Frozen (13 page)

She looked fragile and strong at the same time, defiant but vulnerable. She could almost have been a different woman. She wore black jeans, black ankle boots, and a white shirt hanging loose at the waist; her hands were half-lost under the unbuttoned cuffs. She wore no makeup, and it suited her. It softened her features. Her eyes seemed cool and thoughtful instead of the cold blue they had been at the studio; I wondered if she had been wearing tinted contacts. Her skin was clear, pale but not unhealthily so; her eyes creased when she talked, her hair was reassuringly less than perfect.

“What will you do?” I asked.

“No idea,” she murmured. It suddenly hit me that she was every bit as adrift as I was. “Nathan and Jean-Marie will have to go. No point now. I couldn't afford them, not on my own.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It happens. Nothing compared to Verity, is it?”

There was no arguing with that.

Sam took a swig of coffee and grimaced. “God, Harry, this is awful.”

I bridled. She looked at me and then laughed. “Can I make another?” She got up and busied herself at the sink, pouring out the old, rummaging for the coffee jar, refilling the kettle. “So, anyway, I cancelled Paris,” she called, as though it was a piece of idle chat.

“But you really wanted it, didn't you? Wasn't Paris going to be the big one?”

She leaned back against the kitchen units. She had a nice figure, I thought distractedly. “Not without Verity,” she said. “It was for her, really.
My
collection wasn't going to make any waves.”

“Well, maybe next time...”

The corners of her eyes tightened into a hint of a smile. “Yeah,” she said. “Maybe.”

The noise of the kettle built gradually to a roar, and we waited without talking. She made a fresh mug of coffee, but stayed leaning against the sink, cupping it against her chest.

“Oh. I nearly forgot...” She put down the mug and went back into the living room. She fished in her bag, and slid a key across the table towards me. I picked up her coffee and came over. The key was small, less than an inch long, with a hollow centre and a simple pattern of pegs, the kind of key you find in wardrobe or drawer locks.

“I found it with her things at the office,” Sam explained. “It doesn't fit anything there. I thought it might be something at her place.” She looked at it thoughtfully.

“She didn't do it, Sam. None of it makes sense.”

I explained about Beachy Head, and the mystery appointment at the pub. When I had finished, she contemplated her coffee for a long time before speaking.

“Harry, none of that means she didn't jump. It just means she didn't
intend
to when she went to the Head. She didn't go there to kill herself—but what if she went to meet someone at the pub, and something happened that...
changed
things?”

I shook my head vigorously. “I just don't think she'd kill herself. No way.”

Sam turned away and stared into space. “Verity was seeing a psychiatrist,” she said eventually.

That took a while to penetrate, because it was about the last thing I was expecting to hear. I think my mouth dropped open. I might even have drooled. I wouldn't have noticed.

“'She... a psych—but I thought...”

Sam stared philosophically into her cup. “... That she was happy? I thought she was too. She
said
she was. But she said this was different. Wouldn't tell me anything else, just made me swear I wouldn't tell. Doesn't seem much point in secrets now, though, does there?”

“Do you know who?”

Sam shook her head. We stared at each other for a beat, and then I got up and went into the sitting room to find Verity's Filofax.

A card was tucked inside the back pocket: “Kate Fullerton, Dip. Hyp. Psych. PHTA, Psychotherapy and Hypnotherapy”—a phone number and a north London address.
Strictest Confidence Assured.

I rang the number.

KATE FULLERTON LIVED and worked in a flat in a high, square housing block with white paint peeling to grey. The doorway was in an alcove, up three wide grey-stained marble steps. The doors were wood, darkly varnished, also peeling. A brushed-chrome box, bent at one edge, had ranks of buttons for the sixty-odd flats in the block. I pressed number thirty-two, and then had to lean close to the speaker grille because the alcove was amplifying the din of the endless stream of cars. The sky was muddy blue, the streets glaring, and the fumes oppressive. Sam gazed out at the traffic, hugging a ridiculously small cardigan round her, though it wasn't cold.

I was glad she was there.

There were some rattles and a click from Kate Fullerton's intercom, then a voice said, “Hello?” loud enough to make the speaker howl.

“Hi. It's Harry Waddell,” I yelled, convinced that I would be inaudible against the traffic. “I called yesterday.”

“Fifth floor. Turn right out of the lift. Number thirty-two.” Which was obvious, because I'd just rung the bell.

We went up in a cramped metal lift with a lino floor. It wobbled as it set off. Sam gave me a tight little smile. Her arms were still wrapped round herself. She shuffled impatiently when the lift stopped and the doors took several seconds to open. The carpet in the corridor was a threadbare beige, patterned with a darker brown lattice. Number thirty-two was round two narrow corners. The door was ajar. I looked at Sam, raised my eyebrows. It felt as bad as going for a job interview. Nervously I pushed the door a foot or so open, and peeped in.

“Hello?”

“Come through,” a voice called back.

I followed it into a large square room, with an electric fire in a mean black grate, and metal mullions on the windows. There were glass ornaments on the green-tiled mantelpiece, books on every wall. The room smelt of paperbacks and burnt air from the fire's bars. There was a loosely stuffed three-piece suite, covered in what looked like worn green corduroy. One of the two armchairs was almost hidden behind the door. In it sat Kate Fullerton.

