‘Off work. Sick.’
‘You mean at home?’
‘Far as I know.’
‘Was she in London with you yesterday evening?’
‘No.’
‘Where was she?’
‘At Ruth Bussey’s house.’ Simon sighed. ‘Look, we don’t have to have a problem here. I’ll tell you what I know, and I’ll tell you what I don’t know but strongly suspect. Same goes for Charlie—Sergeant Zailer. You want to put your murder case to bed, the best way to do that quickly and efficiently is to let us help you.’
Proust stood up, leaning his hands on his knees as he rose. Simon had almost forgotten he was there. ‘If I’m about to lose DC Waterhouse, I need to find out where we’re up to on various things so that I can sort out handover. Can you give us a moment, DC Dunning?’
‘Handover?’ Simon echoed. How long did Proust think he’d be gone?
‘Fine.’ Dunning headed for the door. ‘I’ll be waiting outside.’
Once they were alone, Proust said, ‘DC Dunning has tried several times to reach Sergeant Zailer at home, with no success. If you know where she is, I’d strongly advise you to share that information with him.’ The inspector sounded distant. Tired. For once, Simon wouldn’t have minded a spurt of his customary garrulous sarcasm. No point apologising for yesterday; he wasn’t sorry. The only mistake he’d made was to leave London when he did; he might have saved Gemma Crowther’s life if he’d stayed another hour.
He knew what he’d tell Dunning about Charlie: fuck all. She was in a state, and wanted as few people as possible to know. Proust, at least, wasn’t asking to be told; only that Simon should reveal all to Dunning.
Handover.
‘Sir, much as I’d like to be shot of Nancy Beddoes, there’s no need to reassign anything of mine—chances are I’ll be back later today.’
‘There is no chance, DC Waterhouse, that you will return to this building later today, or tomorrow, or the day after.’
Simon regretted his attempt to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Dunning’s trying it on, sir. He’ll change his tune. He knows I’m telling the truth and he knows I can help him.’
‘I had no choice but to try to explain your interest in Aidan Seed,’ said Proust. ‘Just so that we’re clear. Soon as I heard you’d been in London, I knew it had to be related to Seed. I presented the facts as fairly as I could, and I told Dunning you’ve got good instincts and a good track record. I couldn’t pretend you hadn’t had your ups and downs over the years, but I made sure to put them in context. I don’t believe I could have done any more.’
‘Sir, for . . .’ Simon felt his control slipping. ‘You’re talking as if we’re never going to see each other again. We both know Seed’s going to be charged with Gemma Crowther’s murder . . .’
‘Do we?’ The inspector turned away from Simon and faced the 2008 planner that was Blu-tacked to the wall behind his desk.
‘Forget Dunning for a second, sir. You agree with me, don’t you? Seed killed Gemma Crowther—he must have. Think of what we know for certain: Ruth Bussey said she was scared something bad was going to happen. Last night, she told Charlie Seed had been away a lot, lying about where he was. Turns out he’s been pretending to be a Quaker, to get close to Crowther.
Knowing
he was going to kill her. He told me he believed only in the material world, facts and science—so what’s he doing at a Quaker rally? Dunning asked me if I could gauge Gemma Crowther’s mood, but he didn’t ask me about Seed. While she was chatting away merrily, he had a face like a thundercloud.’
Like a man who knew he was about to kill somebody, as soon as the curtains were drawn.
Simon kept the thought to himself, knowing how it would be received. ‘Ruth Bussey also told Charlie he’d changed his story: not that he’d killed Mary Trelease, but that he was seeing the future, a future in which he was
going
to kill her.’
‘DC Waterhouse . . .’
‘Sir, we’ve got to treat that as a threat, and act on it. Tell me that’s going to happen, whether I’m here or not. We can’t leave this to Dunning. Do you trust him, after what you’ve just heard? I don’t. Mary Trelease is ours, not his. Dunning doesn’t care if Seed’s on his way round to Megson Crescent with a shooter while he’s wasting time leafing through my Reg 9s—it’s not his patch, is it?’
‘Enough,’ said Proust quietly.
Simon was determined to stir him up. ‘Ruth Bussey told Charlie last night that a man’s been hanging round outside her house, showing an unhealthy interest. Charlie thought she was probably imagining it, until Bussey showed her the CCTV footage. ’
‘CCTV?’ It was difficult to read a person’s back, but Simon had the impression from the sudden tensing of the shoulders that Proust regretted asking, allowing himself to be drawn in.
