Authors: Nicci French
Chapter Thirteen
I stepped out of my room and almost collided with Owen, weighed down with his camera bags and tripod from a shoot. His face looked smooth and young. ‘Astrid,’ he said.
I needed to say something. I took a step towards him, or perhaps he took a step towards me, then brisk steps coming up the stairs halted us. It was Leah, looking mildly impatient. ‘There you are,’ she said.
‘What is it?’
‘Someone to see you downstairs,’ she said.
‘Who?’ I said.
‘If you go down, you’ll find out,’ she said.
I shrugged, glanced at Owen, and walked down the stairs. Detective Chief Inspector Paul Kamsky was in the hallway. Miles was standing next to him but they weren’t speaking. Kamsky caught sight of me.
‘Sorry to drop in unannounced,’ he said.
‘That’s all right.’
‘Is there anywhere we can talk?’
‘You could go downstairs to the kitchen,’ said Miles.
‘It’s not very private,’ I said.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Kamsky.
‘We’ll keep out of the way,’ said Miles. ‘I’ll make some coffee.’
As Kamsky sat down at the kitchen table, he looked around with a smile. ‘How many of you are there?’
‘It’s a bit of a floating population,’ I said. ‘People come and go.’
‘Like a commune?’
‘It’s just a house-share.’
‘I couldn’t manage that,’ he said. ‘I like my own space.’
‘I know what you mean.’
Miles put coffee mugs on the table. Kamsky took his and contemplated it, then looked up at me. ‘It’s the package,’ he said.
‘You never found it?’
‘Did you ever have an itch that you couldn’t scratch because you didn’t know exactly where it was?’
‘No.’
‘There are several things about this case that bother me,’ he said.
‘That’s what Mitchell said.’
‘I know,’ said Kamsky. ‘He’s not a happy man.’
‘What about you?’ I said. ‘Are you happy?’
‘There’s your involvement,’ he said. ‘And the fact that you gave an interview about your involvement.’
‘It wasn’t exactly an interview,’ I said. ‘I shouted something at a reporter.’
‘A dignified “no comment” is usually the best policy,’ Kamsky said.
‘I wasn’t thinking clearly.’
‘And most of all I’m bothered by what was taken.’
‘I didn’t think anything was taken.’
‘I’m going to tell you something we haven’t released. Please don’t mention it to any reporters. As you saw, Mrs de Soto was wearing expensive jewellery, a necklace, rings, a bracelet. Perhaps you noticed that one earring was missing.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Just one. It had been pulled out, ripping through the earlobe.’
I flinched.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Kamsky. ‘It was probably done after she was dead. My psychiatric colleague tells me it was probably taken as a trophy.’
‘A trophy?’
‘A souvenir. By the way, he’s keen to talk to you as well.’
‘I don’t think I’ll be much help.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Kamsky. He paused and took a slow gulp of his coffee. ‘You might have picked it up and put it in your satchel.’
‘The package? That’s crazy. I broke into her house and found her lying dead. I didn’t stop to collect a package.’
‘As far as I can see, there are three possibilities. Either there was no package, or you took it, or whoever killed her took it.’
‘Have you looked for it properly?’ I asked. ‘Sometimes when I arrive to pick something up, they haven’t got it ready. It’s bloody irritating. I arrive and then they go off and get whatever it is and find something to put it in. Maybe she hadn’t wrapped it up yet.’
‘That’s a possibility,’ said Kamsky. ‘Another possibility is that the package was something valuable. Or perhaps it was something particular that he was after.’
‘That’s not possible,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘She only booked the pick-up half an hour earlier. The guy happens to steal something in the last few minutes it’s going to be in the house. Is that another coincidence?’
‘No,’ said Kamsky. ‘I’m getting allergic to coincidences. But the murderer kills the woman and takes only two objects: an earring and the package you’re about to collect. Doesn’t that strike you as interesting?’
‘Strange, maybe.’
‘Did you have any idea what you were going to collect?’
