The Red Room (19 page)

As soon as the phone rang, it felt like the
wrong time. It was dark outside. My eyelids
felt glued together. How long had I been
asleep? I was in my own bed but it felt
strange. I was in an unusual part of the bed,
to one side: Albie's side. As I reached
across I realized with an ache in my stomach that I
was alone. Will had gone.
"Yes?" was all I could manage.
"Is that Kit?"
"Who's this?"
"Furth. You all right?"
"What?" I said stupidly. "Sorry, you just
woke me up."
"There's a car on the way to fetch you. Can you
manage that?"
"What for?"
"The boss says he'll see you at the
hospital."
"What hospital?"
There was a pause.
"What's it matter what hospital?"
"Don't know. What's happened?"
"Haven't time. We'll fill you in when you
get here. Can you manage that? Or shall I say you
can't come?"
My brain was coming to life now, though slowly, like
a lizard sitting on a stone in the morning sun.
I was able to think. For example, I could now see
that Furth was hoping I would say grumpily that I
was too tired and slam down the phone.
"No problem," I said. "Where do we meet?"
"The driver knows," Furth said, and the line went
dead.
The car was on its way. I had only a
couple of minutes. I ran into the shower, switched
the water on very cold and allowed myself to think about
Will, the way we'd held each other like two
drowning swimmers. Which one was dragging the other
down? What the fuck had it all been about? Why
had he gone like that, like a thief? I turned the
shower to very hot so it stung my skin. I thought of his
expression as he'd come inside me, almost a
sob, the closeness I'd been without for so long.
Then I'd come as well, just from the look of him,
I'd felt. He had held me so close that I
had been scared and now he was gone. Was that it?
Well, I thought. Well what?
I dried myself quickly and began to get 319
dressed. I was doing up the buttons on my
shirt when Julie came in, naked. She
didn't seem to have seen the films in which the
actress gets out of bed then immediately wraps a
towel around herself. I had wondered if she did it
to demonstrate that she had irritatingly large
breasts for such a slim figure but really I
knew she wasn't like that. She just didn't think
about it, which I found even more alarming. "What's
going on?" she said. "House on fire?"
"Work." I said. "Something seems to have come up.
Don't know what."
"God," she said. "Sounds important."
"Don't know. Someone just phoned." I still
didn't feel awake enough to formulate complex
sentences.
"You want some coffee?"
"I don't think there's time. A car's on its
way to pick me up."
Julie gave a smile. "I heard you had
company."
"Who from?"
"No, I mean I heard. Through the wall."
"Oh, for God's sake, Julie ..."
"No, no," she said. "There was nothing I could
do about it. It's the walls. They're like paper."
I felt myself go very red. "Well, that's very
embarrassing. I'm sorry if I kept you
awake. I thought you were out."
"Well, I came in again. But don't be
sorry, I was glad. You deserve some fun."
"It wasn't exactly fun," I said,
feeling in some deranged way like Julie's
prudish elderly relative.
"Really?" she said, her expression changing
to one of concern. "Well, it sounded fun. Who was
the guy?"
I gave a huffy sort of deep breath. "As
it happens it was W. You know, Will Pavic."
"Christ," she said. "That's weird. I mean
great. Pavic. God. Is he awake?"
"No. Actually he's gone, as a matter of
fact."
"Gone? Right. Will Pavic. That's incredible.
When you get back, I want to hear every single
detail."
"Julie! One, I'm not going to tell you every
detail. And two, you seem to know everything already."
There was a ring at the door. In the quiet of two
thirty A.M. it sounded like a fire 321
alarm. "And three. I've got to go."
As I walked out, Julie was saying, "Will
Pavic. That's great. It's fantastic. But
isn't he a bit strange?"
I just shook my head and left. The car
outside looked like a minicab. A man in a
suit was holding the front passenger door open.
"Dr. Quinn?" he said.
"You're taking me to see DCI Oban?"
"I don't know about that. I'm just dropping you
at St. Edmund's."
"Fine."
