by A J Waines
Karl Hinds was looking furtive; he wore his tuxedo like a hired conjuror. He was talking grimly to his father, before walking away to find a waiter and knocking back two glasses of champagne, one after the other. He looked about him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, seemingly unaware of the camera.
‘Who shot the film?’ I asked.
‘Don’t know. That’s Jennifer, Karl’s girlfriend, and there’s Columbine, his sister…she looks older than fifteen doesn’t she?’ She pointed to a man in a navy blue suit. ‘And there’s Greg, Richard’s older brother. I’d forgotten about him until Richard’s sister mentioned his name on the phone, recently. He came along for the ride.’
We kept our eyes on the screen as Greg stood with his hands in his pockets, rocking from one foot to the other. He didn’t seem to have anyone to talk to. ‘And that’s Ambrosia’s sister. I can’t remember her name.’
The picture popped and fluttered for a second. Rosie straightened up. ‘I’ve been through it twice already, trying to see if there was anything going on between Richard and Ambrosia. What do you think?’
I’d been looking out for that too, but from what we’d seen, Richard had clearly been preoccupied with getting the notes out in the right order. It was hard to tell if any meaningful glances had been exchanged between them.
‘Karl is looking rather grave and edgy, don’t you think?’ she said, putting the film on pause. ‘Do you think he knew more about Mick than he let on? He does seem nervous, he keeps looking at his watch...’
‘And knocking back far more champagne than anyone else…’
‘As far as I can remember, it was just after this that all hell broke loose, you know, when Mick charged up the stairs?’
‘The film doesn’t show that?’
‘No – it stops a few minutes before Mick appeared.’
I pointed to a man and woman standing near the quartet. ‘Who are these two?’ I asked.
‘No idea.’
‘And the bloke standing at the bottom of the stairs?’
‘Nope – don’t know.’
‘Does this bring anything back that you think is important?’
‘Obviously, it was fifteen years before the crash, but I know – I just know – it’s connected in some way. I’m just not seeing it.’
‘Do the police have a copy of this?’
‘I asked Cameron about that, but he said the police had looked at it during the investigation over Mick’s death, but didn’t think it was relevant to our crash. I think they’re just assuming the crash was an accident and waiting for all the bodies to turn up before they close the case.’
We ran the footage through another time, but other than her conviction that there had to be a link between their first visit and the second, Rosie didn’t pick up on anything else.
She clapped her hands together. ‘Shall we take stock?’
I ejected the disc and handed it to her.
‘According to the victim’s relatives, Cameron could have had a grudge against Richard and Karl might also have had it in for Max,’ she began. ‘Let’s say both Richard and Max were guilty. Do you think father and son might have got together and arranged the accident, without caring who else got caught up in it?’
‘It’s possible, but pure speculation, Rosie. And why would they wait so long after it happened?’
‘Unless they’d only found out recently?’
‘What? Just happened to find out that not only did Max steal something, but Richard had a one-night stand with Ambrosia Hinds?’
‘I know…’ she admitted. ‘It’s too weird. And they’d hardly decide to tie in some sort of payback with the anniversary bash, would they?’
‘Do you know what happened once the Hinds found out about the crash?’
‘They cancelled the party as far as I know.’
At the end of the session, true to form, Rosie’s phone rang.
‘It’s the Cumbrian police,’ she said, holding it out to me as if asking permission to take the call.
‘Go on – take it,’ I said, sitting back.
She had a brief conversation and slipped the phone into her pocket before she stood up, looking pale and shaken. ‘The police have found the van,’ she said, watching my face for a reaction.
My eyes were wide in anticipation.
‘It was empty – well, apart from music stands and stuff.’
‘No…body there?’
She pressed her lips together, not registering my words. ‘They did find something, though,’ she went on. ‘Tiny scraps of cardboard and a glue-like substance inside the three seatbelt mechanisms in the front of the van.’
