Authors: Nicci French
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I was. I came to collect the package.’
‘The package. Yes. I know that. The package that wasn’t.’ He scrutinized my face, then carefully cracked the knuckles on both his hands. ‘I’m a wealthy man, Ms Bell.’
I didn’t know what to say to that, so remained silent. Across from me, Andrew de Soto gave a single sharp cough.
‘Ingrid was my only child,’ he continued. ‘I will spare no expense to catch the person who killed her.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Saying? Nothing. Nothing.’ He leaned forward. ‘What do you know, Ms Bell?’
‘Nothing,’ I said despairingly. ‘I didn’t know your daughter, Mr Hamilton. I never talked to her. I was just a messenger. It could have been anyone else who found her. It was chance that it was me. I saw her lying on the floor, I called nine-nine-nine, I smashed the window. That’s all. I can’t imagine what you must be going through, but there’s nothing I can tell you that the police haven’t told you already and nothing I know that you don’t.’
He rubbed his face with his hands. ‘It seemed important to see you, yet why? What did I expect to discover?’
‘Did she look peaceful?’ This was from Andrew de Soto.
I cast him a confused glance. Didn’t he know that his wife had been brutally murdered? Hadn’t they told him how her face had been slashed?
‘Yes,’ I muttered. ‘She did.’
‘Excuse me for one moment,’ said William Hamilton. He heaved himself out of his low armchair and made his way towards the lavatories.
As soon as he was out of the room, his son-in law leaned forward in his chair, jolting the low table. ‘She was having an affair,’ he whispered.
‘What?’
‘She was having an affair.’
‘Listen, I don’t know anything about that. Really. You have to tell the police and –’
‘I don’t have proof. Don’t you think I’ve searched for it? But I’m not stupid. I know.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. It seemed to be the only phrase left in my vocabulary.
‘And now someone’s killed her.’
Later I told the house about the meeting, but I wished I hadn’t. It made it sound somehow darkly funny, when it wasn’t at all.
It was my favourite time of year, late May, then early June, with the leaves fresh and bright on the trees, the sky a clear blue, the evenings long and soft and warm. I hated being unable to enjoy it properly. A whole part of my life seemed to be coming to an end, and coming to an end in a sour and messy way. Sometimes I would come home and not even go into the house, but retreat at once to the garden, where my vegetables were pushing their way up, sappy little shoots lying in neat rows along the plot I’d spent so many hours digging and weeding. And it was out here, four days after Kamsky’s visit, that I heard yet more noise erupting from the house. I laid down my trowel, wiped my hands along the grass to clear off the worst of the soil, and listened, trying to make out what was going on. At first I assumed it was one household member yelling at another, but I didn’t recognize the voice and couldn’t make out many of the words – just an obscenity here and there.
Then Davy emerged from the kitchen and made his way up the garden. He looked tired. ‘What on earth’s going on?’ I asked.
‘I think Pippa might need you,’ he said.
I ran down the side alley to the front of the house. The ‘fucks’ grew louder and I could make out other words, like ‘How dare you?’, ‘interfering’, ‘spiteful’ and ‘ball-breaking’. At first I didn’t recognize him because he was standing at the top of the steps that led up to the front door and I couldn’t see his face, though I could see Pippa’s, on the other side of the door, looking shocked but defiant. But something about his tall, narrow figure was familiar.
‘Hello, Jeff,’ I said.
He wheeled round. ‘Oh, you.’
‘Jeff’s had a visit from the police,’ said Pippa, demurely. ‘He wasn’t in, but his wife was.’
‘They should have been more tactful.’
‘Who asked you?’ said Jeff, bitterly.
‘I told you to go to the police yourself,’ said Pippa. ‘Then none of this would have happened.’
‘I was going to. When I had time.’
‘With murder, the police get a bit impatient.’
‘You didn’t care what happened to me.’
‘Oh, grow up.’
‘Hang on, now,’ said Davy. ‘You’re creating a bit of a scene.’
Dario put his head out of an upstairs window. ‘What’s going on?’ he called. ‘Shall I pour boiling pitch over his head, Pippa?’
‘Better not. You might miss and hit Astrid instead.’
‘That’s it.’ Jeff’s face became apoplectic with rage. Stooping, he picked up half a brick from the path and hurled it. It arced through the air and struck the large window to the left of the front door, shattering it on impact. We all stared in fascination. Leah’s face appeared in the large, jagged hole it had left.