As we set off I asked him if he knew
what this was about. When he said he didn't, I
stayed silent and just looked out of the window. It was the
dead time of night, but London never really went
quiet. There were newspaper vans, the occasional
car, people walking purposefully, the leftovers from
yesterday mixing with the people preparing for tomorrow. I felt
that my pulse was starting to race. I worked through
alternatives in my mind. Another murder.
An arrest. What else could be important enough for
this?
"You a real doctor?" the driver asked.
"Sort of."
"Know people at this hospital, do you?"
"Not at this time of night."
The car pulled up outside the entrance to the
casualty department of St. Edmund's. A
uniformed officer was standing outside like a doorman.
As I got out of the car he muttered something into the
radio on his lapel. It crackled something
unintelligible back.
"I'm Kit Quinn," I said.
"Yeah," he said. "I'll take you up."
I seem to have spent a lot of my life in the
sort of places that never entirely close--
airports, police stations, hospitals--and I
rather like them for their slightly forlorn bustle that
continues even when it is dark outside and good
citizens are asleep. There were ambulances
outside, a doctor and nurse ran past, there were
cries from various directions. A pale young
woman in a white coat was sitting in a corner
drinking coffee and eating a mangy-looking sandwich
while somehow attempting to fill in a form. Work was
being done. The officer led me past all that, up
some stairs and along a corridor. From a good
fifty yards away I could see Oban sitting
on a bench. He caught sight of me 323
too early and we had that embarrassing hiatus where
we were too far away to speak, so he nodded at
me, then pretended to inspect his nails as if there
was something urgent and fascinating about them, and then he
looked back up at me.
I was intensely curious about his expression.
Sad? Triumphant? But I couldn't read it.
He looked like a troubled relative waiting for
news, an expectant but worried father. And he
looked awful. Rumpled, unshaven, gray with
fatigue. "Thanks for coming, Kit," he
muttered.
"So?" I said. "What is it? Another
murder?"
"No," he said, and with obvious effort he made
an attempt at a smile. "I think I've
won my bet with you. If it was a bet. I wish
I felt better about it."
"What bet?"
"I think I said something to the effect that our
murderer was cruising around in his car and he would
strike again when he had the chance. You were dubious.
Now he has struck again. Or tried to."
"What do you mean? Who have you got in here?"
"Ms. or Mrs., or whatever you call it,
Bryony Teale. Aged thirty-four."
"Is she badly injured?"
"Not physically. I've asked for a doctor
to come and talk to you."
"What happened?"
"Bryony Teale was walking along the canal
this evening, silly girl. These people behave as if it
were some country riverbank. She was approached and
attacked by a man. But in the middle of it, two
people stumbled on them on the towpath. The man fled.
A car was heard driving away at speed."
I was silent, thinking furiously. "Are you
sure there's a connection?"
"We're working on it. But it was at the same
spot, almost to the yard, where Lianne's body was
found. It seems compelling to me."
"Bloody hell. And there were witnesses?"
"Two of them."
"Did they get a description of the car?"
Oban shook his head gloomily. "That would be
too easy, wouldn't it? They were helping
Bryony. Terrible state she was in."
"Has she said anything?"
"Not yet. She's terribly shocked. She can
hardly speak." 325
"So what am I doing here?"
"I want you to talk to her. Now, later,
whenever she can talk. I want to see what you can
get out of her. Hypnotize her, shine a light
in her eyes, hold an object in front of
her, anything, just find out what she knows."
"Of course. But what about Seb?"
"It's not his sort of job. Don't worry.
I'll deal with Seb. And it would be better if it
was a woman."
"Dr. Quinn?"
I looked round. A doctor was standing next
to me, a balding, very pale man of about my own
age with a slightly resentful expression. Here
we were, taking up space, time. He had the
air of someone who had to be in two other places.
"Yes."
"I'm Dr. Steen. Apparently you want
to know about Bryony Teale here." He looked at
his clipboard. "She's not my patient but I've
checked her card. No injuries except some
superficial bruising. She's been suffering from
shock, which is understandable. Dr. Lander just did the
usual--rehydration, warming her up, keeping her
under observation. She should be fine in the morning."
