The Carrier (13 page)

‘Both motives suggested and rejected,’ Sam said. ‘Tim Breary denies the euthanasia angle vociferously, and almost as firmly – though not quite – denies wanting Francine out of the way because he was sick of being lumbered with her.’

‘So he knew why not,’ Charlie said thoughtfully. ‘Two reasons why not. But he claims not to know why.’

‘Right,’ said Sam. ‘No idea, he said in that first interview, and it’s what he’s been saying since. And here’s the part Proust thought interesting enough to magic out of the file: when Sellers and I annoyed Breary by refusing to move on from motive as quickly as he wanted us to, when we asked him to have a good hard think and see if he could come up with anything, he said something odd.’

Here it comes
,
Charlie thought.
Occam’s Beard: the weirdest explanation is always the correct one.

‘He said, “It’s normal for a person to commit a murder without knowing why. Happens all the time. It’s only in films and books that every killer has a cogent motive.” He delivered that part with confidence, as if he knew what he was talking about, but then . . . it was as if he suddenly doubted it. He switched from telling us to asking us, said, “Isn’t it common for someone to kill another person and then tell you they don’t know why they did it? Something came over them, they acted on impulse – that sort of thing?” Sellers asked him if he knew anyone who worked for the police. He said no. “So where have you got that from?” Sellers asked. Breary snapped at him. “I don’t know – Radio 4, probably,” he said. “I have no original thoughts in my head. Please understand that, and save us all a lot of time and trouble.” This guy, I swear, I’ve never met anyone like him before. He says the strangest things.’

‘He sounds like an intelligent, articulate murderer who doesn’t want his motive known,’ Charlie said. ‘Who imagines he can successfully pass himself off as the kind of incoherent skunked-up scrote who knifes someone and says, “It just happened. The knife was in my hand and I stuck him, dunno why.”’

‘He knows why,’ said Sam. ‘That’s assuming he did it. I think he did, personally, but I’m a minority of one: Simon, Sellers and Gibbs all disagree, and if our theory’s right, Proust does too.’

‘What makes you think he’s guilty?’ Charlie asked.

‘Tim Breary identified the pillow he used to smother his wife. She had four on her bed. They were all scattered on the floor when Lauren Cookson walked into the room and found Breary standing over Francine’s body. Lauren was the care assistant who looked after Francine.’

‘How anyone does that job is beyond me,’ said Charlie.

‘Breary told us he used the pillow with a paisley-patterned cover. Our lab tests proved him right: it was covered in saliva, mucus, oedema fluid – all Francine’s. The others were clean.’

‘So you’re right,’ Charlie said. ‘He killed her, and doesn’t want to say why.’

‘I think so. Most of the time. I’d be more certain if it was only Breary saying he used the paisley pillow as a murder weapon and everyone else was saying they had no idea what happened, maybe doubting his word, saying they couldn’t believe he’d do it.’

‘What do you mean? Who’s the everyone else?’ Were there witnesses to the murder? How could Tim Breary’s guilt be in doubt if there were?

‘Kerry Jose. Dan Jose. Lauren Cookson. Jason Cookson.’ Sam reeled off the names expressionlessly. ‘All the inhabitants of the Dower House were home at the time of the murder. Apparently only Tim was in his wife’s bedroom when the murder actually occurred – that’s what they all say, Tim included – but they all seem to know what happened in that room as if they’d witnessed it first-hand. They’re a small, unanimous community of five.’

Charlie heard frustration in Sam’s voice and tried not to smile. He hated it when, despite his best efforts, he didn’t feel able to believe witnesses.

‘Of the four who aren’t Tim Breary, none of them’s saying, “Ask Tim what happened, he was the only one in the room when Francine died.” They tell it as if they saw it, and their stories are identical. They all talk about the paisley pillow, they quote Tim without saying they’re quoting him. It’s as if they
were
all there in the room with him. Except they say they weren’t, they say he told them what happened afterwards, but . . . I don’t know. It feels wrong.’

‘Are you thinking
Murder on the Orient Express
?’ Charlie asked. ‘Agatha Christie. Have you read it?’

‘I haven’t, but I’ve seen it on telly. They all did it, together – all the suspects.’

