by Jane Robins
“Sure, do that; I’d like it.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket to find his business card, and wrote his home address on the back. I put it safely in my bag, then noticed Liam staring across the room at Tilda and Lucas, who were deep in a conversation, sitting side by side, Tilda leaning her head on his shoulder.
“Have you had a chance to talk to Tilda today?”
“No . . . No, I haven’t. I’d better do that now—I have to leave soon.” Something about his attitude suggested he was weighing up Tilda, assessing the way she was handling herself, and later, as I was on the train back to London, I kept thinking that Liam held secrets, that he could shed light on how Tilda really felt about Felix’s death.
When I arrived home, though, I forgot all that, because I did my usual thing—sitting by my bedroom window, turning on my laptop, and I saw a message from Scarlet. It read simply, 30 October, 4 o’clock.
I wrote back:
Send me your address.
But she answered:
No. I’ll send it on the 29th.
37
I had no intention of waiting. Instead, three days after the funeral, I took the train to Manchester, determined to find Luke. It was one of those dead Mondays, office workers trudging from Starbucks back to work, waiting in blank-eyed huddles to cross busy roads, and I stood with them, making my way from the station to Hollybank TV, wishing that I had a brilliant plan.
Hollybank, it turned out, was in a gray stone office block, along with insurance companies and legal firms with solid names like Mackenzie and Singh, and Turner and Partners. Clueless, I hung around by the revolving doors, watching people go in and out, pulling up the hood of my parka to keep warm. It was almost one o’clock and I had the absurd idea that Luke would come out for lunch and I’d somehow recognize him. Which, amazingly, did in fact sort of happen—because a group of five young people emerged onto the pavement, looking scruffier and trendier than the office workers, and I thought, Creatives! I followed them down two streets and into a café called Red Onion.
You had to order at a counter, and a young woman started speaking for the entire group—saying, “What do you want, Lulu? Sanjeev?” and after she’d relayed the orders for almond milk lattes and quinoa salads, she called out, “How about you, Luke?” to a skinny young man with black hair and dark circles under his eyes, who was talking with Lulu, discussing the next day’s filming.
He scratched the back of his head in a way that seemed both nervous and charming, and said, “An espresso and a cheese-and-ham panini. Thanks.” I noted his Manchester accent, and the way his Adam’s apple moved up and down when he spoke.
The group moved to a table and sat down, while I ordered myself a hot chocolate, then sat at the adjacent table. I couldn’t hear everything that was said, but I gathered that they were working on a documentary about dangerous plants. At one point, Luke was talking about the “dapperling mushroom . . . the amatoxin destroys your liver. . . .” Then Lulu told the group about a whole family in Italy who died after the mother added death cap mushrooms to their soup, presumably but not definitely by mistake, and then the group started debating whether they’d recognize poisonous mushrooms if they found them in a wood or somewhere. I wished they’d stop discussing work and switch to their social lives. But they didn’t; they moved on to deadly nightshade.
When they left, I followed them along the street back to the office. Luke, I noticed, had a gangly, uneven walk, and he talked a lot, bending down, since he was taller than the others. It was impossible for me to get his attention, to take him away from the group, so I simply watched as he disappeared back inside the office building, and I was left once more hanging around outside. It was a cold day, but at least it wasn’t raining, and I took up my vigil, leaning against a neighboring shop window and waiting.
I was lucky. After twenty minutes Luke emerged again, this time alone, and I followed him down the street, where he stopped and stood in line to use a cash machine. I stood behind him, as though I was in the queue, then tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hi . . . Are you Luke Stone?”
He looked bewildered. “Yes . . . Sorry, do I know you?”
“No. But I know your girlfriend . . .”
“Charlotte? You know Charlotte?”
I almost laughed out loud. Scarlet, Charlotte. Of course.
“Yes . . . I’m Callie Farrow. We know each other from ages ago.” I couldn’t think of anything specific to say. I know her from the internet? Not good. I know her from her acting and modeling days? Implausible.
“Oh, okay.”
I stamped my feet, as though it was too cold to stay outside, and said, “Luke, do you have a minute to go for a coffee? There’s something about Charlotte that I need to talk to you about.”
“What did you say your name was?” He stepped backwards, like he was trying to get away.
“Callie. Callie Farrow.”
“She hasn’t mentioned you.”
“Oh. That’s not surprising—we know each other from Narcotics Anonymous. We’re not supposed to talk about it.” After having no ideas, that one just came to me from outer space, and I was pleased with my ingenuity. He’d be curious now.
“I see . . . Okay then, a quick coffee.”
We walked back to the Red Onion café, and as we entered, he said, “Wait a minute—weren’t you in here earlier? Have you been stalking me?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. It’s just that there’s something quite serious going on with Charlotte that you don’t know about . . . that I thought you should know.”
“You’re being extremely weird, Callie. You know that I’ll tell Charlotte about this, don’t you?”
I didn’t answer.
We ordered a coffee for him and a hot chocolate for me, and took them to two high stools next to a wooden counter by the window, so that we were facing out, watching the people on the street.