‘Cardboard?’
‘They think it was some kind of crude attempt to jam the seatbelts.’ Her chin began to quiver. ‘You know what that means don’t you?’
My hand went to my throat.
‘It wasn’t an accident,’ she whispered, reaching out to hold the door frame. ‘I knew it…I knew it…’ Her breathing was noisy, irregular, running away with her.
‘Are you okay?’ I said, worried about sending her out into the night with that earth-shattering piece of news. Selfishly, my first thought was that this was another drawback of working from home. If a patient was ill or distraught, there was no nurse on hand to take over and offer cups of sweet tea. I quickly discounted the inconvenience and turned my attention back to Rosie.
‘I think I need a hug,’ she whispered, nipping her lips together.
I hesitated. With anyone else it would have been the most natural thing to offer, but with Rosie? It would be too easy for her, deprived of affection as she was, to read more into it. Nevertheless, to hold back at a moment like this would have been cruel. She’d just had a very nasty shock. I opened my arms and let her come to me, giving her a gentle squeeze, as though she was a child who’d fallen and scuffed her knees. When, after a second or two, she showed no sign of letting go, I took hold of her arms and gently stood her upright in front of me.
‘Do you have anyone you can talk to, Rosie?’ Surely there had to be someone. ‘What about Dawn, where you live?’
‘No. There’s no one. I thought I’d told you that.’
A muscle twitched on the back of my neck. I didn’t like the way this felt; she was far too attached to me for her own good.
‘We will need to talk about the impact this has had on you, next time,’ I said. ‘In the meantime, perhaps you could write down some of your thoughts. Could you try that?’
‘All right,’ she sniffed, wiping her nose on her hand, trying to hide her tears.
‘Do you need me to call you a taxi?’
‘No. I’m fine, thanks. I knew, really. I knew it wasn’t an accident. I’m just in shock now there’s actual proof of it.’ She headed towards the door. ‘The police will have to turn it into a murder hunt now.’
Despite her distress, I couldn’t help noticing a touch of triumph in her voice.
After Rosie left, I sat in the kitchen, staring blankly at the grain of the wood on the table top, swirling into a pattern like wind-rippled sand. I traced the lines, following the smooth tracks that always ended in a knot.
A murder enquiry.
Rosie had been involved in an accident until now, yet all along there’d been something ominous about it. Rosie’s intuition had been right. She must be wondering who the target had been. I certainly was.
The police were saying all three seatbelts at the front had been sabotaged, so they’d take longer to unclip. It meant any one of them could have been the target. Perhaps they all were. It appeared to be sheer luck that Rosie had been in the back – it hadn’t been planned that way. Or had it?
It seemed to me that only the Hinds had obvious motives, but the reasons were weak to say the least. Would you wreak that level of havoc if you found out your wife had been involved in a one-night stand fifteen years ago? Or if one of the musicians had stolen something? It seemed too extreme.
Did the business with Mick at that first party h
ave any relevance? What was it that Mick had stolen, and did he have some secret accomplice? Had Max and Mick been in something together?’
Going over and over the possibilities in my mind wasn’t getting me anywhere. I didn’t have any answers.
But maybe Rosie did.
Perhaps the answers were right there, locked inside her head. Maybe all I had to do was ask the right question or find the right trigger and there they would be.
Chapter 24
Rosie
Sam’s been amazing. And she has feelings for me, she really does. I’m sure now. I was thunderstruck when I got the call from DS Fischer about the seatbelts. I’m so relieved he rang before I left Sam’s flat. It meant we could both experience the drama together.
I’m not sure how I feel, now the crash has been turned into a murder hunt. I suppose the police will take everything more seriously. They might even find my viola. On the other hand, it means there was malice involved. Someone planned it, with a motive and everything. Having that thought in my head is like carrying around a festering wound, not knowing if it’s going to heal or poison my blood and finish me off. The big question is, if I was one of the targets, won’t they try again?
