by Lodge, Gytha
She imagined herself depicted in paint, her form wreathed in flame. Around her, in this oil-painted version, there was nothing but dust. The collected, floating fragments of the people who had once orbited around her.
As she leaned out farther, she found herself listening to a voice from below. Someone was on the phone, standing near the front door and talking cheerfully to someone who must have been her boyfriend.
“No, I won’t be long,” she was saying. “I’ve just got a necklace to find and then I’ll head home…Yes.” And a quiet laugh. “It’s definitely revealing. I’ll show you. OK. Bye.”
She leaned a little farther out until she could see the door and the woman who was now crossing the road.
The jolt of recognition nearly tipped her out of the window. What was she doing here? She wasn’t supposed to be here. This was Zoe’s place. She’d already taken everything from her. Was she going to come and take her peace, too?
She found herself moving. She barely remembered to take her keys out of the door on her way out. She could only think about the smile on the woman’s lips in profile. The chirpiness of her voice.
Zoe made it onto the street while she was still in sight, and it never occurred to her to wonder what she was doing. She was going to chase her down. She was going to hurt her, and it was going to serve the stupid bitch right.
Jonah arrived at his desk at a little after seven and found Felix Solomon’s psych report and the summary of the trigger for his breakdown sitting in his in-box. He opened the summary up first, and read with a feeling of inevitability the series of events that had tipped Felix over. The mother. The girl. Her bleeding to death in his arms.
The language of the report was factual and emotionless, and yet Jonah still had to stop and take a few deep breaths after he was done. His own experiences made it all too easy to imagine. And to imagine how it might have made anyone fall to pieces. In the end, no matter how many years of this stuff any officer had seen, each and every one of them was still a human being.
He went on to the psych report after that, which was a bit more human. The police psychologist who had seen Felix four times over the next three months had been clear: He had been traumatized by what he saw. He had admitted he was having trouble sleeping and focusing, and had been found on more than one occasion sitting at his desk in the morning still dressed in the clothes of the day before with no apparent awareness of the hours passing.
From there, it had gotten worse. The psychologist was asked to see him for a fifth time when Felix had pursued an unwilling witness into their house and harangued him, before getting into a fistfight with him and breaking the man’s nose. The psychologist’s strong recommendation had been compassionate leave for a month, rather than suspension, but Felix had insisted on suspension. It had meant getting back to work after two weeks instead of a month.
The final interview made Jonah’s pulse pick up. The background to the interview was given in full. During the suspension, DCI Solomon had smashed his car into the side of a clothes shop on Brighton High Street. It had been full daylight. When blood tests were taken later, he was found to have consumed four of the diazepam tablets he’d been prescribed, along with two tramadol tablets he’d gotten from somewhere. There was no question that he’d fallen asleep at the wheel.
After the DCS had requested that Felix’s desk be checked for illegally procured medication, a child’s toy was discovered. It became clear that this had been taken from the crime scene that had triggered his trauma. He claimed that he had no memory of taking it.
After that, he had been given a choice of retirement or losing his job. He’d also been handed a driving ban and a suspended sentence. It had been too public an event for it to go any other way. The police had to treat their own more harshly than they did others. That much was understood.
Jonah leaned back in his chair to think about all this. That child’s toy was a disturbing note. Why had he taken it? As some sort of strange trophy? Because the little girl had gotten under his skin and he wanted to hold on to some part of her?
He found himself trying to balance sympathy for the man with the knowledge that he was an intelligent, savvy ex-copper who, at the very least, had probably abused his access to privileged information.
* * *
—
HANSON HAD WOKEN early, her mind already working and her headache gone. She was immediately mulling over Victor Varos and Felix Solomon; Angeline Judd and Maeve Silver.
O’Malley had messaged her the night before to update her about Victor Varos being the probable intruder at Greta Poole’s house. The knowledge had been something of a relief, even though they hadn’t actually pinned it on him yet. It made it extremely likely that it had been Victor outside her house. It was the same kind of behavior, and it could well have been triggered by her aggressive questioning in the interview room.
Giving the figure a name and face made her feel a great deal less anxious about it. Acknowledging that she still needed to be careful when heading to and from work, she still felt as though the reality was better than her worst imaginings.
With that tied up, she found herself abruptly transported back to the suspicions that had gripped her before Felix Solomon had possibly been seen with Zoe, and before Victor Varos had appeared on CCTV.
“There might still be two of them,” she muttered to herself. But more than that, it might still be one of the girls. Even Angeline, with her slight build, could have killed Zoe. A drugged woman would be easy enough to finish off.
She ate a piece of toast as quickly as she could and got dressed. It was still dark as she got into the car, but she was wide-awake. Today was the day they were going to crack this, she decided. That she was going to crack this.
Along with the DCI shut away in his office, DI Walker was already at his desk when she arrived at seven-ten, and she gave him a wry grin, feeling only slightly disappointed at not having the floor of CID to herself. Total quiet was a rare treat that she tended to savor.
