by Jane Robins
Agnes sat beside Tilda, and I sat beside Agnes, and she showed us pictures of the bathroom, his shaving gear and used soap, of the bedroom, the untouched hospitality tray, the view of the golf course, and finally of Felix, lying on his back on the bed, his eyes open then, staring vacantly at the ceiling, bathrobe gaping open, and left arm hanging down the side of the bed, fingers suspended above the floor.
Tilda stared at it, her face white, her expression frozen. “I want you to email these to me, then delete them.” She looked in her bag for a paper and pen, writing down her email address.
“And where are his things? His clothes and toiletries, his wedding ring and watch and cuff links? I should have them.”
“Yes, of course. We’ve packed them up. . . . You can take them when you leave.”
As we left the room and descended the stairs, we saw Otto waiting in the reception area, his arm resting on a black suitcase on wheels.
“These are your husband’s effects. . . . Please take them, and if there’s anything else I can help with, don’t hesitate to ask. I’ve put my card in the bag.”
So we took the suitcase and ordered a minicab to the station, heading back to London. Tilda said she’d rather be alone in her flat, and I returned to Willesden Green. Even though I was shattered, utterly spent, I turned on my laptop—it was a reflex action, I didn’t consciously want to do it. I gazed at the screen, and saw that I had received a dozen messages from Scarlet.
32
Her emails all said the same thing. “I’ve done everything that we agreed. Now it’s your turn.” Or, “Callie, you have to keep your side of the bargain. We must meet to discuss logistics.” Or, “Don’t ignore me. You must act now. . . . Remember, it’s what Belle wanted.”
I must do this; I must do that. She suggested nothing that would incriminate her, or me, and yet her words were all too easy to understand, and I felt so ill that I thought I’d throw up. Her claims were horrific—and yet I realized that I’d been expecting them from the moment I heard of Felix’s death, that I’d been carrying around my poisonous knowledge like a disease, knowing that Scarlet would take advantage of a horrendous tragedy. Right now, I desperately wanted to shut her up and shut her out, to distance myself from her.
I wrote:
For fuck’s sake. I don’t believe you. You’re sick. I don’t want to hear from you again. Stay out of my life.
She replied straightaway.
You’re funny, Callie. The evidence couldn’t be any stronger. By the way, please pass on my sympathies to your poor sister. I’m sorry for her loss. At the same time, let’s hope that her life and yours can return to a peaceful state now.
Don’t even mention my sister! You’re a toxic bitch.
The whole country is mentioning your sister, whether you like it or not. Have you seen the internet? The papers tomorrow will be full of her.
You’re a leech—sucking my blood at a terrible time. As I said, I don’t believe a word of what you write, so piss off and die.
Don’t get into a temper! Give me your address—I have something to send you.
No!
I slammed down the lid of the laptop, disgusted with Scarlet, disgusted with myself for having had anything to do with her. I felt like this terrible situation had only happened because my weak character had been taken in, and taken over, by Scarlet’s forceful, overbearing personality. Trying to calm down, I went into my kitchen and microwaved a chicken tikka masala, and as I returned to the bedroom and ate it, I tried to feel normal. Like an ordinary person having an ordinary supper. I gazed at the garden, a massive tangled mess of weeds, and at the train track beyond, thinking of the trains that ran so swiftly past my house, packed with commuters going to fluorescent-lit offices and home again. They seemed so remote, those thousands of traveling workers, and I envied them. As happened so often, my thoughts drifted to Wilf, and I wished I could tell him everything about Belle and Scarlet and Controlling Men and Felix’s death. I imagined, too, having him in my bed so that I could get totally lost in him, could forget about being me, and the horrors in my life. I was thinking of him warmly and regretfully as I finished the chicken, as I ate a banana, and then I did something I hadn’t intended—I turned the laptop on again, and typed Tilda’s name into the search engine.