‘Bussey lives in the lodge house at the entrance to Blantyre Park. Apparently she was so concerned about this man that she asked her landlord to install surveillance cameras. Anyway, soon as Charlie got a look at his face, she recognised him. His name’s Kerry Gatti. He works for First Call.’ Simon knew Proust would have heard of the firm, and waited for him to ask in what capacity Gatti was employed there, or to comment on the cruelty of giving a boy a girl’s name.
Nothing.
‘He’s a private investigator, sir,’ Simon told him.
No response.
‘Did you hear what Dunning said about Gemma Crowther’s partner? He got back at midnight. The meeting must have finished at nine, or thereabouts. How long does it take to clear up a hall? Is the boyfriend a suspect? An associate of Seed’s, perhaps? What’s Dunning told you that he hasn’t told me?’ Simon picked up the empty mug on Proust’s desk, made as if to launch it at the back of his head. He replaced it with a bang; even that got no reaction. ‘Len Smith’s got to be Seed, right?’
‘Call DC Dunning back in,’ said Proust. ‘You can discuss your concerns with him, from Crowther’s boyfriend’s alibi to your bafflement over the inconsistency of Aidan Seed’s metaphysical position.’ Finally, he turned round. The surface of his skin was webbed with colour; his face looked like a blood-blister waiting to burst. ‘Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t answer your questions about this case. Because of your apparent involvement in it. This is what you set in motion when you deliberately deceived me and Sergeant Kombothekra and charged down to London to meet the Light Brigade. This: the situation we find ourselves in. I’m sorry if it’s not to your taste.’
Simon was pleased to get a response. ‘Mary Trelease said “Not me”, when Charlie told her Seed had confessed to killing her. She said it twice—“Not me”. Charlie thought she was trying to suggest Seed had killed someone else.’
Proust’s eyes moved to the glass that separated his cubicle from the CID room. Dunning, watching from the other side, saw him looking and started to inch towards the door. The Snowman raised a hand to stop him. ‘What was Ms Trelease’s response?’ he asked. ‘I assume Sergeant Zailer asked her if that was what she’d intended to imply.’
‘She denied it, sir. But she would, wouldn’t she? If she’d fully made up her mind to talk, she’d talk. If she was scared, though, maybe she’d only risk a hint—the sort that can easily be explained away if you lose your nerve.’
‘Where’s Sergeant Zailer today? She’s not ill in bed, is she?’
Simon’s answer was too slow in coming, as slow as the change in the Snowman’s demeanour was instant. The eyes glazed and froze, the face slackened. So this is how it feels to be cut loose, thought Simon, as Proust gestured for Dunning to come back in and take out the rubbish.
Dominic Lund chuckled. ‘You’re on a hiding to nothing,’ he told Charlie, his mouth full of spaghetti bolognese. A line of oily orange sauce snaked down his chin. ‘If a case could be made, I’d happily take your money and make it, even if we were guaranteed to lose. I like cases like that. Usually win them too. This, though? You know it’s a joke, right?’ He delivered his expert opinion without once looking at Charlie, then laughed again, as if to illustrate his point. She’d noticed that he preferred not to look at people directly; he’d dictated his food order to his open menu, not to the waiter standing beside him with a notepad.
Lund was an intellectual property lawyer, a partner at Ellingham Sandler’s London office. He was tall, dark, heavily built, fat around the middle, and looked to be in his mid-forties. Olivia had recommended him. ‘I doubt there’s anything you can do about it,’ she’d said on the phone last night, ‘but Dominic Lund’s the person to ask. That man works miracles. He’s
the
person to have on your side.’ Charlie had deliberately blanked out the first part, heard only that here was someone who might be able to help her. A miracle-worker. He’d been fourth on a list of the most influential names in UK law, according to Liv. The editor of a newspaper she regularly freelanced for had been awarded a huge sum in compensation after a rival daily printed a photograph of her leaving a substance abuse treatment clinic. Both the victory and the hugeness of the sum had been down to Lund, apparently.
Now Charlie wished she’d thought to ask her sister for the first three names on the list. Liv had said nothing about Lund being callous, entirely lacking in social graces and, as a result, impossible to talk to. On the phone this morning, his PA had told Charlie he would see her today but not in his office—for lunch, at Signor Grilli, an Italian restaurant on Goodge Street. In response to Charlie’s mystified silence, the assistant had said, ‘It’s where he meets people. He likes it there,’ as if she’d assumed Charlie might know this already.
