A mumbled response that I couldn’t understand came from upstairs.
“What? Oh, all right. Just—just a minute.” He sounded uneasy.
Paul glanced at me across the hallway, frowning. He nodded at me. “She wants you to go up.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
STEADIER ON MY FEET, but still feeling faint, I followed Paul as he thudded up the dusty staircase.
Lydia Rose was waiting at the top. I recognized her scowling face from the window. She had long white hair, spreading across her shoulders like a spider’s web. She was enormously overweight—a swollen neck, fleshy forearms, massive legs like tree trunks. She was leaning heavily on her walking stick, which was buckling under her weight and looked like it might give way at any moment.
“Who is he? Who is he?”
Her shrill question was directed to Paul, even though she was staring at me. She didn’t take her eyes off me. Again, the same intense gaze I recognized from Alicia.
Paul spoke in a low voice. “Mum. Don’t get upset. He’s Alicia’s therapist, that’s all. From the hospital. He’s here to talk to me.”
“You? What does he want to talk to you for? What have you done?”
“He just wants to find out a bit about Alicia.”
“He’s a journalist, you fucking idiot.” Her voice approached a shriek. “Get him out!”
“He’s not a journalist. I’ve seen his ID, all right? Now, come on, Mum, please. Let’s get you back to bed.”
Grumbling, she allowed herself to be guided back into her bedroom. Paul nodded at me to follow.
Lydia flopped back with a deep thud. The bed quivered as it absorbed her weight. Paul adjusted her pillows. An ancient cat lay asleep by her feet, the ugliest cat I’d ever seen—battle scarred, bald in places, one ear bitten off. It was growling in its sleep.
I glanced around the room. It was full of junk—stacks of old magazines and yellowing newspapers, piles of old clothes. An oxygen canister stood by the wall, and a cake tin full of medications was on the bedside table.
I could feel Lydia’s hostile eyes on me the whole time. There was madness in her gaze; I felt quite sure of that.
“What does he want?” Her eyes darted up and down feverishly as she sized me up. “Who is he?”
“I just told you, Mum. He wants to know some background on Alicia, to help him treat her. He’s her psychotherapist.”
Lydia left no doubt about her opinion of psychotherapists. She turned her head, cleared her throat—and spat onto the floor in front of me.
Paul groaned. “Mum, please—”
“Shut up.” Lydia glared at me. “Alicia doesn’t deserve to be in hospital.”
“No?” I said. “Where should she be?”
“Where do you think? Prison.” Lydia eyed me scornfully. “You want to hear about Alicia? I’ll tell you about her. She’s a little bitch. She always was, even as a child.”
I listened, my head throbbing, as Lydia went on, with mounting anger:
“My poor brother, Vernon. He never recovered from Eva’s death. I took care of him. I took care of Alicia. And was she grateful?”
Obviously, no response was no required. Not that Lydia waited for one.
“You know how Alicia repaid me? All my kindness? Do you know what she did to me?”
“Mum, please—”
“Shut up, Paul!’ Lydia turned to me. I was surprised how much anger was in her voice. “The bitch painted me. She painted me, without my knowledge or permission. I went to her exhibition—and there it was, hanging there. Vile, disgusting—an obscene mockery.”
Lydia was trembling with anger, and Paul looked concerned. He gave me an unhappy glance. “Maybe it’s better if you go now, mate. It’s not good for Mum to get upset.”
I nodded. Lydia Rose was not well, no doubt about that. I was more than happy to escape.
I left the house and made my way back to the train station, with a swollen head and a splitting headache. What a fucking waste of time. I’d found out nothing—except it was obvious why Alicia had gotten out of that house as soon as she could. It reminded me of my own escape from home at the age of eighteen, fleeing my father. It was all too obvious who Alicia was running away from—Lydia Rose.
I thought about the painting Alicia had done of Lydia. “An obscene mockery,” she called it. Well, time to pay a visit to Alicia’s gallery and find out why the picture had upset her aunt so much.