An immediate bombardment. Pictures of tragic Tilda Farrow grieving for her husband of a few weeks, the American banker Felix Nordberg. Mainly of Tilda standing at the front door on Curzon Street, wearing Felix’s white shirt, her long hair falling half over her face, her pose weak and yet somehow beautiful, like the emaciated girls you see in fashion shoots. Some websites had found a photo of Felix that didn’t properly look like him—it was a head shot taken in a studio, and seemed too glossy, his smile too broad, like an advertisement for white teeth. The reports all said that he had died of a suspected heart attack, and some drew attention to the phenomenon of sudden death from heart disease in athletic young men. Others mentioned that Tilda hadn’t worked since Rebecca, that she had been considered for the role of Rachel in My Cousin Rachel. The Mail reported that “friends say that Tilda Farrow has her eyes on Hollywood.” And the Vanity Fair “A-List” website said, “Nobody would be surprised if she fled Britain for the States to make a fresh start after such a tragedy.”
I yelled at the screen, “Leave her alone! What on earth makes you write this crap?”
I returned to thinking about Scarlet, remembering the bent-up figure on the bench at Kenwood House. If I believed in auras, like Mum does, I would say her aura that day was an intense, burning red, signifying danger. I opened up the dossier and wrote: Scarlet claims she killed Felix. I don’t believe her. I think she’s telling a preposterous lie. To kill Felix she would somehow have had to get access to his room at the Ashleigh House Hotel; somehow have had to jab him in a vein with the syringe that Belle stole. It’s too outrageous. And yet, Scarlet is deadly serious. I know that. I can only hope that she is playing mind games, because I’m certain that she isn’t joking. She’s not the joking kind. I think she’s hoping to make Felix’s heart disease a means of making me murder Luke. If she thinks I’ll do such a thing, she must be deranged. For now, I’m trying to stay calm until we get the results of the postmortem.
The more I thought about it, the more I wanted immediate reassurance. So, when I was still up at three in the morning, tired and wired, I sent Scarlet my address. It was my way of challenging her, of saying—prove yourself, or go away forever.
At work the next day, I was ragged, on edge, and I kept doing things wrong. I was late, for a start, then I broke a coffee mug, and I snapped at Daphne even though she was trying to be nice. I was irritated that, while she was acting sorrowful and concerned, she found it impossible to disguise the fact that she was so happy about Douglas. She kept checking her phone for texts from him, and whenever she received one she smiled to herself, and typed really fast at her novel. I couldn’t stand it, and I told her I needed to go for a walk, to get some fresh air.
When I returned, she said, “You missed Wilf. He came in.” It was the first time since he’d come to tell me how angry he was, and I was pleased I’d been out. I didn’t want him seeing me like this, so low and helpless. I settled back behind the payments counter, and Daphne said, “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about things? Everything is so hard for you right now. Is Tilda desperately sad?”
“I’ve no idea,” I said, surprised at myself, because I knew she was distraught.
I was about to change the subject and make tea, when Wilf returned to the shop, striding in like he wanted to hack down a giant bramble. I braced myself. “Did you like that book that Amy bought you? Nemesis.”
“Haven’t read it. I guess it was chosen by you, right?”
“Yeah. How is she—Amy, I mean?”
“Amy’s fine. . . . I keep calling, but you never pick up. I wanted to see if you’re okay. I heard the news about Felix.”
“Yeah. Everything’s been bloody awful. There’s a postmor
tem today; they’re probably doing it right now. It’s too weird. . . .”
I wanted to tell Wilf how I was feeling, so scared about Scarlet, and the results of the postmortem. But I didn’t. Instead I mumbled, “Have you been seeing a lot of Amy? Have you come in here to buy her a present?”
“No, Callie. I came in here to see how you are. Try and believe in me, will you?” And then he turned and left.
He was scarcely out of the shop when my phone rang. Tilda, shaken and tearful. It took a while to realize that she was trying to tell me that the postmortem was over, and while the results weren’t yet official, Melody Sykes had called. “They said heart disease was the reason he died. . . . Something called hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. It could have killed him at any time. Imagine—since birth, he’d been living with a deadly weakness that he didn’t know was there. It’s so awful. It struck out of the blue. . . . The small things they found are so sad. Raisins in his stomach from breakfast. So he’d had his favorite, pain au raisin, that morning. And, guess what, there was some damage to his lungs from smoking. Felix, smoking! He never told me. He was always so disapproving about smokers. . . . There’s so much about him that I don’t know, that I’ll never know.”
