The Aura (9 page)

I moved on leaden legs out through the front door and across the landing to lean against the banister. Nick crouched down by the wall and Wilson took a notebook and pencil from a pocket and ran through a list of basic questions: names, addresses, relationship to the deceased.

Deceased
I thought. He had never known Rebecca as a person, a living being. She was just a dead body to be accounted for in his files. The mention of death reminded me of Nick’s aura, and I lifted my eyes to look at him. The aura was distinct but the air was moving slowly. What did it mean? I started feeling sick again.

“Miss Benedict?” Wilson was looking at me.

“Sorry.”

“How did you get into the apartment?” Wilson asked. Nick explained that he had a key because he looked after the cat. Wilson looked around. “Where is it?”

“What?”

“The cat.”

“He ran into the bedroom when we got here,” replied Nick. “I took his food bowl and some water in there for him when we got here. Poor thing was starving and probably scared.” He paused. “Do you think he knew his owner was dead? A dog would know, I think, but maybe not a cat…” he trailed off when he saw the expression on Wilson’s face.

“What time did you get here?” Wilson asked.

Nick looked at me. “About eight?”

I nodded. Wilson checked his watch and wrote something in his notes.

There were voices on the stairway, but Wilson continued to jot in his notebook, the sound of his pencil scratching on the paper loud on the quiet landing.

A few minutes later, two men appeared at the top of the stairs. One, a tall thin man with a balding head, carrying a leather case, the other, young, good-looking with blonde hair and a nice suit. The younger one introduced himself. “I’m Detective Inspector Clarke,” he said. “I’d just like to ask a few questions.”

I was surprised at how young he was, maybe in his mid-thirties, and I wondered at his choice of profession, dealing with violence and death on a daily basis.

“We’ve given the officer all our information,” said Nick. “And I really have to go. Gary will be wondering where I am.”

“A couple more minutes,” Clarke said in a tone that brooked no argument.

He looked at me. “When did you last see or hear from…” He checked a piece of paper in his hand. “From Miss Williams?”

“Sunday lunchtime. We had lunch together. At a Chinese restaurant.”

“And you didn’t come back here with her afterwards?”

“No. We left the restaurant at about two. I went straight home.”

Clarke nodded, wrote some notes and turned his attention to Nick.

“And you sir? Where were you this weekend?”

Nick described his weekend trip to Brussels, keeping the details short and precise and not even mentioning the chocolate.

“So you wouldn’t have known if Miss Williams had any visitors over the weekend?”

“Sorry, but no.”

“She was supposed to be meeting her boyfriend on Sunday evening,” I said. “We’d made plans to go see a movie, but then she canceled that. We had lunch together instead.”

“Did she tell you what time she was planning to meet him, or where?”

“No.” I shook my head. I was confused by his questions. “But this was just an accident, wasn’t it?”

Clarke didn’t answer. He looked at Nick. “You didn’t see anyone arriving or leaving on Sunday evening?”

“No, I’ve seen her boyfriend a few times, coming and going but, as I said, we were away this weekend.” He paused, frowned, straightened the cuffs on his shirt.

“Good.” Clarke scribbled something down in his notebook. “I’ll need you to give detailed descriptions of the man and we will draw up an identikit picture.”

“There’s a photo of the boyfriend in Rebecca’s room,” I said. “His name is Edward.”

“You’ve met him?” Clarke asked.

“No, Rebecca just told me his name.”

“Do you have a second name, any idea where he works?” Clarke asked.

“Nothing on the second name, but she said he works in technology and travels a lot. Can I go get the photo?”

Clarke spoke to Wilson. “Please go with Miss Benedict.”

I followed the police officer back into the apartment and down the hallway. When we entered the room, he gave me a pair of latex gloves. “Put these on, please,” he said. I noticed that he was already wearing some.

I picked up the photo of Rebecca and the dark-haired young man with his arm around her shoulders, looked at it briefly and turned it face down in my hands. It was too painful to see the picture of my friend, alive and smiling. After following Wilson back up the hall, I held the picture out for Inspector Clarke to see. Clarke gestured for me to show it to Nick.

“This is the boyfriend?” he asked.

“No, it’s not,” said Nick. “The boyfriend is taller and older. This is Rebecca’s brother.”