As I left Cambridge, my last thoughts were of Paul. I felt sorry for him, having to live with that monstrous woman—be her unpaid slave. It was a lonely life—I didn’t imagine he had many friends. Or a girlfriend. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was still a virgin. Something about him remained stunted, despite his size; something thwarted.
I had taken an instant and violent dislike to Lydia—probably because she reminded me of my father. I would have ended up like Paul if I had stayed in that house, if I had stayed with my parents in Surrey, at the beck and call of a madman.
I felt depressed all the way back to London. Sad, tired, close to tears. I couldn’t tell if I was feeling Paul’s sadness—or my own.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
KATHY WAS OUT WHEN I GOT HOME.
I opened her laptop and tried to access her email—but with no luck. She was logged out.
I had to accept that she might never repeat her mistake. Would I keep checking ad nauseam, give in to obsession, driving myself mad? I had enough self-awareness to appreciate the cliché I had become—the jealous husband—and the irony that Kathy was currently rehearsing Desdemona in Othello hadn’t escaped me.
I should have forwarded the emails to myself that first night, as soon as I’d read them. Then I’d have some actual physical evidence. That was my mistake. As it was, I had begun questioning what I had seen. Was my recollection to be trusted? I’d been stoned out of my mind, after all—had I misunderstood what I had read? I found myself concocting outlandish theories to prove Kathy’s innocence. Maybe it was just an acting exercise—she was writing in character, in preparation for Othello. She had spent six weeks speaking in an American accent when preparing for All My Sons. It was possible something similar was going on here. Except the emails were signed by Kathy—not Desdemona.
If only I had imagined it all, then I could forget it, the way you forget a dream—I could wake up and it would fade away. Instead I was trapped in this endless nightmare of mistrust, suspicion, paranoia. Although on the surface, little had changed. We still went for a walk together on Sunday. We looked like every other couple strolling in the park. Perhaps our silences were longer than usual, but they seemed comfortable enough. Under the silence, however, a fevered one-sided conversation was taking place in my mind. I rehearsed a million questions. Why did she do it? How could she? Why say she loved me and marry me, fuck me, and share my bed—then lie to my face, and keep lying, year after year? How long had it been going on? Did she love this man? Was she going to leave me for him?
I looked through her phone a couple of times when she was in the shower, searching for text messages, but found nothing. If she’d received any incriminating texts, she had deleted them. She wasn’t stupid, apparently, just occasionally careless.
It was possible I’d never know the truth. I might never find out.
In a way, I hoped I wouldn’t.
Kathy peered at me as we sat on the couch after the walk. “Are you all right?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. You seem a bit flat.”
“Today?”
“Not just today. Recently.”
I evaded her eyes. “Just work. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
Kathy nodded. A sympathetic squeeze of my hand. She was a good actress. I could almost believe she cared.
“How are rehearsals going?”
“Better. Tony came up with some good ideas. We’re going to work late next week to go over them.”
“Right.”
I no longer believed a word she said. I a
“How is Tony?”
“Fine.” She shrugged, as if to indicate she couldn’t care less. I didn’t believe that. She idolized Tony, her director, and was forever talking about him—at least she used to; she hadn’t mentioned him quite so much recently. They talked about plays and acting and the theater—a world beyond my knowledge. I’d heard a lot about Tony, but only glimpsed him once, briefly, when I went to meet Kathy after a rehearsal. I thought it odd that Kathy didn’t introduce us. He was married, and his wife was an actress; I got the sense Kathy didn’t like her much. Perhaps his wife was jealous of their relationship, as I was. I suggested the four of us go out for dinner, but Kathy hadn’t been particularly keen on the idea. Sometimes I wondered if she was trying to keep us apart.
I watched Kathy open her laptop. She angled the screen away from me as she typed. I could hear her fingers tapping. Who was she writing to? Tony?
“What are you doing?” I yawned.