“Can’t sleep either, hey?” she asked him.
“No,” he said. “Too much going on in my head.”
“Same,” Hanson said with a sigh. “I’ll be a wreck by midafternoon, which’ll be just when the chief wants me to be intelligent.”
Walker smiled, and she had to admit that there was something companionable about having someone else there. And she could hardly complain about the noise. Walker went back to his work and sat with quiet focus. He wasn’t close enough to her desk for her to hear his fingers on the keyboard.
She made coffee, then loaded up her desktop. She figured she could justify leaving the CCTV footage for now. She was in early, after all, and the extra time was her own.
She returned to the transcript of Maeve’s interview and read it again from the start. She wished she’d been there to see Maeve’s expressions. Trying to understand a person fully from her words alone was tough.
But even so, what stood out to Hanson was that Maeve wanted to protect Aidan. She was the one person who seemed to think well of him, and said so. There was lots of justification of her positive attitude toward him. That he was fun. That he had treated her well. That he just didn’t want to hurt his wife. But then, when faced with the obvious fact that he’d stalked Zoe, she still tried to defend him. And there was an obstinacy there that Hanson found interesting.
She felt that they ought to talk to Maeve again, and she’d like to be the one doing it. She checked her watch. It was only ten past eight. Too early to call her, really. She could probably ring in twenty minutes or so.
Ben arrived as she was making this decision. She gave a vague, embarrassed smile, still undecided about how to interact with him. Mercifully, the phone rang on her desk at that point and she grabbed it. “DC Hanson,” she said. “How can I help?”
“Sorry, I’m not sure if I’m talking to the right person.” It was a wom
an’s voice. Well spoken and the accent more southeast of England than Southampton. “I was Zoe…Zoe Swardadine’s tutor.”
“Oh, you’re on the right line,” Hanson said. “I’m on DCI Sheens’s team, and we’re looking into what happened.”
“Good,” she said. “I wasn’t sure, though…Essentially I’m reporting a theft. The theft of one of Zoe’s paintings.”
Hanson straightened up. “This is from the art school?”
“Yes,” the woman on the other end of the line said. “It’s the Winchester School of Art. I realized it had happened this morning, though I’m actually not sure when it was taken.”
“Can I take your name and the address?” Hanson asked.
The DCI emerged from his office a few minutes after she’d ended the call. “Morning, Chief,” she said. “We’ve got an interesting occurrence at Zoe’s art department.”
Sheens gave her a vague look, and then something seemed to click.
“One of her paintings?”
“Yes,” Hanson said, and narrowed her eyes at him. “Good guess. It’s been stolen.”
“Right,” he said. “I’ll come and take a look with you. Lightman, can you make sure Victor Varos is here by the time we get back?”
Hanson also left Lightman with a request to go see Maeve Silver again, frustrated that she was having to delegate a potentially important conversation.
“There’s something bothering me about her attitude toward Aidan Poole,” she explained, “and we’ve barely looked at her so far.”
The DCI had agreed with that. “I’d also like to know more of her thoughts on Victor Varos,” he said.
That meant it was just the recently arrived O’Malley left to plow through CCTV work.
“Youse all go and enjoy yourselves,” he said airily as Hanson picked up her coat. “I’ll be fine here with my elderly eyes becoming steadily more myopic.”
“Ah, it’s too late for you, anyway,” Hanson said with a grin. “And at least this way we save your poor knees.”
Sheens updated her about Angeline Judd’s phone call of the night before, telling her his instinctive suspicion at its coming so soon after they had caught Victor out in a lie.
“What do you think her intention was?” Hanson asked.
“I’m not sure, which concerns me a little,” Jonah said. “The fact that she pretended nobody else was there is also concerning.”
“Could have been Aidan Poole,” Hanson commented.
“Yes,” Jonah agreed. “Or one of a number of people. Either way, I’d be very interested to know whether Victor Varos really did walk down her road and rant at someone on the phone.”
Hanson let out a huff of air. “They’re a pretty complex bunch, aren’t they?”
“I’d say so,” Sheens agreed.
There was a pause, and then Hanson said, “This person you thought you heard in the background of the call. It makes me think…You know how people with eating disorders often set themselves up with two people who are key to them? Generally it’s one who enables them and one who stops them. A good cop, bad cop kind of deal.”
“Really?” the DCI asked. “That’s not something I’d heard.”
“I had an anorexic friend at school,” Hanson said. “And for a while I was the bad cop.” The DCI laughed, and she grinned. “Yeah, all right. It’s quite ironic. Generally speaking, you tear them apart and I put them back together.”
“I’m sure you could do bad cop if you wanted,” he said, though she wasn’t sure if he was quite serious.
“Anyway,” she went on, “I wonder if this unknown person is the other figure. The good cop. Ben said when he visited her, someone had taken away anything she could hurt herself with.”