‘And it’s fiction,’ Charlie said pointedly. ‘And the reason for all doing it together was so that everyone could be alibied by a supposedly unrelated third party, so that it looks as if none of them can have done it. Brilliant idea, but there’s only a point if no one wants to go down for murder. Your Tim Breary seems keen to do just that – in which case, why would they all need to . . .’ Charlie stopped and laughed at herself. ‘Of course they didn’t all do it together. It doesn’t take five people to hold a pillow over a semi-paralysed stroke victim’s face.’ In the Agatha Christie novel, the participation of all the conspirators wasn’t necessary to ensure the death of the target, but was symbolically significant: everyone wanted to get revenge in person and at close range by inflicting his or her own knife wound. Pillow wound?
Stop it, Zailer.

Sam pulled the car over by the grassy bank at the side of the road. Charlie tossed her cigarette butt out of the open window and listened to the kind of silence you only ever hear near the homes of the very rich. Ahead was a pair of grey stone gateposts topped by large stone balls. ‘Welcome to Lower Heckencott Hall,’ said Sam. ‘The Dower House doesn’t have separate access, so we have to go through the grounds of the big house.’ He chuckled. ‘That’s what Kerry Jose calls the Hall. You should see the size of her place.’

Charlie couldn’t take her eyes off the gateposts. On each one was a carved relief of what looked like a cake stand piled high with fruit. Odd choice, so far from a kitchen. Charlie pictured, instead of the fruit platters, an image on each post of a pillow, with a woman suffocating beneath it, a hand pressing the pillow down. Or perhaps several hands, each one pressing on the one beneath . . .

‘What if Tim Breary did it, but they all wanted it done?’ said Sam. ‘I’ve no proof, but maybe that’s where the group thing comes in – the conspiracy, if you want to call it that.’

‘You obviously do.’ Funny, he’d thought of the word too. Charlie reminded herself that she hadn’t yet met any of these people. She was in no position to be theorising with Sam.

He turned to face her. ‘Personally, I think Tim Breary killed his wife, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t lying. Whatever the story is, they all know it. They all know the word-perfect lie they’ve agreed to present for public consumption, and they all know the truth. And none of them’s telling.’

‘So what did you do?’ Detective Constable Chris Gibbs asks me. ‘When you realised Lauren was talking about Tim Breary.’

I thought I’d finished the story I came here to tell. That’s why I stopped talking.

Staying focused is hard. My eyes ache to close and won’t stop watering. The left one twitches every few seconds; I’ve tried rubbing the skin around it, but the spasm is stubborn and won’t be smoothed away. My hair is unbrushed and tangled, my trousers are streaked with mud and there are coffee stains on my top thanks to a bout of mid-flight turbulence. I must look repulsive. Poor DC Gibbs; I wouldn’t want to be stuck in a too-small, too-warm interview room with me.

‘Does it matter what I did?’ I say. ‘This is about Tim Breary, not me. He didn’t kill his wife, so drop the charges and release him. You don’t prosecute when there’s no chance of a conviction, do you?’

‘Not as simple as that, and not up to us,’ says Gibbs. ‘It’s the CPS’s call. Crown Prosecution Service.’

‘You, them, whoever,’ I say impatiently. ‘What’s a jury going to think when I stand up in court and quote Lauren Cookson on the subject of letting an innocent man go to prison for murder?’

‘Your word against hers – that’s what I’d think. I’d also wonder about your feelings for Tim Breary. I
do
wonder about them.’ He stares at me. Am I supposed to feel guilty for having feelings? It would be so convenient to have none. I’d be able to sit here and concentrate on protecting my interests, and Tim’s, with no red whirlwind raging inside me; police detectives would hear my rational arguments and not sense the havoc underneath.

‘Whatever your relationship with Tim Breary is or was, at some stage someone’s going to sniff it out,’ Gibbs says. ‘When and how did the two of you meet?’

I’m not ready for this. ‘I’ll save someone the effort by not hiding anything,’ I say, hardly hearing myself. Reasonable speech is no competition for the roaring whirlwind. ‘Tim and I were good friends at one time. It’s no secret. I’ll tell them that, and then I’ll tell them what Lauren said about him being innocent of murder, and the jury will acquit him. Except there won’t be a jury. It won’t come to that. The CPS will drop the charge as soon as they’ve read my statement.’

Gibbs doesn’t disagree as I expect him to. ‘It wouldn’t happen that quickly,’ he says distractedly, as if something more interesting has drawn his attention away from me. ‘A lot’s going to depend on whether Lauren confirms or denies your account of last night.’