She was older than I had expected, perhaps sixty, with a print dress and thick tights and an astonishingly clear young voice. Her face was young too, despite the lines and thinning skin. It was the eyes, I suppose; they were mild and brown, unblinking, inquisitive and calm at once. They smiled at me in a friendly way, and I felt as though I was being assessed.

“Harry,” she said. Sam came in behind me, and Kate Fullerton looked at me with one eyebrow raised.

“Yes. And… um, this is Sam Mandovini. Sam, Ms Fullerton.”

“Kate, please.” She smiled warmly.

“Sam's a friend of Verity's,” I said. I glanced at Sam. “And mine,” I added. “To be honest, I was a little nervous about coming. Sam's my moral support.”

Kate Fullerton laughed. “Moral support, eh? Perfectly understandable. Why don't you both go into the kitchen and make yourselves a tea or coffee? Or there's herbals on the shelf above the kettle. I'll see you in a mo’.”

We filed along the book-lined corridors of her flat to a tiny kitchen. Sam had to stand in the doorway while I filled the kettle because there wasn't room for us both. The mugs were smoked glass, with a painfully sharp seam down the handle. Sam had a ginseng and something or other; I had an instant coffee, which tasted thin, powdery, and acidic all at once. The glass was too hot to hold.

We trooped back in. Kate Fullerton had not moved. Sam and I sat next to each other on the sofa and looked at her: I don't know quite what I was expecting her to say, since it was I who had wanted to talk to her, not the other way round, but there you go.

“Ms. Fullerton—”

At exactly the same time, she said, “Perhaps you—”

We both paused to let the other continue. Then I nodded at her to go first.

“I was going to say, perhaps you should tell me exactly what happened to Verity. And please call me Kate.” She smiled reassuringly. Sam, next to me, hugged her arms and leaned back into the sofa.

So I told her, filling in the detail I had skipped on the phone. I missed out the encounter with Karel—I felt degraded by it and I didn't want anyone to know—but I told her everything else. I described to her the when and the where, and how Verity had fallen and what state she was in now. I told her about my visit to the pub. I told Kate about Verity's debts, even about her fashion collection.

“Ah, yes,” Kate murmured gently. “ ‘Damaged Goods‚’ wasn't it? She mentioned that. I thought it was a good idea.”

I looked at Kate with new eyes. She didn't seem the type to go around wearing ripped plastic bags; she looked more comfortable in her green woollen tights. She raised an appraising eyebrow, and her eyes betrayed a moment's humour. “Not personal taste, I assure you. It was part of the psychotherapeutic process. In lay terms, I was encouraging her to get things out of her system. Go on.”

“Nothing more to tell. The police say suicide, and there's no proof otherwise. Except it feels wrong.”

“In what way?”

She did not move, she just kept looking at me mildly—but I swear that in her head she was taking out a notebook and pencil, licking the point ready for a new page. I was being processed. It pissed me off. “Look, I know Verity, all right? She wouldn't have gone anywhere near Beachy Head if you paid her. She was happy, for heaven's sake. I know she was seeing you, but she was happy. Okay, she was broke—but that's just Verity. There has to be some other explanation. I
know
her.”

The frustration showed. Sam did her best to reassure me. “Hey, Harry, it's all right. That's what we're here for, remember? Answers.” She put one hand over mine where it rested on my knee.

I took a deep breath. Kate Fullerton was watching me, her eyes sharp now, her expression still mild. Sam was right, of course.

“Sorry,” I conceded. “It's all such a shock. I can't make it make sense. We came here to ask if you could help us explain it.”

Kate pursed her lips, ever so slightly, and settled deeper into her chair. A clock ticked in the silence, light and fast—a small square alarm clock with a big metal winder, resting among the glassware on the mantelpiece like a living thing among the dead. Kate rested her arms on her chair's high arms.

“I do understand, Harry. But there's little I can tell you about Verity's problems, I'm afraid. It would be quite improper for me to divulge anything that she and I discussed in confidence.” She raised a hand to forestall my obvious reply. “I know she's no longer in a state to tell you herself, and maybe she would have. But she didn't, and I have to respect that. If you were the police, I
might
consider telling you—provided there were sufficient grounds. But a friend who's trying to come to terms with what has happened? I'm sorry, Harry. If that's what's you want, I can't do it.”

I stared at her, trying to fathom her unresponsive brown eyes, all placid sympathy with no sign of the person behind them. The room smelt faintly of damp old building and the clock's tick was becoming oppressive in the quiet. It was like a waiting room. Each hurried little tick lasted an age.

Sam gave my hand another squeeze. “Kate,” she said, “you did agree to see us, though, didn't you? If you weren't going to tell us anything, then why bother?”

Kate gave me a wintry smile. “I wanted to know what had happened, Sam. Verity stopped coming to see me a few weeks ago. She rang and cancelled on a few hours' notice. She hasn't come back. I am as concerned to understand what has happened as you are.” She looked back and forth between us and smiled again. This time her unblinking brown eyes seemed sorrowful. Kate Fullerton was baffling.