“Just emailing my cousin … She’s in Sydney now.”
“Is she? Send her my love.”
“I will.”
Kathy typed for a moment longer, then stopped typing and put down the laptop. “I’m going to have a bath.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
She gave me an amused look. “Cheer up, darling. Are you sure you’re okay?”
I smiled and nodded. She stood up and walked out. I waited until I heard the bathroom door close, and the sound of running water. I slid over to where she had been sitting. I reached for her laptop. My fingers were trembling as I opened it. I re-opened her browser—and went to her email log-in.
But she’d logged out.
I pushed away the laptop with disgust. This must stop, I thought. This way madness lies. Or was I mad already?
I was getting into bed, pulling back the covers, when Kathy walked into the bedroom, brushing her teeth.
“I forgot to tell you. Nicole is back in London next week.”
“Nicole?”
“You remember Nicole. We went to her going-away party.”
“Oh, yeah. I thought she moved to New York.”
“She did. And now she’s back.” A pause. “She wants me to meet her on Thursday … Thursday night after rehearsal.”
I don’t know what aroused my suspicion. Was it the way Kathy was looking in my direction but not making eye contact? I sensed she was lying. I didn’t say anything. Neither did she. She disappeared from the door. I could hear her in the bathroom, spitting out the toothpaste and rinsing her mouth.
Perhaps there was nothing to it. Perhaps it was entirely innocent and Kathy really was going to meet Nicole on Thursday.
Perhaps.
Only one way to find out.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THERE WERE NO QUEUES OUTSIDE Alicia’s gallery this time, as there had been that day, six years ago, when I had gone to see the Alcestis. A different artist was hanging in the window now, and despite his possible talent, he lacked Alicia’s notoriety and subsequent ability to draw in the crowds.
As I entered the gallery, I shivered; it was even colder in here than on the street. There was something chilly about the atmosphere as well as the temperature; it smelled of exposed steel beams and bare concrete floors. It was soulless, I thought. Empty.
The gallerist was sitting behind his desk. He stood up as I approached.
Jean-Felix Martin was in his early forties, a handsome man with black eyes and hair, and a tight T-shirt with a red skull on it. I told him who I was and why I had come. To my surprise, he seemed perfectly happy to talk about Alicia. He spoke with an accent. I asked if he was French.
“Originally—from Paris. But I’ve been here since I was a student—oh, twenty years at least. I think of myself more as British these days.” He smiled and gestured to a back room. “Come in, we can have a coffee.”
“Thanks.”
Jean-Felix led me into an office that was essentially a storeroom, crowded with stacks of paintings.
“How is Alicia?” he asked, using a complicated-looking coffee machine. “Is she still not talking?”
I shook my head. “No.”
He nodded and sighed. “So sad. Won’t you sit down? What do you want to know? I’ll do my best to answer truthfully.” Jean-Felix gave me a wry smile, tinged with curiosity. “Although I’m not entirely sure why you’ve come to me.”
“You and Alicia were close, weren’t you? Apart from your professional relationship—”
“Who told you that?”
“Gabriel’s brother, Max Berenson. He suggested I talk to you.”
Jean-Felix rolled his eyes. “Oh, so you saw Max, did you? What a bore.”
He said it with such contempt I couldn’t help laughing. “You know Max Berenson?”
“Well enough. Better than I’d like.” He handed me a small cup of coffee. “Alicia and I were close. Very close. We knew each other for years—long before she met Gabriel.”
“I didn’t realize that.”
“Oh, yes. We were at art school together. And after we graduated, we painted together.”
“You mean you collaborated?”
“Well, not really.” Jean-Felix laughed. “I mean we painted walls together. As housepainters.”
I smiled. “Oh, I see.”
“It turned out I was better at painting walls than paintings. So I gave up, about the same time as Alicia’s art started to really take off. And when I started running this place, it made sense for me to show Alicia’s work. It was a very natural, organic process.”