Chapter Fifteen
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘You’re Hal Bradshaw.’
‘No, no. Do you know who I
am
?’
I looked around his consulting room. There was a whole wall of books: Freud, Jung, poetry, art books, catalogues. A variety of small sculptures was arranged on the mantelpiece and on two glass tables, small figures in soapstone, marble and bronze with several antique medicine bottles, a block of quartz. Through french windows I could see a large, colourful Hampstead garden. Dr Hal Bradshaw was dressed in faded jeans and a shirt decorated with splashes of colour, like a child’s drawing. It looked expensive. He was in his forties, with long, untidy, curly black hair and a couple of days of stubble. He wore spectacles, black plastic frames, narrow rectangles, like a welder’s goggles.
‘Kamsky told me you were a psychological expert on this sort of stuff.’
‘You could say that. Sit down.’
He waved me towards a high-backed wicker chair. When I sat on it, it crackled disconcertingly. ‘I don’t really understand why you want to talk to me,’ I said. ‘I don’t know much and what I do know is in the statements I gave.’
‘I’ve read them,’ he said dismissively. ‘That sort of thing doesn’t interest me. I invited you here because I wanted to smell you.’ He gave a sniff, like some snuffly animal.
‘What?’ I said, alarmed.
‘Not literally,’ he said, ‘although I’m sure you smell very nice.’
‘Not when I’m riding round London.’
‘I need to get a feel for the case. I need to plug into it. Into its vibrations. There are people in white booties who go around Ingrid de Soto’s house with their tweezers and their little plastic bags. I don’t do that. I make imaginative leaps. I lie in the dark and think about it. I dream about it. Have you dreamed about it, Astrid?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Well, not as far as I know. I don’t remember my dreams on the whole.’
‘That’s interesting,’ he said, padding around the room, stopping every so often to look at me. ‘Forgetting can be our way of telling ourselves what we need to know.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what that means.’
‘Tell me what you dreamed last night.’
‘I can’t. I don’t remember.’
‘Were you upset by what you saw?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me about it.’
I paused for a moment. ‘I found a woman who had been murdered and mutilated,’ I said, ‘and you want me to tell you why I was upset by it?’
‘What did you think when you saw her body?’
‘It wasn’t about thinking. I was shocked. Then I called the police. And an ambulance, too, I think.’
‘You think?’
‘It’s a bit of a blur.’
‘ “Blur”. That’s an interesting word.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘Really?’ said Dr Bradshaw. ‘Why not?’
‘It’s a cliché,’ I said. ‘It’s what people say after a shocking experience. They say: “It was a blur.” ’
‘Why do they say it, then?’
‘Because it’s true. Because it’s a blur.’
Bradshaw looked dissatisfied. He walked up and down, then stopped abruptly in front of me. ‘Astrid, why do people commit murders in front of you?’
‘I think it’s just a coincidence.’
‘From God’s point of view there are no coincidences.’
‘I’m not sure what that means,’ I said. ‘But the bit of it I understand, I don’t agree with.’
‘We need to tell a story that links them,’ said Dr Bradshaw.
‘A true story?’ I asked doubtfully.
‘Murderers are storytellers,’ said Dr Bradshaw. ‘Murder scenes are their stories, their works of art. Our job is to decode them. We analyse their signature, we understand them.’
‘Do you catch them?’
Dr Bradshaw gave me a look of distaste as if that were a shallow and vulgar concern. ‘Astrid, let me tell you one possible story. Some murders are acts, some are statements, some are displays, some are offerings. The detectives are baffled about what could link these two murders to you. Let us imagine them as offerings. My cat is called Ariel.’
‘After the soap powder.’
‘After the Shakespearean character. He brings in mice and lays them by my bed. They are offerings. Imagine these murders as declarations of love.’ Dr Bradshaw leaned over me. ‘I love you, Astrid.’
‘What?’
‘I’m telling a story. I love you, Astrid, and here is the body of Margaret Farrell, the woman who almost killed you.’
‘It was an accident.’
‘Does it matter? And now here is the body of a beautiful, rich woman, laid out for you. I have mutilated her face to show that nobody can compare to you.’ He leaned closer still. I could smell his breath: coffee, cigarettes. ‘Mmm?’
