An Individual Will

by J.G. Ellis

  Chapter Nine

  Phones ring – are ringing – all the time. I was, however, momentarily exercised – or over-exercised – by the need to answer it, like a dream-phone – ringing and ringing and ringing – you can’t quite reach.

  “DCI Black.” Neil had followed me in, carrying both coffees.

  “Ma’am,” – Ron Turner – “we have a call from Ms Lisa Markham.” I assumed the emphasis on the first name came on instruction from the lady herself.

  “Thanks, Ron,” I said, sitting down. “Put her through.” Dead air while the line transferred. “DCI Black.” Police officers become accustomed to announcing themselves.

  “Barbara!” A bright, showbizzy greeting for an old friend. “Join me for a late tea – or supper, if you prefer. Say you will. I’m staying at the Plaza. It’s really rather good.”

  I did a mental quick-step – away from the formal rebuke I was about to make: something to do with the non-trivial matter of being engaged in the investigation of someone’s death. Instead, I said, “Actually, that sounds like rather a charming end to a busy day. I’ll see you there, Ms Markham.” I hung up before she had a chance to ask me to call her “Lisa”.

  Okay. Elongated, dubious okaay. So was this a good idea – or even just a do-no-harm neutral one? I was quite certain Ms Markham would prove to be involved in the investigation – perhaps deeply involved – but I doubted her involvement would ultimately prove to be criminal. What, then, did she want – assuming, that is, that she wanted something of substance, and wasn’t motivated merely by mischief or curiosity? Perhaps – fearing the searchlight of the investigation – she was just eager to impart what she felt sure I’d soon find out for myself anyway. That would, I thought, make for rather a tedious meeting.

  The Amberton Plaza is a four star hotel with forty rooms just west of the town centre. Despite its Edwardian magnificence – it was once a private manor house – it’s very easy to visit the town and miss it. Leaving the centre of town to the west, the road dips down sharply before beginning a steep climb to the outlying villages. In this dip, set at an angle to the road, stands a tall green gate that opens onto a driveway that turns sharply to the right before taking a more gentle and longer turn to the left. A wide, gravel driveway curves between tall, immaculately trimmed hedgerows before opening quite suddenly onto a wide, open space – wider than the building itself – flanked by lawns and well-established oak trees. In the shifting slate-silver light of the fading day, the hotel seemed to rise from the ground like a white palace reaching for the lowering giant clouds.

  At reception, I produced my warrant card and asked for Ms Lisa Markham. The young black woman said stiffly, “Yes, ma’am; she is expecting you,” rather as if I’d committed some unpardonable faux pas. Of course, I could – and, indeed, it did cross my mind as perhaps the right thing to do – have asked for Ms Markham without announcing myself as a police officer, but I was concerned that that might make my behaviour appear furtive or surreptitious at some future date. If your visit to Ms Markham was, as you claim, Chief Inspector, part of the ongoing investigation, then why, may I ask, did you not formally announce yourself at the hotel’s reception? Into the phone, the receptionist announced me as Ms Black. She put the phone down, and said pleasantly enough, “Ms Markham is on her way down.”

  And so she was – must so have been – for she arrived in the foyer in a matter of seconds and greeted me effusively. “Barbara! I'm so glad you came!” The use of my first name – on the phone and now – on so short an acquaintance was disconcerting. I wondered if this were some kind of strategy or campaign on her part. Why else would she be doing it? Unless, of course, she wanted to judge its effect on me. I am not given to effusiveness myself, but do not usually mind those who are. My problem with Ms Markham was that I thought her motives might prove to be questionable, even rather Machiavellian.

  She had transformed her appearance from our first meeting – the windswept gypsyish look traded for something rather more formal: a rather smart black button-down dress with a high, open collar worn with medium-healed court shoes of the same colour. Her hair had been tied back in a ponytail, though this was not severely done, and wisps of hair gently touched her cheeks and veiled her forehead, and her complexion had been darkened by skilfully applied foundation. She looked fresh and charming, even a little pert. A casual observer would not have known her for the same woman.

  I said, for I had to say something, “You seemed rather eager to see me, Ms Markham.”

  She did a small, girlish skip towards me, and said, “That’s because I like you, and I knew you’d be curious. Please call me Lisa.” Then, with a little moue: “Or do you feel that that would compromise you in some way?”