Piles of other questions tumble into my mind. Were they after one of us, or was it just the violin? Is the violin in the lake or is the killer richer already – two million pounds richer?
I knew the crash wasn’t an accident and I’m actually quite pleased to know the truth, because it makes everything that bit more urgent. And, best of all, Sam knows I was right!
Without any prompting from me she gave me a huge cuddle at the end of our last session. It took me completely by surprise, but I loved every second of it. I was the one who had to pull away in the end, she didn’t want to let me go! I know she’s not supposed to show any kind of favouritism, but it’s obvious. She gives herself away all the time now. The way she looks at me – those big grey-flecked eyes. She’s my rock. My soul-sister. Despite the shocking news, I’m just so happy, I barely know what to do with myself.
Portia, at work, said that therapists can afford to look like they’re interested in you, because they only have to keep it up for an hour at a time and then they get shot of you. Plus, they get paid for being nice. I don’t agree. I know Sam has a soft spot for me. I can tell. She’s probably really confused about how things should go between us from now on. She wants to help me, but she also wants us to have a proper friendship and that can’t be easy for her.
There are too many rules and regulations in therapy. You’re not supposed to step over the line into your therapist’s personal life. But I must be patient. My first task is to make sure I can get more sessions with her. I won’t be ready to pack up when we’ve only had twelve. After that, who knows?
The thing is, I want to find a way to show her she can depend on me, too. Call on me if she ever needs help. Anything. Anytime. I’ll need to be careful though; I don’t want her thinking I’m one of those sickly eager-to-please types. I’ve got to be prepared to play the long game.
I left the music store after lunch, because on the spur of the moment, I decided to take the afternoon off. I knew Sid wouldn’t be bothered. The run up to Christmas isn’t as busy as it should be and I always have bags of annual leave, because I never go away. Trips aren’t much fun on your own.
I take the Tube from London Bridge to Waterloo and walk along the Thames, but it’s too cold to enjoy it. I consider going back to Oxford Street in the unlikely chance of spotting Max again, but I can’t face the Christmas crowds. I’ve always hated the entire festive season. Goodwill, generosity, luxury and presents – I had none of that. I did the soup kitchen last year, but ended up catching a nasty stomach bug – from the food or one of the clients, I’m not sure which. I don’t fancy it this year.
I’ve been wondering what Sam will be doing on Christmas Day. Having a cosy family gathering no doubt: a real tree brushing the ceiling, cascades of expensive baubles, holly branches draped over the picture frames arranged by an adoring mother, gifts glittering with bows and ribbons from a doting father. It makes my heart shrivel up; I don’t want to think about it.
Instead, I think about what’s been under my pillow for the last few weeks and hop on a bus at Waterloo to make another visit to my special sanctuary. Sam doesn’t know I snatched them from her flat that first session, from the ledge by her front door. Or that I put them back in her bag that time I made myself at home in her office when she rushed off for a form. She doesn’t know I got duplicates made.
So that’s where I’m spending this afternoon. She’ll be at the hospital, so I’ve got the whole place to myself. What a treat!
Chapter 25
Rosie
It’s Wednesday and Sam isn’t answering her phone, so I call the Mental Health Unit and tell them it’s an emergency and finally someone puts me through to her. I tell her I’ve found something, but she tries to stop me halfway through. It’s the same old ‘you mustn’t call me’ plea, but I know she doesn’t really mean it. If I can’t ring her at home and I can’t call her at work, how am I supposed to get in touch with her? This can’t wait. It’s urgent.
I tell her I have no one else and we have to act on it. Dawn has sent me the latest round-up of items for auction this week and whilst there were no musical instruments, something else caught my eye. I don’t know why I was even looking in the accessories section, except I like Sam’s bracelet and I was thinking of getting one the same. A Christmas present to myself.