“So we're here for your benefit, are we?” I said curtly. “You have no intention of helping us, you just want to close her file.”

I stood. Sam didn't. “Harry, get a grip,” she said tiredly. She turned to Kate Fullerton, and said, “There's a ‘but‚’ somewhere, isn't there?”

Kate leaned forward. “Yes, there is. Harry, please, do sit down. I didn't mean to upset you. I'll tell you what I can.”

Totally confused now, I sat down again.

“Thank you.” She straightened with the painful care I usually associated with people in their seventies or beyond. “As I said, I can't disclose confidential information about Verity. But I
can
tell you what I think about what you've told me. And to tell you the truth, I am puzzled too.”

That got my attention. And Sam's. This time Kate's responding smile was warm.

“I can tell you this,” she said, sitting perfectly still. “The Verity I was coming to know was an optimistic person, but also very confused—else why would she have come to me? You both know her well enough—her personal life was disorganised, to say the least. She was very creative, she had huge energy, she had friends who cared for her, but she found it difficult to settle down and accept that as the primary part of her life. Sometimes she was quite self-destructive. Not suicidal—I agree with you there, Harry—but she didn't always behave in her own best interests. You both know all this.”

An image of Karel flickered through my thoughts. I tried my best to banish it. I wasn't quite sure how I felt. I had my own mental picture of Verity—well, several pictures, really—a sort of abstract composition of her on the riverbank one winter, of her hand on mine as she told me She Loved Me, No, Really (did she ever know how that felt?), of her hugging her knees on the grass in the park one Sunday. And Kate's words somehow sank straight into this picture and made it truer, more real, without changing it. And I felt so sad and so happy, because the bright snapshots in my mind were so perfect. And now they were all I had.

Kate continued, “When Verity stopped coming to see me, she was only halfway through her treatment. There were issues she was only just beginning to address. Important issues. As I said, I can't tell you what they were. In fact, I don't know the details myself, because she stopped coming before we had worked through it. The question is, why did she stop coming? I can think of three reasons.

“First, she might have run out of money. I know she wasn't well off, but I think that's unlikely to be the reason. I had already told her that we could come to an arrangement.

“Second, she was finding therapy very painful. She was reluctant to face whatever we were about to uncover. That does happen, quite frequently. In Verity's case...” Kate paused to consider the idea. “Unlikely, but possible. If people are going to run they generally do it early, when they realise that it isn't going to be an easy process. But Verity was making progress. We were close to breakthrough. People do get nervous at that stage as well—and if they drop out of therapy late, they are likely to experience very low self-esteem, maybe even guilt.”

“When did she last see you?” Sam asked.

Kate picked up a tiny blue leather diary from the mantelpiece and flicked briefly through it. “Three and a half weeks ago,” she said. “On the third. She must have rung on the fifth to cancel her next session.”

It matched with what Sam and I had pieced together from Verity's Filofax in the car on the way over. She had had a regular diary appointment with a KF for months—and the last few had been crossed out. Verity had stopped coming to see Kate Fullerton almost three clear weeks before her fall. I must have seen her that same Wednesday evening for our regular date—and we'd met for a pub lunch the next Sunday. We'd had fun. We'd laughed and been happy.

“I saw her after that,” I said. “She was fine. Actually, she was pretty high.” I looked at Sam for support.

She nodded. “I think she was,” Sam said. “High, I mean. Just completely happy and elated. She was amazing at work. Just so creative. Paris was going to do it for her. She was so together.”

Kate watched us for a beat. “People on that kind of high are rarely as
together
as they seem,” she said. “There's usually something else going on. She might have been in denial, avoiding her own guilt feelings, for example. I'd rather hoped that was the explanation, but I'm afraid it doesn't sound very likely.” She shook her head very slowly. “The third possibility is altogether less happy.”

Less happy? Verity was in Eastbourne General. Less happy than what? Sam and I both shuffled uneasily.

“'It is possible that Verity completed the therapeutic process on her own—unsupported,” Kate said. She sounded very final, as though that was that. I think we must both have looked bewildered. Kate steepled her fingers and tapped them against her teeth. Then she leaned forward. “As I told you, I can't discuss the specifics. However, I can tell you a little about how psychotherapy works in general. It may help.' She sat bolt upright; it looked like a posture that she was comfortable with. The lecture began.

“There are patterns in our behaviour, in all of us. Habits of speech, habits of thought. We are unaware of most of them. I don't just mean things like scratching your nose when you're embarrassed, I mean
subtle
things. Always choosing the same kind of lover, for example, or behaving aggressively when you're afraid of getting hurt. We all do these things, and they don't usually affect the quality of our lives. They're just who we are. But for most of us, there comes a time when depression hits out of the blue and we can't drag ourselves out of it, or when we feel unable to cope for some other reason. The patterns of behaviour start ruling our lives. That's where psychotherapy comes in. What I do is help people understand their own patterns, and how they came to play such a powerful part in their life. When they see what they're doing, and understand the events that led them there, the patterns lose their power.” Kate smiled. “In a way, what I do is set people free.”