“Yes, it sounds like it. And what about Gabriel?”
“What about him?”
I sensed a prickliness here, a defensive reaction that told me this was an avenue worth exploring. “Well, I wonder how he fit into this dynamic. Presumably you knew him quite well?”
“Not really.”
“No?”
“No.” Jean-Felix hesitated a second. “Gabriel didn’t take time to know me. He was very … caught up in himself.”
“Sounds like you didn’t like him.”
“I didn’t particularly. I don’t think he liked me. In fact, I know he didn’t.”
“Why was that?”
“I have no idea.”
“Do you think perhaps he was jealous? Of your relationship with Alicia?”
Jean-Felix sipped his coffee and nodded. “Yeah, yes. Possibly.”
“He saw you as a threat, perhaps?”
“You tell me. Sounds like you have all the answers.”
I took the hint. I didn’t push it any further. Instead I tried a different approach. “You saw Alicia a few days before the murder, I believe?”
“Yes. I went to the house to see her.”
“Can you tell me a little about that?”
“Well, she had an exhibition coming up, and she was behind with her work. She was rightfully concerned.”
“You hadn’t seen any of the new work?”
“No. She’d been putting me off for ages. I thought I’d better check on her. I expected she’d be in the studio at the end of the garden. But she wasn’t.”
“No?”
“No, I found her in the house.”
“How did you get in?”
Jean-Felix looked surprised by the question. “What?” I could tell he was making some quick mental evaluation. Then he nodded. “Oh, I see what you mean. Well, there was a gate that led from the street to the back garden. It was usually unlocked. And from the garden I went into the kitchen through the back door. Which was also unlocked.” He smiled. “You know, you sound more like a detective than a psychiatrist.”
“I’m a psychotherapist.”
“Is there a difference?”
“I’m just trying to understand Alicia’s mental state. How did you experience her mood?”
Jean-Felix shrugged. “She seemed fine. A little stressed about work.”
“Is that all?”
“She didn’t look like she was going to shoot her husband in a few days, if that’s what you mean. She seemed—fine.” He drained his coffee and hesitated as a thought struck him. “Would you like to see some of her paintings?” Without waiting for a reply, Jean-Felix got up and walked to the door, beckoning me to follow.
“Come on.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
I FOLLOWED JEAN-FELIX into a storage room. He went over to a large case, pulled out a hinged rack, and lifted out three paintings wrapped in blankets. He propped them up. He carefully unwrapped each one. Then he stood back and presented the first to me with a flourish.
“Voilà.”
I looked at it. The painting had the same photo-realistic quality as the rest of Alicia’s work. It represented the car accident that killed her mother. A woman’s body was sitting in the wreck, slumped at the wheel. She was bloodied and obviously dead. Her spirit, her soul, was rising from the corpse, like a large bird with yellow wings, soaring to the heavens.
“Isn’t it glorious?” Jean-Felix gazed at it. “All those yellows and reds and greens—I can quite get lost in it. It’s joyous.”
Joyous wasn’t the word I would have chosen. Unsettling, perhaps. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.
I moved on to the next picture. A painting of Jesus on the cross. Or was it?
“It’s Gabriel,” Jean-Felix said. “It’s a good likeness.”
It was Gabriel—but Gabriel portrayed as Jesus, crucified, hanging from the cross, blood trickling from his wounds, a crown of thorns on his head. His eyes were not downcast but staring out—unblinking, tortured, unashamedly reproachful. They seemed to burn right through me. I peered at the picture more closely—at the incongruous item strapped to Gabriel’s torso. A rifle.
“That’s the gun that killed him?”
Jean-Felix nodded. “Yes. It belonged to him, I think.”
“And this was painted before his murder?”
“A month or so before. It shows you what was on Alicia’s mind, doesn’t it?” Jean-Felix moved on to the third picture. It was a larger canvas than the others. “This one’s the best. Stand back to get a better look.”
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