started,’ she said. ‘I barely knew her.’

Walking back up the stairs towards the incident room, Tanner said, ‘Right, one more to go then.’ She looked down at the information provided by Diana Knight before she’d left. A first name and a north London branch of a low-cost supermarket. It was scant, but it would be enough. ‘I’m not putting up with that confidentiality stuff any more, either. We’ll need to go at things a different way next time.’

Chall took the scrap of paper. ‘I’ll find her.’

‘Go and check out this pub as well. If they were all in there every Monday night, someone might remember them. Might at least remember if there was anything interesting going on the night Heather was killed.’

‘It’s as good an idea as any,’ Chall said.

‘I might go and talk to Heather’s father, see if there’s anything in her past that might help.’

They walked up another flight. ‘So, what d’you reckon then?’ Chall asked. ‘Mrs Knight’s tipple.’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Booze? Coke? Uppers? She didn’t look much like an ex-smackhead.’

‘What does an ex-smackhead look like, Dipak?’

‘You know what I mean. Might have been sex, of course. She’s a bit of a MILF…’

Tanner tried to look cross, but the attempt was unconvincing. ‘I’m not sure that what any of them were into once upon a time is very important,’ she said. ‘I’m starting to think the addiction isn’t the issue, but the group is.’

‘Really?’

‘Has to be.’

‘Has to be, meaning you’re sure it is? Or meaning if it isn’t we’ve got bugger all else?’

‘Both,’ Tanner said.

Diana had suggested the restaurant without thinking and regretted it almost immediately. A family run Italian place, at the north end of Upper Street in Islington, it was somewhere she had visited many times with her ex-husband and she had not been there since he left. She had driven past it several times, only to find herself wondering if he ever ate there with the new woman, if she was now welcomed as warmly as Diana had once been. She had consoled herself with vodka or red wine and the thought that her replacement probably favoured somewhere with a more relaxed atmosphere and a younger clientele.

Somewhere she could get a Happy Meal.

She walked in rather nervously, hoping that she would not be greeted by anyone who might remember her. Who might cheerfully ask where her other half was. To her relief, Robin immediately stood up and waved from a booth in the far corner, allowing her to walk quickly across to the table before encountering any staff she recognised.

‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ she said.

Robin drew her into a somewhat stiff embrace, then sat down quickly. ‘Only just got here myself.’

‘Couldn’t find a single yellow.’

‘I was lucky,’ Robin said. He nodded at her. ‘You look nice.’

‘Thank you.’ Diana tried to sound ever so slightly surprised, like someone who had not spent two hours getting ready; swapping dresses and accessories, digging out bags from their velvet wrappings and shoes that had never been worn. Though this was most certainly not a romantic dinner, she had nevertheless relished the effort involved, the rituals of preparation. It had been far too long since she had needed to dress up for anything. Longer still since she’d been complimented for doing so. ‘It’s lovely to be out.’

‘Long overdue,’ Robin said.

‘You’ve scrubbed up rather nicely yourself.’ He was wearing a light grey suit and red spotted tie and, for a moment, she was pleased to think that he had made an effort too. Then she remembered that he had come straight from work. On closer inspection, the suit was one he had worn several times on a Monday night, sitting in the conservatory at Tony’s.

Robin poured sparkling water and for a few minutes they exchanged chit-chat about the difficulties of parking in Islington, of parking almost anywhere, though both agreed that being no more than half an hour’s drive from Barnet or the Royal Free, this was a handy enough location for both of them.

‘Looks a nice place,’ he said. ‘Is this somewhere you’ve been before?’

‘No.’ Diana looked down at her menu. ‘I heard good things about it, that’s all.’

The restaurant was busy, with all but one table occupied: several other couples, a group of middle-aged men near the bar, one large family at a long table in the window. The volume of conversation from fellow diners was politely muted, though; no higher than that of the cod Italian music leaking from a speaker on the corner of the bar. A waiter, who seemed worryingly familiar but barely looked at them, took their order, and after he had deposited bread and olives Robin said, ‘So, how are you doing?’

Diana let out a long sigh and shook her head.

‘You don’t have to…’

She most definitely did have to. ‘No, it’s fine.’ Painful as it was, she was delighted to have been asked, desperate to share her agonies and to revel just a little in them. The few one-sided phone conversations with friends had proved oddly unsatisfactory and, at home, she had found herself ranting at the dogs. ‘Well, I say fine. Bad to worse, actually.’

‘What now?’

‘They’re getting married.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘Bloody hell is right. Unbelievable…’

Robin picked up an olive, watched the oil drip from it. ‘Is this because of the baby?’