"Has she got family? Has anybody
been notified?"
Steen gave a shrug. "She's not my
patient," he said. "I'm sorry."
"Can I talk to her?"
He looked down at his clipboard
helplessly, as if he expected it to tell him
something. It didn't. "I don't know," he said.
"It may not be a good idea."
"It's all right," I said. "I'm used
to patients like this. I won't be intrusive."
"OK," he said. "There's a nurse in there,
I think. I've got to run."
And he did.
"So," I said, "shall I go in and see her?"
"For what it's worth," Oban said.
My hand had been on the door handle, but I
stopped. "I don't understand," I said. "At
least this is some kind of positive development in
the case. We've got witnesses. Nobody
has been killed. Why so gloomy?"
"I'm not exactly gloomy," Oban said.
"Just confused. And I don't like it."
"What do you mean?"
"There was one thing I didn't mention."
"What's that?" 327
"Those two witnesses, the ones who saved
Bryony."
"Yes?"
"One of them was Mickey Doll."

26

I would have liked to see my face.
"Doll?" I said stupidly. "Doll?"
Oban stared glumly at me and nodded. "He was
a witness again?"
"That's right."
"But that's ..." I stopped. I didn't know
what to say or what to think.
"Yeah."
"But why?"
"I'm working on it."
There was a very long pause. I was incapable of
movement or speech or thought. "So," I finally
managed, "I'd better talk to this woman."

The first thing that struck me was her hair, which was
long and the color of ripe apricots. The
second was her hands, clenched into fierce fists on
the sheet that was pulled up over her. I went across
to the bed, the duty nurse beside me--a huge
woman who walked with a roll like a pitching ship,
her shoes creaking loudly on the scuffed
linoleum. "Don't go distressing her now," she
said, and picked up one of the woman's slim
wrists in her enormous fingers and held it for a
minute, head cocked on one side as if she was
listening. Then she squeaked away again, and the door
shut with a click behind her.
"Hello, Bryony," I said, and she stared
up at me as if I was indistinct to her. Her
pupils were dilated. I pulled up a metal
chair and sat down, noticing as I did so that I
was wearing odd socks. "My name's Kit."
"Hello," she murmured, struggling into a
sitting position so that her pale orange hair
fell forward. She had a striking, slightly
flat face, with high cheekbones and a firm jaw.
Her eyes were pale brown, almost golden.
"You've had a shock," I continued, "but you're
quite safe now. There is no need for you to be
frightened. All right?"
She nodded and half smiled. "Sorry," she
said, in a low voice. "Sorry to be so feeble."
I smiled back. "Don't 329
apologize. Is there anything you need? Tea?
Something to eat?"
"No."
"Look, it's beginning to get light outside."
I gestured to the small window. Outside, the
dark had become gray. "Night's nearly
over."
"I want to go home."
"I'm sure you'll be able to very soon. Where is
home?"
"Home," she repeated vaguely, and lifted
a hand to her head. "Why do I feel so
strange?"
"You've had a shocking experience. It's
normal to feel strange."
"Like people after the football-disaster thing?"
"That's right."
"But I'm not that kind of person." She
trailed her fingers over her face, as if she were
tracing her features to remind herself of who she
was. "What happened?"
"You don't remember?" Oban was going to be
even more glum when he heard that.
"I remember bits, like in a fog. Tell
me what happened. Please." She leaned forward
and touched the back of my hand softly.
I thought of those confused misty few seconds in
Stretton Green police station, the warm feeling
of the blood on my face. "You were attacked by the
canal late last night. But you were lucky.
Two men came to your aid. Your attacker ran
off. Obviously anything you can remember will be a
help but don't force anything. Just let it come
back of its own accord--don't block it out."
She nodded and sat up straighter, pulling the
sheet around her. "My head aches," she said, "and
I'm thirsty. Can I have a glass of water?"