“Would you like me to come round?” I was so relieved as I spoke. It was heart disease, hyper-something cardio-something, and Scarlet could go to hell.
“No. I’ll be okay. I have things to organize. His parents are coming back . . . and Lucas. I have to prepare for the funeral.”
“Have you spoken to Erik and Alana?”
Tilda paused. Then in a tight voice: “Briefly to Erik; Alana refused to come to the phone. It’s upsetting.”
“But understandable, I suppose.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
Her parting words made me feel happy, and for the rest of the afternoon I was able to function better, to deal with the customers, even the woman who wanted her money back because the storyline in her book was “just sex with a bit of murder.” I had to explain that the publishing business didn’t work like that—“Books are always a risk,” I said. “That’s part of the excitement.” I was amazed when she saw my point of view, and on my advice she purchased a Harlan Coben.
When she left, Daphne said, “Go to the top of the class, young Callie.”
• • •
That night in bed my thoughts kept returning to Wilf. He was right—I did need to believe in him. I needed to fight against the permanently paranoid frame of mind that I’d been in, maybe because I’m so often lonely, and loneliness breeds paranoia. Tomorrow, I thought, I’ll go to Willesden Estates and find out whether he’s actually seeing Amy. If not, I’d see if I could get him back.
In the morning, I felt optimistic. I wore my suede boots with my best gray jeans and a new rose-colored top that went well with my dark hair. I admired myself in the mirror, skipped downstairs, and saw that the post had arrived, lying untidily all over the mat, most of it junk. I sifted through the ads for Indian takeout and local handymen, and found a brown padded envelope with my name on it. I could feel something small and hard inside, and I inspected the address—written out in a heavy-handed black script that, I knew instinctively, belonged to Scarlet.
33
A gold cuff link in the shape of a four-leaf clover. I recognized it immediately and turned it over in the palm of my hand, feeling its weight and its smoothness, like I did before, that time at Curzon Street when I’d gone through Felix’s clothes, found his cuff links, put the dead fly inside his shirt collar. For a while I stayed by the front door, just standing in the shabby hallway, turning the four-leaf clover over in my hand, thinking about what it represented, thinking in a vague, floaty way, unable to come down to earth. Then I ascended the stairs, went back into my flat, dropping the bee bag on the floor, crawling into bed, deep under the duvet, not even bothering to take off my boots. I popped the cuff link inside my mouth, and sucked on it, tempted to swallow. But I didn’t. I spat it out, placed it on my bedside table and, because I was overwhelmed, I closed my eyes and fell into an uneasy, troubled sleep.
It was midday when I came round with a pounding head and saw I’d missed two calls from Daphne, doubtless wondering where I was. But I couldn’t phone her right now. I wouldn’t be able to handle her comforting voice, and instead I did the last thing I wanted to do and made myself dial Tilda’s number. She picked up straightaway, and I asked if she had looked through the bag she’d been given by the manager of the Ashleigh House Hotel.
“Yes, I did that this morning. It was so dreadful seeing Felix’s things, his shaving gear, his shampoo for fuck’s sake—but at least there was a shirt that he’d worn that hadn’t been washed, and if I hold it close, I think I can smell him.”
“Was everything there, what you expected to be there . . . ?”
“Why? Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason,” I lied. “I mean, sometimes hotel staff aren’t honest—they steal things.”
“Callie! The hotel staff were so nice to us . . . I wouldn’t expect anything like that. Though, something was missing. I’m sure it’s a mistake.”
“What?”
“A gold cuff link—one of a set that I gave him as a present. They’re lovely—in the shape of a four-leaf clover. But, it turns out that Felix was the unluckiest person I’ve ever known.”
“Oh.” That’s all I could say.
“Callie?”