Lund had arrived late, patting his pockets and muttering that he’d forgotten his wallet. He could go back to the office for it, he said, but then he and Charlie would lose their ‘window’. Charlie told him it didn’t matter, she’d pay. Always worth splashing out on a miracle, she’d thought to herself. Lund had tossed a perfunctory thank you in her direction without looking up. Now she was wondering if it was a ruse. Did everyone who consulted him have to buy him lunch? And why this loud, hectic little restaurant in particular? Lund seemed hardly to notice what he was shovelling into his mouth. His BlackBerry was the main recipient of his attention. It lay on the table in front of him; every time it bleeped, he grabbed it with both hands and spent a couple of minutes panting and huffing over it as if it were an addictive pocket computer game that he couldn’t bear to put away, one that offered bonus points to anyone who gave it his all.
Charlie’s pizza lay untouched on the table in front of her. She wanted to ask Lund to repeat back to her everything she’d told him, to check he’d listened properly before deciding her problem wasn’t worth his time or effort. ‘I’m talking about a display,’ she said. ‘It’s not tucked away in a cupboard somewhere—it’s blatant. She’s got them up on a wall for anyone who walks into that room to see: a complete . . . information resource about the worst, most traumatic event of
my
life,
my
past, and that’s only the bit I saw. Who knows what else she’s . . . collected? The wall might be just a fraction of it. Last Friday she was waiting for me when I arrived at work . . .’
Lund’s BlackBerry beeped. He grabbed it and slumped down in his chair for a session of enthusiastic finger- and thumb-jabbing, throughout which he breathed heavily, muttered occasionally and ignored Charlie. When he’d finished, he looked up briefly and said, ‘She waited for you at work for a valid reason, right?’
‘I don’t know about that. She told me a bullshit story about her boyfriend saying he’d murdered a woman who’s not even dead. And she refused to tell me why she wanted to talk to me in particular. When I asked her yesterday why she’d had an article about me in her coat pocket, she didn’t give me a proper answer. ’
‘Miss Zailer . . .’
‘It’s Sergeant,’ Charlie corrected him angrily.
‘If I were you I’d relax.’ Lund wound some more strands of spaghetti round his spoon, the long fringe of his dark hair dipping into the sauce in his bowl. Then he sucked up the pasta, making a noise like a vacuum cleaner, spattering the tablecloth and his shirt with sauce. He raised his voice and said something in Italian to nobody in particular—into the air, or so it seemed. Then, as if nothing unusual had happened, he switched back to English. ‘It’s her bedroom wall, she’s got a steady boyfriend—how many people are likely to see it? Her, him, a few close friends maybe.’
‘I don’t care if no one sees it,’ Charlie snapped. ‘She’s got no right to have it. Has she? Are you telling me a complete stranger-stalker-weirdo can amass information about my life and turn it into an . . . an exhibit for her own amusement, and there’s no way of making her stop?’
‘You’ve not been listening to me if you need to ask.’
‘I want her to destroy it, everything she’s got on me, or hand it over to me so that I can destroy it!’ Charlie was aware that she was almost shouting.
‘Your wishing something doesn’t make it legally enforceable,’ said Lund. His tone suggested nothing could matter to him less. ‘There’s nothing here for me to work with. Zero. First, there’s no exhibiting involved. If she was going round sticking this stuff up on billboards all over town, it’d be a different matter, but her home’s her private property. Any information she’s got about you was in the public domain—in newspapers, which she bought, presumably. She didn’t steal them from your house, did she? Haven’t you got any old newspapers or magazines lying around at home?
Vogue
,
Elle
,
The English Home
?’
‘No.’ Charlie spat the word at him. Did she look like she had nothing better to do than read about handbags and cushions? ‘Keeping a few newspapers and magazines isn’t the same thing as obsessively gathering cuttings about one person. I don’t keep anything that constitutes an invasion of someone else’s privacy, no.’
Lund had disappeared beneath the table. He was rooting around in his briefcase. When he surfaced, he was holding a crumpled copy of the
Daily Telegraph
. He put it down on top of Charlie’s untouched pizza. As he pointed to a small article at the bottom of the page, orange oil began to seep through the paper. ‘David Miliband,’ he said. ‘Our Foreign Secretary. Not for too long, hopefully. If I want to cut out these three paragraphs about him and glue them to my shaving mirror, that’s my choice, a choice I’m perfectly entitled to make. Do you think the boy Miliband could stop me? I’ve said this twice already, but I’ll say it again: the invasion of privacy argument doesn’t stand up. If this woman was broadcasting your private diary to the world, or going through your knicker drawer to find this stuff, the situation would be different. It’d be different if she was using the information she’s collected for a purpose that’s deterimental to your well-being, but she isn’t.’