  She was bored, I realized – profoundly, life bored, as against locally, situationally bored – which meant boredom had to be factored in as a possible explanation for anything and everything she did. Granted the freedom and means to indulge herself, she had nothing to chafe against except her own temperament. And this perhaps in the most charming and exotic of settings. One could imagine her shrieking, without a trace of humour or self-awareness – in, say, a hotel room in Rome: I’m sooo bored! I want to be amused! Which rather explained my invitation to supper, and maybe even the earlier excursion into the police station. Bravery and confidence – and, at the margins, madness – are often nothing more than boredom in fancy dress. Boredom can kill – though, of course, it depends on the extent of the affliction. Boredom – being bored – is a passing ache for most of us, or a routine pain we come to live with; but, for others, it's a sickness, a chronic, enervating malady involving endless and ongoing treatment of symptoms without ever addressing the cause or core of the disease.

  So what was I doing here – why I had I come? I rather had the sense that I had blundered the initial meeting with her at the police station, and I suppose I wanted to rectify the situation somewhat – all-what, indeed. Curiosity also, no doubt, played its part, though I was – professionally speaking – keen to avoid its epigrammatic effect on cats. More immediately, there was something not a little patronising about the suggestion that I might feel that using her first name would be personally, or professionally, compromising – a presumption or understanding that a public servant – emphasis on servant – might be hidebound by stuffy rules and regulations.

  And so I didn't know quite what to say, how to continue, so I simply asked a question for which I wanted an answer: “How did you come to know Adrian Mansfield?”

  She smiled. “I will tell you that,” she said, “and what brought me to your delightful little police station. I just know you can’t wait to find out, but let’s sit down and have some supper first. I’m gasping for a glass of wine.” She looked over her shoulder and gestured. A waiter – a handsome, immaculately coiffured young man – appeared, materialised, as though he’d spent the whole evening waiting for just this signal, and escorted us to our table. I wondered – idly, for it really didn’t matter – if this were done to impress me, or was simply par for the, or her, course – the level of service Ms Markham and her ilk had come to take for granted.

  Whatever, the table turned out to be mutely lit from within and without, the without being the carefully modulated restaurant lighting, and the within being a floating candle or night-light in the centre of the table. The young man handed me a menu, but not Lisa. She smiled and said, “He knows what I’m having.” I opted for the selection of French cheeses with crackers and a glass of the house red. I enjoy wine, but would have to make do with the single glass, until I got home at any rate, since I would be driving back to the delightful little police station.

  The wine arrived first – in slightly different glasses, I noted with amusement. Lisa had opted for white, and the hotel presumably had glasses for each, though I wondered how many people would really notice or – if they did – care about the distinction. Lisa gulped at hers, and the waiter, bowing slightly, said, “Shall I bring the bottle with
your supper, ma’am?”

  Lisa smiled and said, “Mmm – yes, please do.”

  He bowed towards me also – but cursorily, as though he already knew or suspected the answer; and, of course, I declined – regretfully but firmly.

  There we were, then. I had taken a tiny sip of my wine, and she had gulped half of hers. I asked, “So what brought you into the police station in such a state?”

  She held her glass with thumb and middle-finger and pensively swirled the contents, her eyes examining the motion of the liquid. At length, she looked up – over the rim of her glass – and said, “I was weak – and selfish. I wanted to save him for myself – or rather be his saviour.” Her eyes glistened with emotion. “He wanted to die, and I’m glad now he succeeded. I was fond of him – in a maternal sort of way. He thought I understood, and I did. It was just a moment of weakness. No harm done really – except to my pride. Not important. I apologise for wasting your time. I made a mistake.”

  Right. So she thought he had committed suicide. Had – in a moment of weakness – wanted to stop him from so doing. Had I not told her he’d been stabbed? Did she think he’d stabbed himself? Perhaps she did. “You wanted to save his life,” I said; “that doesn’t sound unreasonable to me – and certainly justifies your trip to the police station.”

  “Thank you. Does that mean I have nothing to worry about? That should make Mummy very happy.” She was smiling when she said this.

  “Where did you meet him?” I asked. The waiter briefly forestalled her answer by returning with our meals, which he discreetly placed in front of us. Indeed, one got the impression that he’d happily have accomplished the task invisibly had such a feat been within his power. Lisa immediately topped up her glass from the bottle of white wine, which had come with, and in, a bucket of ice.

  “Paris,” she replied at length. “He was doing part of his course in French. Not terribly well to be honest, but then what’s the point of mastering another language when you don’t want to go on living?”

  “When did you last see him?” I asked.

  “Last night,” she said. “We spent the night together. He left in the middle of the night. I was still half-asleep. He kissed me goodbye, and said I’m going out now; I may be some time. And, yes, I do know the reference; and, no, it wasn’t the first time he’d said it.”