‘No. When people call us, they only have to specify the size of the package. If it’s a grand piano, they generally don’t send me on my pushbike. But you should talk to my boss about that.’
‘I did,’ said Kamsky, with a frown. ‘I don’t think his record-keeping is entirely satisfactory.’
‘Tell me about it,’ I said. ‘One day the Inland Revenue are going to descend on him and take that place apart.’
‘Hello,’ said Pippa, from the doorway. ‘You must introduce me to your guest.’
‘Pippa, this is Detective Inspector Kamsky,’ I said.
‘Er, Detective
Chief
Inspector,’ he said. ‘Not that it matters particularly.’
‘And this is Pippa. She’s one of the many people who live here.’
Pippa’s eyes lit up and she came and sat at the table.
‘Be careful what you say,’ I said to Kamsky. ‘She’s also a lawyer.’
‘But a nice person anyway, I’m sure,’ said Kamsky.
‘Are you in charge of the investigation of the murders?’ said Pippa.
‘I’m heading the Ingrid de Soto inquiry. I’m in informal touch with the team working on the Margaret Farrell killing. As yet there’s no official connection between the two murders.’
‘Of course there bloody is,’ said Pippa.
‘What’s the connection?’ asked Kamsky.
‘Astrid,’ said a voice from behind. I didn’t need to turn round. Bloody Dario, bloody stoned. I could hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes. He opened the fridge, took out a beer bottle and flicked off the cap with his thumb. ‘You want to watch her. Isn’t there a rule about the person who reports a murder always being the prime suspect?’
‘It’s not exactly a rule,’ said Kamsky.
Dario sat down next to me and took a swig of his beer. ‘There’s motive,’ he said. ‘Peggy Farrell opened her car door in front of Astrid. And then that other woman. Making Astrid cycle all the way up Highgate West Hill. If that isn’t a motive for murder, I don’t know what is.’
‘This is Dario,’ I said. ‘Another housemate.’
Suddenly the room seemed to be full. The word of Kamsky’s presence had spread and everybody was gathering to have a look at him. Davy and Mel came in, hand in hand, revoltingly in love. Owen arrived and sat beside me. Even he couldn’t resist it. Leah, the hostess, pulled the cork out of a bottle of wine. She came forward with a clutch of glasses. She offered one to Kamsky and he nodded.
‘Aren’t you meant to say, “Not when I’m on duty”?’ asked Dario, then gave a bark of hilarity.
Kamsky looked at his watch. ‘I’m not actually on duty,’ he said. ‘Cheers.’
Now everybody pulled chairs up to the table and crammed around, as if it were a child’s party and we were going to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ and blow out the candles. Kamsky seemed rather bemused at being the centre of attention.
‘So how is it going?’ asked Mel. ‘I’m sorry to be nosy but I’ve never met a real detective before.’
‘Are you another housemate?’ asked Kamsky.
‘She’s with me,’ said Davy.
‘It’s difficult to keep track,’ Kamsky said.
‘You wait,’ I said. ‘It gets worse.’
‘Are you here to take statements?’ said Davy.
‘Why?’ said Kamsky. ‘Have you got something you want to say?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Davy.
‘But some people have,’ said Leah.
There was a silence. Kamsky shifted awkwardly in his chair. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
Leah looked around the table.
‘Is it true,’ she said, ‘that anyone who was near the scene when the murder happened should come forward?’
‘Well…’ Kamsky began.
‘Leah,’ said Miles, in a warning tone.
‘I just think that people should do what they said they would do.’
There was a flurry of voices around the table. Pippa held up her hand for silence. She spoke with an icy calm. ‘I wouldn’t have thought this was the time or the place but Leah has a fierce commitment to legal principle. Though the heavens fall. What she was hinting at was that I had a friend staying on the night of Peggy Farrell’s murder. He’s a little hard to trace but he will come forward and make a statement, if required. But this probably isn’t of much interest to you.’
‘What about you, Dario?’ said Leah, triumphantly.