“Wait,” the DCI said. “I’m confused. Which one is the good cop?”
“The enabler,” Hanson said. “They would look after her, but also enable the eating disorder and the other stuff that goes with it. The drinking.”
“But not suicide?”
“Who’d do that?” Hanson asked with a slightly shocked laugh.
“You’d be surprised,” the DCI said darkly, and Hanson decided not to ask.
“So anyway, I think we ought to ask Aidan Poole whether he’s been hanging out with her. I mean, he did get kicked out of his house. And if she was in love with him…”
“It’s crossed my mind,” the DCI agreed. “I’ve also wondered about Felix Solomon. And there’s no reason it couldn’t be Maeve Silver, either. She’s clearly a lot more together than Angeline.”
“True,” Hanson said. “Though there are quite a lot of people who fit that description.”
* * *
—
A BRIEF CALL to Maeve had elicited the information that she was at a church meeting, but didn’t mind seeing Lightman afterward. She had another hour before classes, she told him. So he offered to come and meet her there, curious to see her in this setting.
He found St. Agnes of Rome Church easily, though it wasn’t quite what he’d expected. He supposed it was the name, implying an old-fashioned building. Possibly a Catholic one.
But this place was all modern. It was a large circular building with one flattened end full of angular, contemporary stained glass. It was also clearly Church of England or similar. He’d guess it hadn’t been up for more than a couple of years, and it was interesting to see such a big, clearly well-moneyed place in contrast with his own failing village church. This place spoke of a vibrant, growing congregation. Back in Newcombe, they could barely fill the place at Christmas and Easter, and it wasn’t a large building.
A board up at the front announced “STAR timetable,” and a quick glance showed him that there was a service, prayer meeting, or men’s or women’s group every day of the week. On Sunday, there were six different events, including a lunch and a supper. It was clearly thriving.
Through the glass doors was a large reception that reminded him of crematoriums, except that there was a tea-and-coffee area with brightly colored mugs.
There were voices coming from an open door to his right, and he moved toward them until he could see in through the gap. There was a small group sitting in a circle, and as he came into hearing range, he caught a male voice saying, “…for the rest of the week. As long as you’re still happy to host at number four, Johannes?”
“Yes, definitely,” came the reply. “We’d love to see everyone.”
Lightman moved around until he could see both the first speaker and Maeve, who were next to each other at the head of the room. The leader was a tall, extremely thin young man with dark hair and a perpetual smile. He grinned round at them all, while Maeve looked less engaged. More preoccupied.
“Great. Thanks, Johannes. Anything else…? OK. That looks like we’re done, then.”
There was movement as the group began to rise, shifting chairs and turning to talk to one another. Maeve was slow to stand, and then, at a question from the group leader, she turned to Lightman. As she saw him, she switched on a smile with some effort, and came over to him.
“Hi,” she said. “I think we met at the station?”
“That’s right,” he said, giving her a smile as he watched the chairs disappearing into piles around the room. When he looked back at her, her expression had drooped and he thought she seemed strained. Drained, even. “Long day?” he asked.
“Ah, not really. Just, you know…” She shrugged. “There’s another room through there with comfy chairs if you need to ask some things.”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll try and keep it quick.”
“No bother,” she said, and then her eyes drifted to the clock on the end wall of the room, and she suddenly looked harried. “Ah, is that the time? OK, we might have to keep it quick. We’re supposed to finish by ten.”
“Quick is fine,” he reassured her, and she led hi
m through to a smaller room that had some deep leather armchairs in it. Another sign of the affluence of this place.
Maeve shut the door behind them and then said, “Oh, did you want tea? Coffee?”
“No, that’s OK,” Lightman answered. “I won’t keep you long enough.”
“Grand,” Maeve said. “So, what do you need from me?”
“A few things,” he said. “You raised some concerns over Victor Varos in your original statement.”
“Ah, not concerns,” she said quickly. “Not really. I was just explaining how he felt. I don’t think he killed her.”
“But he might have argued with her?” he asked.
Maeve gave him a wary look. “Did someone else say so?”
“There’s quite a lot of evidence pointing to a row with her earlier on Thursday evening,” Lightman said, knowing that he was stretching the truth a little.
Maeve gave an awkward shrug. “I don’t know about that.”
“You didn’t see him on Thursday?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I was at the ladies’ supper, and after that I headed home. But even if they did argue, I don’t believe he hurt her. He loved her.”
“What about Aidan Poole?” he asked. “Would Victor have been willing to hurt him?”
Maeve gave a laugh that clearly said it was an absurd idea, but he noticed that the laugh cut off all too quickly. “He didn’t like him, but that’s all.”
“Victor never threatened Aidan or got into a fight?”
Maeve paused for a telling second, and then said, “No, I’m sure not. Just that time at the coffee shop.”
“What exactly did he say to Aidan?” Lightman persisted.