So Tim’s freedom hinges on the testimony of an unstable tattooed moron. That’s comforting to know. ‘She’ll deny it because she’s scared shitless,’ I say.

‘You’d be surprised how many people cave in at the first challenge,’ says Gibbs.

I want to tell him to stop wasting time speculating and get out there and find Lauren.

‘Where’s Tim?’ I ask. ‘Is he here, in a cell somewhere?’ If the answer is yes, I’m going to find it hard to stay in my seat. ‘Is he in prison? I need to see him.’ I think of what Lauren said last night about smashing down doors.

‘He’s on the CPS’s side.’

‘What?’

‘Who’s a more reliable witness in your opinion, Tim Breary or Lauren Cookson?’

I can’t give him the quick answer he wants. No question about Tim’s character can be answered easily. He is both reliable and unreliable.

‘Because they disagree,’ Gibbs says. ‘Assuming what you’re telling me’s the truth and she’s claiming he’s innocent.’

‘Every word I’ve said is true.’ Gibbs’ words are the problem, not mine. I don’t understand them. Who disagrees? With what? Is this how Lauren felt last night, trying to talk to me? ‘In an ideal world, I’d be having this conversation after ten hours’ sleep,’ I say. ‘I know you probably don’t mean to, but . . . please, can you not mess me around?’

‘Tim Breary’s confessed to the murder of his wife.’

My stomach lurches. I swallow hard, do my best to breathe at the same time as keeping my throat shut tight. I compensated for lack of sleep with a big cooked breakfast at Cologne airport this morning. It looked and tasted disgusting, but will give me enough energy to get through the day, if it doesn’t end up splashed all over the table in front of me.

‘If he’s confessed, he’s lying,’ I say once my stomach waves have subsided.
He can’t have
. The article I read said nothing about a confession, only that Tim had been charged. ‘Why would he confess? It must mean . . .’ I fall silent, temporarily unable to locate the meaning. I didn’t expect a police station to be so much like an airport: being here makes me feel grainy, undefined, simultaneously lost inside myself and trapped outside my life.

‘You’re too tired to work anything out,’ Gibbs says. ‘If you want to help Tim, answer my questions. You can think later.’

If I tell him that I can usually do both at the same time – thinking and answering – will I come over as big-headed?

You’re pathetic. You want him to know that you’re the great Gaby Struthers, but look at you. You can’t keep a coherent idea in your brain for two seconds.

‘What did you do after you Googled Lauren Cookson’s name and found out about Tim?’ Gibbs asks.

Fell apart. Am still falling.
‘Tried to convince myself to believe it,’ I say. ‘I had no idea what I’d do when Lauren came out of the bathroom, what I’d say. I wanted to run away.’

‘Why?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

‘The obvious thing would be to talk to her, wouldn’t it?’ Gibbs says. ‘Tell her that you know her innocent man and you don’t think that can be a coincidence?’

‘How can it
not
be a coincidence?’ I wipe my runny eyes. ‘I know it can’t be, but if it isn’t, that has to mean—’

‘Gaby,’ Gibbs interrupts me. ‘You’re exhausted.’

Why is he telling me things I ought to be telling him?

‘Don’t put yourself under pressure. It’s my job to work out what’s going on, not yours.’ He smiles at me as if he wants to get his smiling practice over and done with for the day. Or maybe he wants to be warm and reassuring, but doesn’t know how to go about it. ‘Why did you want to run away from Lauren, once you found out her innocent man charged with murder was Tim Breary?’ he asks.

‘I wasn’t thinking straight. I wanted to get back to the UK and the police as soon as I could. Not that tramping miles along a German dual carriageway at night would have made that happen – which is why I stayed put.’

‘You said you wanted to run away. That suggests running from as well as running to.’

He’s got me there. In exchange for his smile, I decide to tell him the truth. ‘I’d mentioned Tim to Lauren already. Not by name, but I’d told her about a man who’d been important to me. Then to find out she must have meant Tim . . .’ The red whirlwind roars louder.

‘Take your time,’ Gibbs says quietly.

There is no time. I have to see Tim now, help him now.
‘I was scared she’d walk out of that bathroom and I’d grab hold of her and shake her till she told me everything: why she was letting Tim take the blame for a crime he didn’t commit, how she knew he hadn’t done it, who did it if not him. I didn’t think I’d be able to restrain myself. She’d have seen how much it mattered to me. Even someone as stupid as Lauren would have guessed it was Tim, the man I’d been talking about.’