‘Oh yes. Whatever else my ex is, he’s stupidly honourable like that. So, the little bitch has got exactly what she wanted, hasn’t she? Got herself pregnant and now she’ll get everything else.’

‘What does Phoebe think?’

Diana laughed. A low, harsh bark. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. One minute she’s screaming at me about this baby, like it’s my fault that she’s going to be replaced in Daddy’s affections, and the next thing I know she’s shopping for a bridesmaid’s dress. Obviously I didn’t hear that from her.’

‘When was the last time you spoke to her?’

The strange glee Diana had felt in venting her rage was gone in an instant as the punch of pain took the breath from her. She tore at the bread and squeezed it. ‘Not since she rang to tell me about the baby. To tell me I’d ruined her life.’ She shook her head and her smile was like a widening crack.

‘You’re all right, though?’ Robin’s question was coded, of course. The same simple code that Tony used at the beginning of every session.
You’re not reaching for the Smirnoff?

‘Yes, I’m all right,’ Diana said. She bit into the compacted chunk of bread. ‘Sorry for ranting on.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘I feel terrible, moaning on about the problems I’m having with my daughter. When… you know. Your son.’

Robin cleared his throat and looked to see if the waiter was anywhere close by.

‘I can’t imagine.’ Diana waited, wondering if this might be the moment for Robin to finally reveal what had happened to his son. The incident that had triggered his own descent. She watched him raise a hand to gain the waiter’s attention. ‘It must be with you every day.’

When Robin turned back to her, he nodded slowly and loosened his tie. He said, ‘I can’t stop thinking about what Heather’s poor father must be going through.’

‘Tall skinny latte for Gunther.’

Chris had forgotten the name he’d given and it took him a few moments before he realised the coffee was for him and sauntered up to collect it. Lying when some spotty girl serving at Starbucks asked for your name was no big deal in anybody’s book, but he couldn’t resist it.

He’d lied about far more important things.

If he were being honest, he’d lied a lot before he’d ever taken drugs, and as part and parcel of the lifestyle that went with scoring and using on a daily basis he’d taken to it like a duck to water. Sometimes he thought it was what he was cut out to do, because even though everyone around him had been bullshitting about one thing or another all the time, he was far and away the best at it. The most creative, at any rate.

He carried his coffee back to the table in the window. From here, he could keep an eye on the entrance to the arcade, watch for the kid arriving.

He took out his phone, logged into the Wi-Fi and scrolled through his Twitter feed. He struggled to take anything in, one eye on the arcade and busy thinking about the last time he’d been sitting where he was now. The two coppers, opposite.

Are you clean at the moment?
 

At the moment. That was what was important, right? A few weeks before, right before the wheels came off, he’d been as messed up as he had been since he’d started recovery, but now he was back on the right track, so sod that dykey detective and her smartarse sidekick. Still struggling, still trying to get settled, but moving forward, at least.

He glanced out of the window. A few faces he recognised, but still no sign of the kid.

Nice enough lad. A computer freak, same as Chris, but nowhere near as good. Seventeen and clearly messed up about coming out, but more importantly, a kid who still lived at home and whose parents were away. He’d mentioned something about a bed being available for a few nights, dropped hints that were as subtle as a sledgehammer in the bollocks. All good with Chris, naturally. All better than good. A house was better than a hostel any day of the week, and a bed was better than a settee, was better than the floor, blah blah blah.

‘There’s PS4 set up on the home cinema too. You know, if you fancy it.’

‘Sounds ace.’

‘We can play all night, if you want.’

The kid wasn’t Chris’s type – too keen and a bit doughy and younger than he liked – but Chris would fuck him if it came to it. If that was what the kid was really after, which Chris presumed it was. He’d do that and make sure the kid had a nice time and he’d happily take the bed that was on offer, but that would be as far as it went. He wouldn’t be nosing around, looking to lift a phone or a watch and sell them for a few quid. He wouldn’t be pocketing any spare cash he found lying around the kid’s house. He wasn’t going back to that.

Are you clean
…
?
 

What happened before Heather was killed had been a what d’you call it, a blip. No more than that. Nobody had ever said recovery was easy and unless you were a nutter about it, like Robin, there were always going to be a few bumps in the road, everyone knew that. A few enormous holes you didn’t see coming.

Like the one Heather had fallen into.

He would lie to the kid, of course. About liking him, about seeing him again, being grateful for the bed, whatever. He couldn’t imagine a day without lying, but that didn’t make him any different from anyone else, did it?

The bankers and the politicians and everyone sitting in that circle round at Tony’s place every Monday. The bloke on the next table and the spotty girl who’d given him his coffee and looked like she’d meant it when she’d told Chris to have a nice day.