The scene would have been comic if it hadn’t been so horribly embarrassing, with Leah turning the screw of humiliation tighter and tighter. Dario’s face had gone a fierce red. ‘Leah, I dunno, I…’ He stammered to a halt.
‘Dario, what’s the problem?’ asked Leah, brightly.
Miles flicked me an anxious glance, then flicked it away when he saw the expression on my face.
‘I need to be given a bit of time,’ Dario said. ‘It’s complicated. I’ve got to –’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ said Leah, got up and walked out of the room. We heard the sound of footsteps making their way loudly up the stairs. People exchanged puzzled glances around the table.
‘This isn’t typical,’ said Davy to Kamsky. ‘We usually get on quite well. There’ve been some personality clashes.’
‘You can say that again,’ said Dario.
There was another rattle of footsteps on the stairs, and a visible flinching as everyone waited for the tornado to arrive. Leah strode in. ‘This is from Dario’s room,’ she said, tossing something on to the middle of the table.
You could see the blood leaving Dario’s face, as if someone had pulled a plug. On the table was a small transparent polythene bag with something brown inside.
‘Dario has gone all shy,’ said Leah, ‘because shortly before Margaret Farrell died –
very
shortly – he was out on the front step with someone as yet to be contacted, doing one of his little dope deals.’
There was a terrible, terrible silence around the table. I’d already called her a cunt, so there was nothing left to say to her. I might have been tempted to hit her but a detective was present. I looked around the table at the shocked faces. I have a phobia about silences. Whenever one occurs, I have to break it. I looked at Leah. ‘Is that your plan?’ I said. ‘If you can get Dario arrested, you won’t have to pay him off?’
‘Grow up, Astrid,’ she said.
‘What did you say?’
Kamsky leaned over, picked up the bag and tossed it to Dario. ‘Try not to use too much of this stuff,’ he said. ‘It’s not just that it’s bad for you. People who smoke it become so boring. Look, I’m conducting a murder inquiry. If you’re dealing a bit of cannabis, I don’t care.’ He looked at Pippa. ‘If you’re sleeping with your best friend’s husband, I don’t care. What you need to do is come forward. If you know any witnesses, tell them to come forward as well.’ Kamsky stood up. ‘But not to me. This isn’t my inquiry. Tell them to contact DI Mitchell.’ He looked at me with a smile. ‘I suppose Miss Bell can give you his number.’
‘Won’t you stay for dinner?’ asked Pippa.
Was Pippa going to start hitting on him as well? Was there no limit? Was nothing sacred? But he smiled and shook his head. ‘You’re a lawyer?’ he said to Pippa.
‘That’s right.’
‘It sounds like this household could do with one.’
And with that he went and left us to it.
Chapter Fourteen
No one spoke. I could hear the cars in the street outside, the house’s ancient pipes grumbling, a blackbird chirruping in the garden. I could hear Dario breathing heavily. Leah’s painted nails tapped rhythmically on the table. I looked up at her: her face was smooth, unconcerned. I looked at Miles, but he was staring down at his hands, which were plaited together on his lap, and I couldn’t make out his expression.
At last Davy coughed nervously and spoke. ‘That was pretty clear,’ he said, ‘and no real harm done, eh, Dario?’ His voice trailed away.
Dario twisted his head. ‘What?’ he said. He sounded dazed. ‘No harm?’
‘I mean –’
‘Shut up, will you, Davy?’ interrupted Pippa. She put a hand on Dario’s shoulder and looked across at Leah. Even I was alarmed at the icy rage in her eyes. Leah, however, didn’t flinch. ‘It’s pretty clear, don’t you think,’ Pippa continued, ‘that Leah’s behaviour was unacceptable to the entire household?’
‘Who wants some whisky?’ asked Owen. ‘I do. Or I could do with some of Dario’s dope. Do you want to roll a joint, Dario?’
‘Unacceptable?’ said Dario, finding his voice. ‘That’s not the word I’d use. I’d say –’
‘I don’t think I should be here for this,’ said Mel, in a small voice. ‘It’s private, between you lot.’
‘Stay.’ Davy wrapped his arm round her to prevent her moving.