  “So what happened? What was it that made you fear for his safety?”

  “It was more what didn’t happen. He didn’t respond to any of my texts; and when I tried phoning him, I kept getting the phone you’re trying to reach is unavailable message, which usually means it’s switched off or out of signal range. I tried phoning him at home, which is a bit risky at that time of the morning – likely to cause panic, I mean. So when his mother answered, I pretended I’d got a wrong number and apologised for the unsocial hour. Adrian often talked of suicide, and I always knew it was a possibility, but he promised to let me know when he was going to do it. Maybe I missed something. I’ve been trying to remember every detail of that morning. I even looked for a note.”

  “Sorry, Lisa,” I said; “I need to be clear about this: you and he were in a relationship?”

  “No, we were just friends. Sometimes we messed around sexually – occasionally we fucked – but I wouldn’t read too much into it. Sex was – is – just another way of staving off the boredom, of living in the now. The past is gone, and the future’s uncertain, so we might as well frolic in the present. Isn’t that why everyone seeks entertainment of one sort or another?”

  “Are you unhappy, Lisa?” I asked. “I’m sorry if that sounds rather trite, but I’m getting a distinct, if rather bleak, impression of a group of very disenchanted young people, some of whom have committed suicide.”

  “Ah, you mustn’t take too seriously what you read on the internet. A lot of it has to do with adolescent posturing.” She reached over and gently placed her hand on mine. “And don’t worry, Chief Inspector,” she said, smiling; “this isn’t going to be my last supper.”

  I withdrew my hand sharply, and said rather more censoriously than intended, “Surely suicide isn’t a pose?”

  “No, it isn’t,” she said seriously. “Unless that is you want to be tedious and regard everything as a pose. Suicide is, actually, the ultimate expression of individual will, which is why it offends society so much. Society is appalled by the notion that people should choose the time and place of their own deaths, particularly when there are no over-riding health issues involved. Suicide as a philosophical choice, as a means of escape, is positively outrageous, an unspeakable affront – especially appalling among the young, who are expected to express appreciation and gratitude for their choiceless existence. What are we? Children, I mean. If we’re planned, and not just a regrettable bi-product of copulation, we’re the product of someone else’s vanity project – but inevitably we’re a faulty, messed-up product; not what was envisioned at all. The smiles in the photo-albums are always false. Suicide is an act of rebellion. If significant numbers of people started doing it, it would change the world. Luckily for those who would exploit us, most of us will scrabble in the dirt for a crust of bread – slavery couldn’t have happened otherwise. That’s our primordial heritage, the biological curse most of us struggle to transcend. Touch the cape of angels, however, and you demand charm or you opt out.”

  I remember thinking something like: Oh, so she’s part of it. The it in question having to do with the idea of a group of articulate young people, tenuously, or virtually, connected, with some species of anti-life philosophy that had something to do with the death of Adrian Mansfield (probably), his sister (possibly), and Jeremy Collins (certainly). Or was I just another older person being seduced by the notion of the power of the internet amongst the young? The credulity trap? Another – the latest – reason for moral panic. No, I was not. It simply isn’t and wasn’t a credible position. Anyone taking such a position is either shockingly naïve or, more likely, striking a journalistic or political pose. In journalese, what you don’t understand you should be – hysterically – afraid of; it sells newspapers. And in politics, riding a lurid bandwagon can do wonders for your short-term career prospects. I was, however, concerned about being seduced down – for reasons, perhaps, of intellectual curiosity – the wrong investigative path.

  “You don’t approve?” She practically rolled her eyes as she poured herself more wine. “Adrian hated existence,” she said defiantly, “and he opted out. Simple.”

  Yes, I thought, and then someone stabbed him, tied him into a boat, and hung a sign around his neck declaring him an arse. Not so simple.

  “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?” I asked.

  “There were plenty of people who didn’t like him. He was free with his opinions – and they’re not exactly the sort of opinions that endear you to people. They haven’t exactly endeared him to you, have they, Barbara? Why do you ask?”

  “He was stabbed, Lisa,” I said. “I believe I told you that. Can you think of anyone sufficiently unendeared to want to do such a thing?”

  “Maybe he did it himself,” she said. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Wouldn’t you?” I must have sounded impatient. “May I ask why not?”

  “A last dramatic gesture; an attempt to feel in extremis. Why not?” She finished the wine in her glass and poured more. “Am I not being very helpful? Are you disappointed? Would you like to hear some scandalous speculation?”