I poured water from the jug on the locker beside
her into a plastic beaker, and held it out. When she
took it, her hand was trembling violently, so that
drops spilled onto the sheet and she had to wrap
the other hand round the beaker as well.
"Thank you," she said. "God, I'm tired.
I'm so tired now. Is Gabriel coming soon?"
"Gabriel?"
"My husband."
"I'm sure the police will have contacted him."
"Good." She lay back and her hair spread
on the pillow.
"Before you rest, Bryony, could you 331
tell me what you remember?"
"I remember ... I remember a shape in
the darkness. Coming out of the darkness." She closed her
eyes. "And someone shouting." Her eyes snapped
open. "I can't," she said. "Please. Not yet.
It's a jumble. When I try and grab hold of
something it slides away from me, like trying
to remember a dream. A horrible, horrible
dream."
"It's OK. Take your time. Did you
recognize the person who attacked you?"
"No! No, I'm sure I would remember
that, wouldn't I? Or would I?"
"And what," I asked her as neutrally as I
could, "about the men who helped you?"
"What?" She blinked and rubbed her face again.
"Had you seen them before, those two men?"
"Seen them? No. I don't know. I don't
know. Who were they? Wait a minute, wait a
minute."
I stood up and crossed to the little window, where
morning was breaking. It looked straight into another
room. I could see an empty bed, a locker,
a phone on wheels, just like the ones in Bryony's
room. My brain was seething. What the fuck had
Doll been doing there? I would have to speak to him
too. Later, though. My mouth was parched from the
whiskey I'd downed last night, my eyes ached
in their sockets. I needed caffeine.
"I don't know," she said at last. "I'm
sorry."
"Bryony." I turned back to her. She was
staring at me, waiting for me to speak. "It's very
important that if you remember anything, anything
at all, any detail, no matter how
irrelevant it seems to you, you tell someone. The
police. Me. But someone. All right?"
She nodded. At that moment, the door swung
open and Oban pushed his head into the room.
"Mrs. Teale," he said, "you have a visitor
to see you. Your husband is on his way up now."
"I'll leave you now, Bryony, but I'll
come and see you later, if that's all right," I
said, moving toward the door where Oban was waiting,
his great weary brow puckered with anxiety. She
nodded at me and half closed her eyes.
"Well?" said Oban, as soon as we were in the
corridor.
"She doesn't remember much."
"Fuck," he said. Then: "Fuck, 333
fuck, fuck."
"She will, though," I said. "She's just had a
shock. Give her time."
"Time, you say. Time is the one thing I don't
want to give. What if he strikes again?"
A tall man strode past us, the husband, I
guessed. He had a straight nose, dark hair
and thick dark eyebrows, and he reminded me of a
picture of a Roman emperor in one of the books
I'd had as a child.
"Do you want me to speak to her later?" I
asked Oban.
"Would you?"
"Sure. And, as you said yourself, I think it's
best for a woman to talk to her, given what's just
happened."
"Yes," he said.
"What about Doll? Should I see him?"
"Fuck," he said again. "I don't know.
He's at the police station now, making a
statement."
"So he definitely wasn't the attacker?"
I asked cautiously.
"Oh, God, Kit, ask me in a few
hours' time. The other witness is there as well.
Sensible type, for once."
"A man in a suit with a mobile phone, you
mean."
"Yeah, all that. Anyway, I'm on my
way back there now, so I'll find out more,
maybe." He gave a disgusted grunt. "Just
maybe."
"OK, well, give me a call. On my
mobile--I may well be out."
"Sure. Thanks." His tone was preoccupied.
I could almost hear his brain churning round and round,
like a wheel in mud. Then he said, "Do you know
what really pisses me off?"
"What?"
"We've got three witnesses, if you count
bloody Mickey Doll. One's a bereaved little
child. One's in shock. One's a fucking pervert and
weirdo who can't string three thoughts together, and
who's a suspect anyway--or would be if it was
possible. I need a break here."
"Give it time. Maybe you've just got a
break."
"Maybe."
"Speak to you later, then."