‘I’d say,’ went on Dario, his voice growing stronger, ‘that she’s poison. Poison. Everything was all right before she came. We were happy. She’s like a nasty, toxic stain seeping over everything.’
‘Miles?’ said Pippa. ‘Are you going to say anything?’
Miles shifted uncomfortably, still not lifting his head. ‘What do you want me to say? It’s very unfortunate but –’
‘Do you really think everything was all right before I came on the scene?’ said Leah. Her eyes were bright. I wondered if she was almost enjoying herself.
‘Don’t ask her what she means,’ I was starting to say, but Davy got there first.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘Well, look at you all,’ said Leah. ‘There’s you, Dario. How old are you? Thirty? Older? You don’t have a job. You don’t have a relationship. You don’t have any ambitions. As far as I know, you have no real qualifications, except for being a petty criminal, and you’re not even very good at that.’
Dario spluttered and his freckled face turned an unlovely red.
‘Then there’s Mick.’ She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Would you describe him as a fully functional member of society?’
‘Leave Mick out of it,’ said Davy, unexpectedly assertive. ‘He’s not here to answer back.’
You, then, Davy. What’s the point of you?’
‘That’s not fair,’ said Mel, her face flushing.
‘And look at Astrid.’
‘Look at me instead,’ said Owen, and she swung her gaze to him. I saw their eyes locked and for a moment her expression grew speculative. Leah loved beautiful things. ‘And now listen,’ he continued.
‘I’m listening.’ She folded her arms.
‘You’re a bully and you’re not welcome here.’
‘I don’t think that’s for you to say, is it?’
‘You’re not welcome.’
‘Miles?’ said Pippa. ‘Are you just going to sit there?’
‘I only want…’ he started miserably, but stopped as Mick came into the room, still in his jacket, eating fish and chips out of a brown-paper bag.
‘You are, aren’t you?’ Pippa continued. ‘Right, speaking as a lawyer, I’d like to say this first. Negotiations are off.’
‘What?’ asked Mick, a chip half-way to his open mouth, his eyes bulging.
‘Off,’ said Dario, banging his fist on the table. ‘Yup. Off.’
‘Have I missed something?’ said Mick.
‘Pippa,’ said Miles, pleadingly, ‘don’t react like this. We had an agreement and it was in everyone’s interests.’
‘I don’t see what all the fuss is about,’ said Leah, calmly. ‘I told the detective chief inspector what he needed to know. This is a murder inquiry, you know, and you’re all behaving as if you’re sitting at the back of a classroom. You’re not at school, guys – this is real life.’
This was uncomfortably close to my own attitude. And she wasn’t entirely wrong about Dario. And I sometimes felt as if Mick and Davy were people I’d run into on a railway platform while they were waiting to change trains. I thought I ought to say something but couldn’t think exactly what. My contribution wasn’t missed, though. Dario was angrily shouting that he wouldn’t continue with his work on the house.
‘I don’t think that’s a great loss,’ said Leah.
‘You haven’t seen what I’ve started to do to your en-suite bathroom this evening,’ said Dario, ‘have you?’
‘No.’
‘I was working on it when that inspector-person arrived. There’s no lavatory in there.’ He sniggered. ‘Just a big hole. And the plumbing’s turned off.’
‘Dario,’ said Miles, ‘don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Oi!’ said Mick. ‘Can anyone hear me? Or maybe I’m simply dreaming.’ He pinched his cheek exaggeratedly. I watched, fascinated, as a red mark blossomed between his fingers, but he didn’t seem to feel the pain. ‘Nope, not dreaming.’
‘We’re not doing anything else, either,’ said Dario. ‘Not a thing. Look.’ He picked up a can and tipped out the remaining beer into a puddle on the floor. ‘I’m not cleaning that up,’ he said triumphantly.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ snapped Leah, ‘don’t be such a baby.’
‘Or this,’ said Dario, and turned an overflowing ashtray upside-down.
Leah scraped her chair violently back, stood up and strode from the room.