“Her brother?” I exclaimed. “But she told me her only relatives were her parents.”

“Her only living relatives, maybe,” said Nick. “Her brother – I think his name was Andrew – was killed in a climbing accident about two years ago, not long after I moved in here. She was heartbroken. That’s the first time I looked after Caspian for her, when she went home for the funeral. She was gone for a week or so.”

I swallowed down the hurt I felt that Rebecca hadn’t chosen to share this with me. But then, I reflected, I hadn’t told Rebecca about Toby, hadn’t really even talked much about my mother’s death. Funny how you could spend time with someone and not say anything very meaningful.

Clarke cleared his throat to get our attention. “Is there anything else that you think might be helpful for me to know at this point?” he asked.

I hesitated. I should tell him about the missing toiletries in the cabinet, but that meant admitting that I’d been poking around. He looked at me closely. “You’re really pale. Are you okay?”

Not really. I felt exhausted and sad, but I said I was all right. Against my better judgment, I told him about seeing the aftershave and shaving cream a week ago, and then noticing they weren’t there any longer.

Clarke winced. “You used the bathroom this evening?”

“I was being sick,” I said, and he nodded.

“Understandable,” he said as he wrote something in his notebook. “We’ll need you to come to the station for fingerprints. And you too, please, Mr. Carpenter.”

“Do you think Rebecca was murdered?” asked Nick. He was as pale as I felt.

Clarke shook his head. “I don’t think anything yet.” He looked up from his notebook. “Were the lights on when you arrived?”

“No,” said Nick. “We turned them all on. That means it was probably daylight when she died, doesn’t it?”

“How long has she been dead?” I asked.

“I’ll know more when the medical examiner has finished,” Clarke said. “Meanwhile, is there anything else that you can tell me?”

“I was supposed to be looking out for her.”

I didn’t realize I’d even said the words out loud until Clarke cocked his head to one side. “Looking out for her? Had she indicated that she felt she was in danger? Was she depressed? Or sick?”

I felt the blood rushing to my cheeks and neck, and I touched my throat nervously. I couldn’t tell him about the aura.

“No, nothing like that,” I said, which was the truth.

The silence stretched out between us, Clarke waiting for me to clarify my comment in some way. I had said more than enough, though, and I leaned back against the wall, hoping he would leave me alone.

For the first time, Clarke smiled, a minuscule lifting of the corners of his mouth. He was really quite attractive, I thought. His eyes were the color of malachite. He looked good in his pristine white shirt and dark green tie.

“Thank you for your help, both of you. Officer Wilson will finish up here.”

He turned away to answer his cell phone, which was buzzing in his hand. Wilson came over and asked Nick if he’d go to the station to help work up an identikit picture of the boyfriend.

“Yes, I can do that tomorrow,” Nick said. He stared up at the ceiling. “I could do with a ciggy, but I gave up smoking three months ago.”

“I’m trying to pack it in,” said Wilson. He tapped his arm. “Got the patch but it doesn’t really help. Now I just eat more. French fries, donuts. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t, it seems to me. Lung cancer or heart attack, I’m not sure what difference it makes, really. One of them’s going to get me.”

Pulled from my thoughts by Wilson’s comments on dying, I looked at him intently. There was no aura over his head.

“You’ll be fine,” I said, without thinking.

“Glad to hear it,” he said with a grin.

Clarke finished his call and talked to Wilson. “We need to contact the parents to let them know about their daughter,” he said. “Can you make the necessary calls to locate them, please?”

“Will you do it, sir, be the one to tell them?”

Clarke nodded wearily. “Yes, just get me their contact information.”

“I’ve got that,” I said to Wilson, and his face lit up briefly. One less task to do. I gave him the number I had dialed earlier, feeling a stab of grief for poor Mr. Williams and his wife.

Wilson wandered back into the apartment, radio in hand, and Clarke was on his phone again.

“So, the police seem to be taking this pretty seriously,” Nick said, pushing himself away from the banisters and coming to lean against the wall next to me. “It looked to me as though she had a couple of glasses of wine too many and tripped into the coffee table. But the way they’re talking in there, they seem to think there’s been foul play.”