I moved away. ‘It seems a bit far-fetched to me.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Dr Bradshaw, with a smile. He picked a small wooden sculpture from a table and began to finger it delicately. ‘Do you have a boyfriend, Astrid?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘You hesitated before you said that. Why?’
‘Perhaps because I can’t see what business it is of yours.’
‘I think there’s someone, even if he’s not a boyfriend yet.’
‘Maybe.’
‘You like him. Does he like you?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘Do you have ex-boyfriends?’
‘I really don’t think this is relevant.’
‘Please, Astrid. Do you?’
‘Well, of course.’
‘Are you on good terms with them?’ he asked.
It was terrible but I couldn’t stop myself smiling, then regretted it instantly because Dr Bradshaw pounced. ‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Who’s on good terms with their exes?’ I asked.
Dr Bradshaw walked across the room, picked up a piece of paper from his desk and read it. ‘And yet one of them is your landlord. Miles Thornton.’
‘I take it you’ve read my statement?’
‘I’m part of the investigation. I read everything.’
‘I think you’re wasting your time.’
Dr Bradshaw replaced the paper on the desk and walked back towards me. He pulled a wooden chair across the floor and placed it opposite the wicker one in which I was sitting and just a few feet in front. He sat and faced me. ‘The police are bustling around,’ he said. ‘They’re knocking at doors. They’re stopping people in the street. They’re putting up those funny yellow signs asking for witnesses. They’re looking through microscopes at fibres and grains of dust and samples of skin. They’re checking phone records. Maybe they’ll find a match somewhere and make an arrest, but it’s looking less and less likely. On the other hand, I have this feeling that if we look at your life, at its details and its characters, at your hopes and your fears and your fantasies, then somewhere in there we’ll find the answer to all of this. So, what do you say to that?’
‘I wonder if you’re like the others,’ I said.
‘What others?’
‘I’m like a celebrity,’ I said. ‘I’m like someone who’s won the lottery or starred in a soap. People want to talk to me and take photographs of me. Reporters come up to me in the street. I’ve had notes pushed through the door by people saying they want to give me a chance to tell my side of the story. As if I even have a side of the story. A woman journalist phoned me up saying that I could use my experience to help other women and that it was my duty to give her an interview.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘I feel like I’m someone who’s been exposed to radioactivity,’ I said. ‘Except it’s a kind of radioactivity that everybody’s attracted to. I’ve been close to a murder and people think that by talking to me, by being close to me, they can feel some of its heat. Isn’t that a bit like what you were talking about when you said you needed to see me because you could somehow smell the murder on me? I’ve become a bit famous and people are attracted to it.’
‘I’m a scientist,’ said Dr Bradshaw. ‘A scientist who tells stories. I couldn’t care less about celebrity.’
‘What about your TV work?’ I said. ‘DCI Kamsky told me you did a series about famous murders.’
‘That was education,’ said Dr Bradshaw, evidently irritated. ‘Did you see any of them?’
‘No.’
‘They showed them ridiculously late at night. But don’t you want to help find this killer?’
‘Killers,’ I said.
‘Maybe,’ said Dr Bradshaw.
‘What do you want from me?’ I said. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘I want you to talk.’
‘What about?’
‘Everything. Leave nothing out. Spare me nothing.’
I thought for a moment. ‘Kamsky said that you do profiles for them,’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t it be a good idea if you told me the sort of person you have in mind? Then if I know someone like that, I could tell you.’
Bradshaw stood up and a smile spread slowly across his face.
‘A white man,’ he said. ‘Early thirties. Over six feet tall, strongly built. Lives alone. Sexually isolated. Possibly with some sort of disfigurement. He works with tools: a carpenter or a plumber or a leather worker.’
‘Why a leather worker?’
‘Someone who works with incising tools – it was his natural way of expressing himself.’
‘How do you know the rest of it?’
He gave a shrug. ‘It’s just a hypothesis,’ he said. ‘Serial killers choose victims of the same racial group as themselves. I suspect that Margaret Farrell was opportunistic, but he chose Ingrid de Soto. She was his age but otherwise everything that he wasn’t: rich, beautiful, married. He was able to overpower Margaret Farrell and kill her in a matter of seconds in the street. That suggests a degree of physical strength.’
‘And the disfigurement?’