Lying to the police, though. That had been stupid, even by his standards. He hadn’t stopped thinking about it, had been worrying ever since because that woman, Tanner, hadn’t looked like an easy touch by any stretch.

He had to try and put it right, but he knew he was going to need help. It was a big ask, but he didn’t have a lot of choice. He couldn’t think of any other way to avoid that big hole.

Chris took another look across at the arcade, then went back to his phone and scrolled quickly through his contacts until he found the one he was after.

He began writing a text to Caroline.

When the plates had been cleared away, Robin said, ‘So, how did it go with the police?’ Nice and casual, as if he were asking if she wanted more water or had room for pudding. He thought he had waited long enough and done more than enough listening, considering this was the reason for asking her to meet for dinner in the first place.

‘It was fine, I think.’

‘Yes?’

‘I wasn’t there very long.’

Robin looked at Diana and found himself wondering if she could possibly think there was any other motive for his invitation. They had eaten lunch together before, but dinner was an altogether different matter. Was there perhaps a hint of romantic interest on her part? He had wondered about it before, that time she’d come to the hospital. There was no question she was an attractive woman and, though he was probably ten years older than she was, they were more or less on the same page.

He smiled at her and dismissed the idea immediately. Had they met at another time, in different circumstances, he might have considered making overtures. It had certainly been long enough since he’d done so. As things stood, though, there was no room in his life for anything that might complicate it. As far as female company went, he was perfectly content with Amber or Suzi or Caprice at £140 an hour.

He said, ‘The woman, was it? Who interviewed you?’

Diana nodded. ‘Her and an Asian bloke. A sergeant or a constable.’

‘Seemed pleasant enough.’

‘Yes, they were. Very interested in what goes on in our sessions, mind you.’

‘I had the same thing,’ Robin said.

‘In the last session, especially.’

‘Because it was the night Heather was killed.’

‘They seem to think it has some bearing on things. On the murder.’

Robin shook his head.

‘I know,’ Diana said. ‘I told them it was ridiculous.’

‘So, what did you tell them?’ Robin looked down at the dessert menu. There was a time when he would have been watching his weight, prone as he was to piling on the pounds, but neither Amber nor Suzi nor Caprice seemed to care a great deal. ‘About the final session.’

Diana looked a little shocked. ‘Well, nothing, obviously. I mean, we’re not supposed to, are we?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘I certainly didn’t go into specifics.’

Robin looked up. ‘I’m not with you.’

‘I told them there was some arguing and what have you, but I didn’t go into any details.’

‘Right.’

‘You know, nothing they couldn’t have worked out for themselves. You’d have to be an idiot to think we sit there every week playing Scrabble, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes, but confidentiality still needs to be maintained.’

Diana’s smile frosted over. ‘That’s what I told them.’

Robin nodded and hoped that his own smile might thaw hers out a little. ‘You’re absolutely right, of course. Completely ridiculous to think that the group has any connection with what happened to Heather.’

‘Probably just some horrible random thing.’

‘Right. Or she was killed by someone none of us knew anything about, and why would we?’ Robin leaned forward a little. ‘How much do any of us really know about others in the group? It’s an hour and a half a week.’

‘I think you know all there is to know about me.’ Diana laughed. ‘I go on about myself so much.’

‘Nonsense,’ Robin said. ‘That’s what we’re there for. What I’m here for.’

‘Well, thank you, but it feels like it sometimes.’

It had felt like it to Robin, too, for the last hour and a half. Diana was clearly still enraged at her husband for leaving and especially at the woman he had chosen to leave her for. She was understandably distraught at the damage inflicted on the relationship she had with her daughter, but still. Compared to what others in the group had gone through, were still going through, her life was a pretty bloody good one as far as he could make out. Though she had paid lip service to his own anguish, in a blatant effort to root out the cause, she had not got the faintest idea what he endured on a daily basis.

She needed support, yes, but more than that she needed to get a little perspective.

‘So, are you going to get anything else?’

Diana pushed the menu away. ‘I couldn’t manage a thing.’

‘Oh, did you say anything at all about the letters?’ A last-minute thought, no more than that. Just something to talk about while they were waiting for the bill.

‘No, I did not,’ Diana said.

‘Right.’ Robin loosened his tie a little more. ‘Thank you.’

‘Why would I?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘What have they got to do with anything?’

‘Well, I’m very grateful,’ Robin said. ‘But there is a… legal implication, strictly speaking. Confidentiality is crucial, it goes without saying, but there might be an argument for saying that this sort of thing falls outside that. That the letters are not strictly a group matter.’