‘Here, who wants some?’ asked Owen, laconically, holding out a jumbo-sized joint.
‘Me,’ said Dario.
‘She never said what was wrong with me,’ said Pippa. ‘Pity.’
The door opened and Leah’s voice came through it: ‘You behave like a slag.’
Two red spots appeared on Pippa’s cheeks, but she laughed lightly. ‘Thank God for feminism and the pill,’ she said.
Davy stood up quietly, kissed the top of Mel’s head, then fetched a cloth from the sink and started mopping up Dario’s spilt beer.
‘Miles,’ I said.
‘Yeah.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Do?’
‘We can’t live like this.’
‘It’ll die down.’
‘You think?’ asked Pippa scornfully. ‘You mean, if we all pretend nothing happened then we can go back to the way things were before Leah betrayed us.’
‘We have to deal with this,’ I continued.
‘We’ll have no-go areas,’ said Dario.
He rushed from the room and we watched him go in bewilderment.
‘He’s very upset,’ said Davy, rinsing the cloth in the sink, then drying his hands. ‘It’s –’
‘Don’t,’ I said.
‘Don’t what?’ said Davy, puzzled.
‘Don’t say it’ll be all right. That we can talk it over.’
While Davy looked disappointed, Dario reappeared, carrying a pot of paint in one hand and a large paintbrush in the other. He dumped them on the floor just inside the door and levered off the lid. The paint inside was a deep green.
‘What?’ said Miles, as Dario lunged the brush into the paint and started drawing a thick, messy line across the kitchen floor.
‘She can only stay on her side of the line,’ he said. ‘I’m not having her crossing over.’
‘Wow!’ said Pippa, giggling. ‘Look at that. She can’t get to the cooker, she can’t get into the garden – except by the side alley, I guess. And she can’t sit down at the table. All she can do is walk in a line towards the cupboard with the light-bulbs in it.’
‘You’ve stepped in it,’ I said.
‘I’m not sure this is going to be enforceable,’ said Davy. ‘What do you reckon, Pippa?’
‘Not enforceable, but fun,’ she said.
‘Give that brush to me.’ Miles was on his feet and holding out his hand. At last he was angry, rather than embarrassed and defeated. ‘Now!’
‘Come and get it.’ Dario waved the brush in the air and green spots of paint spattered everywhere.
‘Maybe I should make tea,’ said Mel. ‘That’s what we need.’
Now Miles had hold of the brush as well and the two men were struggling over it. Tiny speckles of green paint covered them like duckweed, and they were panting. Then the brush slipped from their hands and landed wetly on the floor. A sudden silence gripped the room. Miles stared round at all of us, opened his mouth, closed it again, and left. For a moment, I thought of going after him because the look on his face had been so wretched, but Pippa put out a hand and restrained me. ‘Not now,’ she said.
‘Don’t start feeling sorry for him,’ said Dario. His eyes glittered in his green face.
I got up and went to look out into the garden, which lay quiet and still in the evening light.
‘What is it, Astrid?’ asked Pippa.
‘You know, you can get so caught up in the rightness of your own position that you say and feel all sorts of terrible things,’ I said. ‘And then it’s too late and you can’t go back.’
‘Go back?’ asked Davy.
‘We were all friends.’
‘He’s got to choose between her and us,’ said Dario.
‘There you are,’ I said. ‘That’s what I mean.’
∗ ∗ ∗
‘We seem to have got things the wrong way round,’ I said.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Owen.
‘We never do anything normal, like go to a movie or have a meal or hold hands in front of other people.’
‘Is that what you want?’
I ran my hand down his smooth body and he shivered and I was filled with an unsettling joy: he seemed so invulnerable, yet when I touched him, he shivered. After the awfulness downstairs, the meanness, the violence, it had seemed natural to walk upstairs together, to hold each other. At the same time, I felt I was giving in. ‘You were good down there,’ I said. ‘Not everybody was. I’m not sure what I want. Just don’t talk crap to me. Don’t start saying things like you’re not ready for a relationship.’