“I have to admit that I know some pretty intimate things about you and Charlotte,” I began, keeping my voice tentative and friendly. “I know about the violence in your lives, and the sex games that you play—”
“What the fuck?”
“Luke, I know that this must seem really strange, but please, do listen to me. I want you to understand that I know Charlotte’s secrets . . . that she thinks the only way to escape, to leave you, is by destroying you, taking your life.” I touched his arm. “Really. She’s dangerous. . . .”
He looked at me with wide dark eyes, trying to compute my words.
“I can’t really explain,” I continued. “But one of you will kill the other . . . I can see that. And the best thing you can do is get out of there, quickly. Please, Luke.”
He stood up, almost knocking his stool over. “I don’t know who you really are, but you’re out of your mind. Just stay away from Charlotte, and from me. Otherwise, I’m going to the police. Do you understand?”
He was leaning over me, spewing his words into my ear, aggressive. The chatty charmer had gone, and I noticed for the first time that his eyes were red, bloodshot, and his skin a pallid gray. I tried to speak again, to tell him to take me seriously, but he left the café, striding past the window without looking in.
I remained at the seat, sipping my hot chocolate and watching the people on the pavement outside. Doubtless Scarlet would be furious with me now, because I had no faith that Luke was going to follow my advice. More likely he’d go home and accuse her of terrible sins, of blabbing to me, of betraying him. God knows what the consequences would be.
38
She was totally mad, sending a torrent of emails, ranting, practically hysterical.
How could you?! You’re such a crazy bitch. You’ve no idea—the price I had to pay!
Luke had gone home and accused Scarlet of sounding off at Narcotics Anonymous, of having secrets. Like, how come she was even in Narcotics Anonymous. And how dare she talk about their private lives to people like me, whom she hardly knew!
You’ve no idea what you’ve u
nleashed. He became turned on by the role he was playing—of a master reprimanding his slave, forced to punish me, forced to humiliate and hurt me. If I’m found strangled, or choked to death with some piece of rag rammed down my throat, Luke’s to blame, and so are you!
Then she added:
How did you know? Luke’s sensitive about drugs, because he was a user himself.
I didn’t know, of course. But it made sense. When I thought about how she wanted to kill him, with diamorphine in the arm, looking like it was self-inflicted. But I didn’t want to engage with that—instead I told her she was being unfair, and also that I needed to distance myself. But Scarlet said our lives were intricately bound together now, that there was no escape for me. That it was more crucial than ever that I kept my side of our bargain.
I wrote:
We made no bargain! It’s all in your head.
She came right back telling me that I was deluded. A deal had been struck—she had acted, and I had to reciprocate. And the date she’d sent me earlier would still work.
When you went to Luke, you increased the urgency of your mission. Don’t lose your nerve. Honor Belle.
I’m not even convinced that you actually did what you said you did, I wrote back, sickened, and untruthful.
Remember the four-leaf clover. How else would I have it? It’s proof.
I need more proof.
Okay—well, I can tell you this. I brought him breakfast that day—a pain au raisin. What does it say in the postmortem? Is that what he had eaten that morning?
I felt dizzy. She’d done exactly as I had asked and had supplied me with more evidence—it was almost too good to be true. I could go to Melody Sykes now and say, “Look what she wrote! How could Scarlet possibly have known they found raisins in his stomach?” Together with the cuff link, it was almost conclusive. At the back of my mind, though, I felt that one small piece of the picture was missing, some third sign that would place Scarlet at the Ashleigh House Hotel that day—and I took the decision to go back there, to see Agnes again, the receptionist who’d taken photographs.
• • •
It was easy—a short train journey, and then a cab ride, and I was back in that stylish Georgian hotel, lawns stretching out to the woods.
I asked for Agnes. The young man on reception said that she was on her break. “Who shall I say wants her?”
“Tell her Callie Farrow, the sister-in-law of Felix Nordberg.”
A few minutes later, she appeared, looking smart in her black uniform and perfect makeup, and her hair tied up in a neat ponytail.
“I wondered whether you could tell me about the day Felix died,” I said, “and whether I might have another look at the photographs you took.”
“I sent them to your sister.” She sounded wary.
“I don’t want to bother my sister. It’s a difficult time for her.” It sounded weak, but I couldn’t think of anything better.
“She asked me to delete them. . . .”
“Did you?”
“Actually, I didn’t. But they’re very intimate, I haven’t shown them to anyone.”
She wasn’t budging, so I tried a new tack: “It’s possible that someone came to see Felix that morning, and I want to see if there is any evidence of that in the photographs.”
“Really? I didn’t see anyone go to his room.”
“But wasn’t the hotel busy? There was a conference going on.”
“That’s true. One of his colleagues, maybe.”