I didn’t respond. My head hurt, I still felt sick, and indescribably depressed. Voices and the sound of footsteps drew Nick back to the banisters to look over into the stairwell. A few seconds later, three men appeared at the top of the stairs, all in plain clothes and carrying an assortment of boxes and bags.

After finishing his call, Clarke came back to where Nick and I stood.

“Come into the station on Buckingham Palace Road tomorrow to do your fingerprints, and to sign statements please. Meanwhile, if you think of anything that might help us trace the boyfriend, please call me on this number.”

He gave each of us a card with his name and a cell phone number on it.

“What about Caspian?” asked Nick. “Can I take him downstairs? He can’t stay here alone.”

Clarke nodded. “Of course. Wilson will accompany you. Don’t touch anything.”

“I’ll help you get him,” I said, following him back into the apartment. I didn’t really want to go back inside, but I wasn’t sure what else to do.

Wilson was in the hallway and Nick told him about the cat. He came with us to the bedroom, and waited while we coaxed Caspian out from under the bed. Nick picked him up, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Stay in touch,” he said before leaving.

For a few seconds, I stood by the bed, unsure what to do next. “Do you need a ride home, miss?” asked Wilson. “I’m going back to the Yard but I’m happy to make a detour.”

“Thanks, but it’s okay. I need some fresh air,” I said. Staying in motion seemed important, anything to put off the moment when I’d be alone with my thoughts. Rebecca was dead. She’d had an aura, as had Sophie and Francesca. And now Nick was in danger.

It was late by the time I reached my apartment. Kicking off my boots, I slipped out of my jacket, got into bed with my clothes on, and pulled the duvet up to my chin. I couldn’t stop shaking. My head ached, so I got back up to find my pain medications and swallowed two with a handful of water from the bathroom tap. The vision of Rebecca’s inert body kept pushing in on my closed eyes. I burrowed deeper under the covers, leaving the bedside light on like a scared child. I hadn’t saved Rebecca even though I knew she was in danger. The guilt felt like bricks piled up on my chest. I should have done more. I should have never let her out of my sight.

Thin grey light seeped around the edges of the curtains, filling the room with an aqueous gloom. The only color came from the red numbers on the digital clock, showing that it was almost nine. I stretched my neck from one side to the other, trying to work out the kinks.

The kitchen beckoned with the promise of hot tea and Marmite on toast. I was hungry, which reminded me that I hadn’t eaten the evening before. My cell phone was on the counter next to the kettle. I had missed four calls, three from Josh, and one from a clerk at the police station reminding me to come in to sign my statement. Damn. It had been an effort to walk a few yards from the bedroom; I couldn’t imagine dragging myself halfway across London, especially in this weather. The rain was pounding against the windows and thick granite-colored clouds formed a low-slung ceiling over the city.

I took my tea and the phone back to bed, listening to the messages from Josh again. He sounded increasingly worried that I wasn’t picking up and asked me to call him back as soon as possible. I started to pull up his number to phone him, but then realized he didn’t know about Rebecca’s death. I couldn’t talk about it yet, knew the words wouldn’t come out. So I settled for sending him a text to tell him I was all right and that I’d call him later.

I wasn’t sure whether I was sick or suffering from the shock of finding Rebecca. My muscles hurt, my head ached, and I felt exhausted even though I’d slept late. But I had to get up and moving, so I dragged myself off the bed and into the bathroom. I ran the shower as hot as I could bear it and, as the water flowed over my back and shoulders, I examined my knees, which had healed well apart from little collections of scars that had faded to light pink.

I didn’t have time to dry my hair so I tied it up in a ponytail, found some clean wool pants, and threw on the sweater I’d been wearing to bed. Not very hygienic, but I didn’t have the energy to look for clean clothes. A glance in the mirror proved to be a bad idea. Zombie was the first word that came to mind but I didn’t care. I wanted to get the police station trip over and done with and get to work before Alan noticed I was missing, again.

My umbrella did little to shield me from the deluge of rain that had soaked through my coat and boots by the time I reached the police station. It was my first time inside such a bastion of law enforcement and it was cleaner and quieter than I’d imagined it would be. In the entry area, a teenager in a hoodie sat on a plastic chair, his eyes glazed and distant, while a thuggish-looking man in his forties shot poisonous looks at everyone who walked by.