  “Yes, I would,” I said; “though I’d prefer scandal to speculation – for fairly obvious occupational reasons.”

  “Well,” she said, smiling, “rumour has it that he was seeing a girl from the wrong side of the tracks.” She had adopted a gossipy, busybody tone. “And I do mean the very wrong side of the tracks. I heard tell that she was living off benefits and supplemented her handouts by begging in the High Street. Can you imagine? I don’t know what he was thinking of.”

  “Is this true?” I asked.
<
br />   “That he consorted to a greater or lesser extent with a young beggar girl? Yes, it is. Do I know who she is? No, I don’t, though I think her name might be something common like Sharon or Tracy. Not sure if that’s snobbery on my part, or I picked it up from somewhere. Probably a bit of both.”

  “Did you disapprove?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, smiling; “I did, but not in the way you might think. I was afraid for her. I worried that she might find him intoxicating and would be corrupted by him. If you really want to know, I’m rather afraid she might be dead.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Well, that was Adrian’s speciality, wasn’t it? The futility of life, I mean. How seductive would that have sounded to a broken young woman with no family and very little prospects. She had – perhaps still has – a room in a shitty lodging house, one of those places where the rent is paid straight to the landlord by the council. Adrian sincerely believed life wasn’t worth living for most people, and could be very persuasive. Dangerously so.”

  “Are you saying he might have persuaded her to kill herself?”

  “I’m not sure. No. I don’t think that would have been his agenda.”

  “Did he think your life was worth living?”

  “That’s a good question.” She smiled ruefully. “Yes, he did. He thought I was in a privileged position. I was, he said, in a position where I’d never have to sell my labour. Indeed, it would be absurd and perverse of me to do so, and he thought that made my life worth living because it allows me to devote my time to my own interests. My freedom has been bought for me – why spurn such a gift? He believed that the necessity to work for most people is just a disguised form of slavery. That is, they’re slaves, but delude themselves that they’re free, that they have a choice. They’re forced to work, to make a living – they have no choice about it – and yet they go on believing they’re free. It’s a good point. Who really would choose to work in a fast-food restaurant or a supermarket? All that’s really changed are the rules on the treatment of slaves.”

  “It would really help if I had an address for Sharon or Tracy,” I told her.

  “Yes, I’m sure it would,” she said. “I have been flogging my brains, but that’s all I can remember about her. How many grotty lodging houses are there in Amberton? Can’t be that many, and surely the council would have a list of landlords taking from its purse.”

  “Why did you like him?” I asked; “Adrian, I mean. He sounds rather a toxic young man.”

  “Not to me,” she said. “I found him attractive physically, and stimulating intellectually. I don’t, however, think it’s a good idea to go among the lower orders with the message that their lives aren’t worth living, do you? It’s not quite the thing, and we do have to get our cleaners from somewhere.”

  I think I might have tutted, and probably rolled my eyes.“That’s a joke, is it, Lisa?”

  “About the cleaners,” she said, smiling, “yes, it is – isn’t that why we expanded the EU? As for the other: is it unreasonable to expect him to have exercised some sense of noblesse oblige? Perhaps it is. Perhaps you think I’m being patronising. She’s just as likely to be intellectual as ingénue I suppose. We mustn’t draw too many conclusions from her indigent circumstances. What’s the matter?”

  I had got to my feet and finished the wine in my glass, which was most of it. I had decided I needed to find Sharon or Tracy, or whatever her name was, that night. If she were dead, then there was nothing I could do about it, and we might as well find out sooner as later; but if I found her dead tomorrow, and it turned out she’d died in the night, I’d blame my own tardiness and laziness because I did so want to call it a day and go home. “I’m sorry,” I said; “I have to go. Thank you for supper.”

  I hurried to the car and called the station. I spoke to Ron Turner and asked him if he knew of lodging houses in the area where the tenants’ rents were paid straight to the landlord by the council. He said, “Yes, ma’am. That’ll be 50 Princes Street. Nine tenants, all on benefit, though you’ll find quite a few of them have guests sleeping on their floors. The landlord lives in Oxford, and doesn’t care what goes on there so long as he gets his rent. We’re out there practically every weekend. Allegations of drug dealing and complaints about noise. If the neighbours had their way, we’d evict everyone and bulldoze the house. Should I text you a list of the tenants, ma’am?”

  I suppressed an urge to giggle. “Yes, Ron,” I said; “that would be very useful. Thank you.”

  “Doing it now, ma’am.”