And there it was – on page seven. Listed as: ‘a gentleman’s platinum automatic chronometer Rolex wristwatch with a blue dial and raised Roman numerals’. I recognised it straight away; it belonged to Max. He’d bragged about it, of course, and we’d all been obliged to take a good look at it. The entry in the e-catalogue said there was a reserve price of £15,000 on it.
‘This is a matter for the police, Rosie. Won’t the auction house have procedures for this kind of thing?’ Sam says, but I know I’m sparking her interest.
‘It’s too late for that; the auction is today at two-fifteen. And besides, Dawn says we need more concrete evidence it’s stolen before they call in the police. It might not be his.’ I take a chance. ‘Will you come?’
‘Come with you? No, I can’t. Listen, Rosie…’
Here we go – another one of her issues with boundaries. ‘I can’t be a health professional one minute and your companion, the next,’ she goes on. ‘It corrupts the relationship if we get the roles mixed up. It means I can’t help you properly.’
What rubbish! Can’t help you properly – what’s she on about? It sounds like a threat.
‘You’ve decided I’m too much trouble…’
‘It’s not that. I’m a psychologist, not a private detective.’
‘Can’t you help me in both ways; with getting my memories back and helping unravel the mystery? It’s all part of the same thing, after all. It’s all about getting to the truth. I’ll pay you for your time.’
‘It’s not about the money, Rosie.’
‘Can’t therapists step outside the box, sometimes? I can’t do this without you.’ I know I’m starting to sound a bit pathetic, but I don’t know how else to plead with her. ‘You’re not going to abandon me, are you?’
‘If I helped you outside our sessions then our work together would have to end.’
It is a threat.
‘You know what this means don’t you?’ I tell her. ‘It means that someone was there at the crash. Someone who sabotaged the seatbelts and tried to kill us all. This same person might have my viola. Or even Max’s violin. Don’t you want to know?’
‘Rosie. I’m sorry. You’ll have to ask someone else. I’ve got a patient now. We can talk about this in our next session.’
Then she’s gone. I can’t believe it. After all we’ve been through. I can’t describe how gutted I am.
But I don’t have much time to dwell on it. I call Dawn and arrange to meet her at the front entrance
of Rothman’s at 1.30pm. She says the watch can be removed from sale if I recognise something conclusive that shows it belongs to Max, but I’m not interested in that part; I want to know who’s trying to sell it.
‘I need to see the records about it,’ I tell her.
‘I can’t take you behind the scenes,’ she says, ‘it’s against the regulations.’
‘But if I’m right and you don’t act on it, your manager will go bonkers.’
Reluctantly, she takes me to the dusty office in the basement where she works. She shows me the date and time the watch was received and valued, on her computer. The seller is a man called Teddy Spense.
His name doesn’t mean anything to me.
I ask Dawn if we can look at CCTV footage from the day he brought it in and she leads me back to the foyer, then disappears to chat up Nick, the security guy. My phone buzzes as I hover by the lift, and she invites me upstairs to pore over footage that shows the watch-seller entering the building minutes before the watch was logged in. But, there’s not enough to go on: he’s nondescript – tallish, mostly dressed in black, with skinny legs, wearing a beanie that covers his hair.
At five past two, I’m loitering in the foyer again looking out for someone who fits his vague description and Dawn is at the back waiting for the item before his to be called. We make a good team, but not as good as me and Sam would have been.
Seconds later I text Dawn to get her back into the foyer.
‘The security guard is talking to a guy who’s the same height and build as the one caught on camera,’ I whisper to her. ‘He’s wearing the same style of black bomber jacket, gloves and beanie too.’
I watch from a distance to see if he seems familiar, but he has his back to me, so I can’t see his face. He hitches his foot up nervously and keeps putting his hands in and out of his pockets, stooping awkwardly to hear what the security guy is saying. From his body language, it’s clearly no one from the quartet and no one I’ve seen with the Hinds’ family or their entourage. They all walk tall with airs and graces.