“I have to go now. I’m supposed to be at work.”
I phoned Daphne. “I’ve been unwell with a bad head, but I’m coming in now.”
I’d decided to be strong, to take charge of my relationship with Scarlet and discover her identity.
34
Instead of paying attention to the customers, I was emailing:
I received the four-leaf clover and I’m trying to come to terms with what it signifies. I don’t understand everything. I can’t think how you did it, Scarlet. I can’t explain what has happened since.
By I can’t explain what has happened since I meant the postmortem. If I were able to speak plainly I’d say: There’s an inconsistency here—you want me to believe that you killed Felix, but the postmortem says he died naturally. How do you explain that? I couldn’t be explicit, as I needed to abide by Scarlet’s rules, make her think I was on her side.
I’m confused about what to think. I’m impressed by you, and grateful to you—grateful that my sister is safe. At the same time, I’m overwhelmed by the burden of knowing that I must now play my part. But I am ready, Scarlet. As you suggested, we should meet up again to discuss it. As a start, why don’t you send me predator details?
I read and reread the email. Did it sound too unnatural? Was it too incriminating? I dreamed up a scenario in which I was on trial for conspiracy to murder—wondering if I could be condemned by my own words. The word predator jumped out at me as problematic and, sticking with the Controlling Men terminology, I changed it to X. With luck, Scarlet would believe in me, and would send me Luke’s full name. Once I knew who he was, I figured, I would be able to identify her.
I was about to write more but was interrupted by Daphne saying, “Is now a good moment to discuss stocktaking?”
I could hardly say, “No, it’s an awful moment,” so we spent the next half hour making a schedule for our annual stocktaking and analysis of our sales to see which genres have sold best, and which worst. In truth, I already knew that crime books are our bestsellers. But Daphne thought romance was doing pretty well too; and there’s a good solid following for military history in our part of Willesden. When we finished, it was almost lunchtime, and instead of going back to my email, I made my excuses and walked round to Willesden Estates. The two young women behind the desks looked at me pointedly, like they were expecting an embarrassing scene. One of them swished her hair. “Is Wilf in?” I stammered, just as he came through from the back room. I felt self-conscious as I asked him if he’d like to go to the Albany for lunch.
“Sure.”
; We walked in silence, each of us not wanting to risk saying the wrong thing.
We’d beaten the lunchtime rush, and picked a corner table—the same one that Tilda and I had chosen at the start of the summer. I had a cheese-and-Marmite sandwich and a cider, and Wilf had his usual, a ploughman’s and a pint of lager.
The food arrived, and Wilf started eating, turning to me with his mouth full, saying, “What’s been the matter, Callie? Why have you been ignoring me?” He was trying, but failing, to sound nonchalant, which gave me the confidence to make my confession.
“I owe you an apology. . . . I suspected you of selling a story to the Mail. When we were here, at the pub, I confided that Tilda was having trouble with Felix, then, within days a nasty, insinuating story was in the paper. It seemed too much of a coincidence. But I realize I was wrong, and I’m sorry . . . I’ve been thinking about it, and I had to speak in a loud voice that day, because the pub was so crowded, and the builder guy who was also at the bar, the one who was covered in dust—he could have overheard everything. And one of those shrieking girls on the other side of us—she leaned across and asked for a menu, but really she might have been listening.”
“Come here.” His hand was under my chin, pulling me in, and he kissed me. But then he said, “There’s one thing wrong with your apology. It’s based on you thinking you were overheard in the pub. Not based on your assessment of me, your belief in me. You need to accept that I’m not that sort of person—I’d never do anything like that. Can’t you see?” His eyes were locked with mine, and I could see the blue of his irises.
“Yes, I can see. I’m sorry about that too. . . . There’s something else, Wilf: that day when I helped out in the garden in Bishops Avenue. I want to tell you how that was the best day for me. I’m always living inside my head. Spending my whole life in the indoor world of the bookshop, or reading crime books, or staring at my laptop, or observing others. It was amazing to be outside, cool air on my face, digging earth, and being with you.”