‘The way he cut Ingrid de Soto. That represented both his sexual frustration and, I suspect, his own sense of being mutilated. He wanted to make her like himself.’ Dr Bradshaw folded his arms with obvious satisfaction. ‘Even when they think they’re concealing themselves, they’re leaving traces, signatures, clues.’
‘Well, I don’t know any disfigured leather workers,’ I said.
‘I don’t want you to be a detective,’ said Dr Bradshaw. ‘I just want you to talk. I don’t want your theories. I want to know everything you know.’
I couldn’t stop myself sighing. It was clear that another Saturday was going to be wasted.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ said Davy. ‘I thought it might cheer you up.’
We were sitting in his room, which was on the floor above mine, overlooking the street. It was one of the few bedrooms in the house that felt restful to be in. When Davy moved in, he had painted it a grey-green colour, sanded the boards and put up shelves, though there weren’t many books on them. He had a futon, a large chest of drawers, which he had painted white, the swivel chair I was sitting on, and a square blue rug on the floor. The room felt light and airy. Since Mel had arrived on the scene, there was also a large wooden wind chime hanging from the ceiling, which gave out a liquid booming if you knocked into it, and flowers on the mantelpiece above the fireplace that was never used. Today, a giant red peony was wilting in its vase. It seemed a shame he’d put so much effort into making it so nice only to be moved on.
‘Do I seem like I need cheering up?’
‘If it was me, I’d need cheering up,’ he replied. ‘Anyway, it’s for me as well. I thought it would be a treat. These people I was putting a staircase in for – illegally, I might add, I’m sure it breaks safety regulations and they’re probably giving me this as a bribe – they had a pair of tickets going spare. For the Chelsea Flower Show. I thought we could go together. You like gardens.’
He beamed at me, pleased with himself.
‘Oh?’ I felt a bit taken aback. ‘Wow! Do I have to wear a hat?’
‘It’s not Ascot.’
‘That’s really lovely,’ I said, making myself smile hugely. ‘Thanks, Davy.’
On an impulse I kissed his cheek and saw him flush up to the roots of his wavy brown hair.
‘You’re welcome,’ he said.
‘When is it?’
‘About ten day’s time. Is that OK?’
‘Great,’ I said, though my heart was sinking at the thought. A day of having to spend time with someone I didn’t especially want to spend time with. A day of being on my best behaviour. It was like being a child again, visiting an unfavourite aunt.
‘Can you get time off work?’
‘If I warn Campbell.’
‘We can have a picnic first.’
‘Lovely. I really appreciate it, Davy.’
‘Well.’ He shrugged. ‘You’ve been having a tough time.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘It’ll pass, I guess. I don’t want to think about it right now, though. I’ve had enough for one day.’
I picked up a beautiful glass paperweight that was on the mantelpiece, and passed it from hand to hand, looking at how the light caught in it. ‘Paperweights never have paper underneath them, do they?’
‘Oh,’ he said, apparently disconcerted. ‘I’ve never thought about it.’
‘Sorry, I’m changing the subject. The thing I really need, Davy, is to find somewhere else to live.’
‘No luck?’
‘No – which isn’t surprising, really, since I haven’t started looking. I keep putting it off. What about you?’
‘I’ve put out a few feelers.’
There was a silence, and I put the paperweight carefully back in its place. ‘I should be on my way, I guess. I’m going dancing.’
‘Nice,’ he said, a bit wistfully.
I considered inviting him along too, but then dismissed the idea. I wanted to get away from the household, rather than take it with me.
I came home very late that night, with music still pounding in my ears. The house was dark, and I fumbled with my key in the lock. Then I heard a tiny whimper, coming from one side of the steps, and froze. What was it? A cat? I peered down and saw a huddled shape, a patch of pale flesh. For a moment I couldn’t breathe or move. My keys clattered to the ground and bounced down the steps to lie by the shape. The whimper came again; not a cat but a human voice.
‘Who is it?’ I asked, my voice dry with fear.
‘Help.’
‘
Dario
?’
I ran down the steps, half tripping, and crouched beside the figure on the ground. He was lying curled up tightly, like a foetus, with his arms protectively round his head. When I touched him my hands came away sticky with blood.
‘Christ, Dario, what’s happened? Hang on, I’m going to call an ambulance. Don’t move. Just stay there.’