Diana waved a hand dismissively. ‘I decided that mentioning them would do more harm than good.’ She took a small compact mirror from her bag and checked her make-up. ‘The police are trying to solve a murder, after all, and it seems as though they have their work cut out as it is. Why give them useless information that would only result in them wasting their time?’

Robin nodded enthusiastically. ‘It
would
rather be leading them up the garden path.’

‘Exactly.’

Robin signalled once again to attract the waiter’s attention and mimed writing in the air. He reached into his jacket and produced his wallet. ‘Let me get this,’ he said.

‘Are you sure?’

‘My pleasure.’

Diana made no further effort to argue. As Robin laid his credit card down, she leaned across the table. She said, ‘Anyway, we still can’t be certain it wasn’t Chris.’

Robin looked at her. ‘
What?
’

‘The letters,’ Diana said, quickly. She was flustered. ‘I mean the letters.’

When Tanner got back to her hotel room, she took the till receipt from her purse and slid it into the brown envelope she kept for such things. Then she made a note in the back of her diary: date, location and
scampi and chips/sparkling mineral water: £8.75
. Tanner would no more dream of fiddling her overnight expenses than she would her tax return, though there were plenty who gave it a damn good try. She’d heard about an undercover officer who had claimed to need sports clothes to fit in with a local gang he was trying to infiltrate. This was readily accepted, until one of his receipts had been examined more carefully, and the full set of golf clubs stashed in the boot of his car had been deemed surplus to requirements.

As had he.

Scrupulous as she was, Tanner would have had difficulty using up even the most miserly allowance on this occasion. Always a budget hotel, of course, but she couldn’t help wondering just whose budget places like this were tailored for. Tramps? Benedictine monks? She took off her shoes and lay down, fully clothed, on the bed. She turned on the TV and began to channel-surf, aimlessly. A famous comedian advertised these hotels on television, but looking around, Tanner doubted that he would find much to laugh about if he actually stayed in one.

It was perfectly clean and modern, but there was so little room that she had not bothered to unpack anything except a clean shirt for the morning. There wasn’t even space in the bathroom for a basin, which was mounted instead in a corner of the bedroom, next to a small shelf laden with the proudly advertised ‘tea and coffee making facilities’ (kettle, sachets, miniature milk cartons).

She settled on Sky News and did her best to plump up her pillows. The TV screen was tiny and the bed was no more comfortable than she had expected.

Still, she was happy to be spending a night away.

She had called home from the station, just before getting on the train. Susan had sounded better, had told Tanner she had spent the day catching up on some marking. The migraine had eased, she said, and the day away from school had given her a chance to recharge her batteries.

Tanner had called again to let Susan know she had arrived in Sheffield. A short conversation had been enough to let Tanner know that the bottle she had marked in the fridge the night before had already been replaced.

‘Don’t go picking up any strange women,’ Susan had said.

Tanner had said she would try not to.

There had been no women – strange or otherwise – in the small bar downstairs. A smattering of businessmen had given Tanner good reason to eat her dinner as quickly as possible, laughing too loudly at their own jokes, shiny-suited and red-faced as the beer began kicking in. Of course, they might not have been businessmen at all. They might just as easily have been architects or hitmen, and had Tanner attracted their attention for as much as a moment, she doubted very much that they would have been able to tell how she earned her living either.

What she would be doing to earn it the following morning.

It was the pictures she dreaded. There were always pictures. Photographs in frames, cardboard or chrome, and you said something because you were expected to and perhaps you picked one up to look at if it seemed appropriate. You did not talk about their grief. Not unless they wanted to, and even then you did not attempt to quantify it or talk about a process, because grief was not a series of steps. It was a mess, ragged and random, and it inflicted its pain on each person differently. A blade, a hammer, a stone pressed across a chest. Grief was as individual as a fingerprint.

So you waited. You ate and drank whatever was offered and you allowed the next of kin those few moments until the sobbing or the shouting had subsided. You listened, then you gave as much comfort as you were able, and you tried not to think about what you needed from the supermarket or when your parking ticket was going to run out.

In the end, most of her just seeped through the floorboards
…
 

You tried not to let them know what you were thinking, at any rate.

Tanner watched the news until the same story rolled round again. She thumbed the greasy remote for another minute or two and then began to get undressed. Ten minutes later, the alarm on her phone had been set and she was lying in the dusty dark, her legs restless beneath the thin duvet, trying to settle.

Thoughts, scattershot…

Those businessmen would certainly have looked twice at Diana Knight.

An industrial sander would get the blood off.

A librarian. They would have thought she was a librarian.