He didn’t say that. He didn’t say anything. He pulled me towards him until my head was on his chest, his chin was on my hair, our legs were tangled under the covers, our hearts were beating together and I couldn’t tell which was mine and which his. We drifted off to sleep like that, until I woke in the darkness and sneaked away, like a thief.
The next two days were strange and unhappy ones in the house. An air of foreboding hung over everything. I tried to be there as little as possible, and spent more time than usual in my own room. Even so, it was impossible not to be aware of the feuds and factions, the whispering in corners, the slamming of doors, the sudden chill silences that would fall if Leah came into the kitchen.
Every so often one of the group would draw me aside to tell me what was happening or who had said what to whom. Pippa told me that she was now asking for more money from Miles. Miles told me that he was unable to go any higher in his offer and, anyway, he didn’t see why he should, and please could I act as a mediator? Leah told me she wasn’t going to let Miles give us any money at all and that Dario would be chucked out if (a) he didn’t start paying rent and (b) he didn’t replace the lavatory at once. Dario said he was never going to replace the lavatory, nor would he wash up, rinse out the bath after use, put out the bin bags, vacuum the carpet or do any other household duties, which, as far as I knew, he never did anyway. He said we should go on strike. Mick said nothing, but scowled more than ever. Davy said Miles should be given a way out, not be painted into a corner. I came in and found Davy replacing the lavatory.
‘Properly, this time,’ he said. ‘That Dario. I’m surprised we haven’t got cholera.’
Owen went away again, to Milan this time and for longer. Perhaps that was just as well. I tried to stay out of it all, but found myself drawn in when I reminded Dario that he still had to find his friend, Lee, and make him contact the police, and he told me I should watch out or I’d turn into Leah mark two.
A few days after Ingrid de Soto’s murder, I received a phone call. I was about to leave the house and Davy called me back, holding out the phone.
‘I’m late,’ I mouthed.
He covered the mouthpiece. ‘I think it might be important,’ he said.
I sighed and took the phone from him.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Astrid Bell?’ A man’s voice that I didn’t recognize: gravelly, self-assured, with a slight American drawl.
‘Yes,’ I replied warily.
‘My name is William Hamilton.’
For a moment my mind was blank.
‘I’m sorry, I…’ And then I remembered. Ingrid’s father. I felt a rush of emotion and took a deep breath. ‘I’m so terribly sorry for your loss.’
‘I’d like to meet you.’
‘I understand why, of course, but you should know there’s nothing really that I can –’
‘With my son-in-law, Andrew de Soto,’ he cut in. Then: ‘Please, Miss Bell. We won’t take up too much of your time.’
‘Of course I’ll meet you,’ I said, although it was the last thing in the world I wanted. ‘When’s good for you?’
And so it was that at three o’clock that afternoon I found myself walking into the foyer of a tasteful, expensive hotel in Covent Garden – so tasteful and expensive that the doorman didn’t blink at my Lycra shorts and stained top, but took my bike pannier and helmet from my sweaty grip and ushered me politely into a side room where the two men were sitting, a tray of tea things on the low table between them that remained untouched throughout our meeting.
‘Ms Bell,’ said William Hamilton, rising to his feet. He was a tall, burly man, with thick white hair, ferocious silver eyebrows over bloodshot eyes, and liver spots on the back of his hands. He wore a dark suit that had probably cost more than all the clothes I owned put together, but he didn’t seem to notice my outfit, shaking my hand firmly and gesturing me to an armchair. ‘Thank you for coming.’
Andrew de Soto was much smaller than his father-in-law. With wiry greying hair, cut short, and pouches under his eyes, he wasn’t at all the kind of man I would have imagined with Ingrid. He looked dazed, exhausted, and I noticed that his white shirt was buttoned wrongly,
‘I wish there was something I could do to help,’ I said lamely.
‘We realize, of course, that you have given your statement to the police,’ said William Hamilton, ‘but because you were the person to find…’ He stopped. I saw his large hands grip the chair arms. ‘You were the person who…’