That wasn’t what I meant, but there was no need to elaborate, and I gave Agnes a half smile that was meant to say Well?, and at last she reached into her bag, telling me to come with her to the lounge area where we could sit down. She passed me the phone and I scrolled through the photos—once again I was struck by the pristine nature of the room—everything perfectly tidy. Of course, that was normal for Felix. Nonetheless there was a strange sense of the scene of his death being arranged for a viewing, the artistic way in which he was lying on the bed, his arm hanging down the side. Even his bathrobe appeared to be draped in a thought-out fashion—and I thought of Scarlet’s attention to detail, the way she planned things so carefully. I looked at the photographs a second time, hoping that something would unlock my thoughts, make me realize why I’d thought it so important to have come back here, to the hotel. Then, something struck me—the picture of the untouched hospitality tray. Nothing drunk and nothing eaten, not the wrapped-up biscuits, nor the piece of fruitcake encased in cellophane.
“Did Felix have any breakfast sent to his room that morning?”
“No. Not at all. It was one of the reasons we thought something was wrong, when he hadn’t left the room all day. He hadn’t eaten anything, no breakfast, no lunch. Nothing.”
I thought about the pain au raisin. I supposed that Felix could have brought it with him to the hotel—but why? And if he had, why were there no used plates, no crumbs anywhere?
“Thank you, Agnes,” I said. “Could you send me these pictures? As I say, I don’t want to bother Tilda right now. She’s too upset.”
“Okay . . .” She didn’t sound sure, but she did it anyway. I checked that the untouched hospitality tray photo was in my inbox, and I thought, It convinces me, so surely it will convince Melody Sykes. There was, though, still one element that was bothering me, that would be hard to explain to the police—why would Felix have let Scarlet into his room in the first place? Did he know her from somewhere?
“The person who might have come to see Felix was a young woman, about my age,” I said, “with dark hair, quite tall. Her name is Charlotte.”
“I don’t remember anyone like that coming to reception, and I was the only staff member on the desk that morning. Although, we were busy, and I may have forgotten.”
“So it’s possible that she came and asked for Felix’s room number?”
“Yes. But we wouldn’t give it out, just like that. We’d call up to the room, and check with the guest first. I’d remember that.”
“I see.”
Maybe Felix had known Scarlet; maybe she had known his room number. For an instant, something flashed into my mind. One thing they had in common was that Felix was angry and violent and controlling, and Scarlet liked sex games with violent men. But I dismissed the thought just as fast. For all his faults, I didn’t see Felix as a cheater. Especially as he had been married for only a few weeks.
I thanked Agnes again and, as I left the hotel, I called a taxi to take me into Reading, to the police station.
39
A receptionist behind a metal grille was casually scrolling on her phone, not looking up as I said I wanted to speak to Melody Sykes. “It’s in connection with a death she investigated.” That was too strong, but I thought it would grab her attention.
Melody appeared two minutes later, clutching a Styrofoam coffee cup, propping the door open with a big hip. “Come on through, we’ll go somewhere private. . . .” She sounded irritated, like I’d interrupted something important, and I almost had to jog to keep up as she strode down the corridor, swinging her large frame from side to side. She ushered me into a small, bare room, the sort you see in TV dramas when the police interview their prime suspect, and we faced each other across a table.
“So, Ms. Farrow, how can we help?”
“It’s about Felix Nordberg. The man who died at the Ashleigh House Hotel.”
“Oh yes. Heart disease wasn’t it?”
“That’s why I’m here. I don’t think it was. . . . I think the postmortem was wrong.”
“And what makes you think that?” She leaned back, scrunching up her face, looking skeptical.
“I know someone who says she killed him. Her name’s Charlotte—and I think she went to the hotel and injected him with a lethal dose of diamorphine.”
“Mmm . . . hmmm. Let’s rewind. Who is this Charlotte? How did she know Mr. Nordberg? Why would she want to kill him?” She did me the courtesy of opening her notebook, taking a pen from the pocket of he
r jacket.
“I don’t know her well . . . I met her on the internet—we’d discuss men who harm women, and things escalated until she said she would kill Felix for me, to protect my sister.”
“Why would she do that? It’s rather extreme.”
I hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal about my own complicity, and then I said, “She wanted me to kill her boyfriend, Luke. It was supposed to be a bargain. Like the film Strangers on a Train.”
“My goodness!” Her tone was disbelieving and annoyed. “That’s quite something. And you think she was serious? People often fantasize about murder, you realize—that’s not a crime, it’s just human nature.”
“I know . . . I know that. Really. And at first I didn’t take her seriously . . . but now I think she’s kind of insane. She sent me proof that she was actually there, in Felix’s room. A gold cuff link in the shape of a four-leaf clover. I can’t see how she’d have it unless she’d been in Felix’s room at the hotel. And, something else—she said she took him a pain au raisin for his breakfast . . . and at the postmortem, they found raisins in his stomach.”
“They also found that he died from hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. . . .”
“That’s what I don’t understand. How come they didn’t find diamorphine?”
“Well . . . the fact is they didn’t do a toxicology report. It’s not routine in a straightforward case like this.”
“What?” I could scarcely believe it. “That’s terrible! And now he’s been cremated.”
“I think the point to focus on, Ms. Farrow, is that the case was straightforward—so there was no need for a toxicology report.”
“Surely it could be a coincidence—that he had a heart condition, but that he was actually killed by diamorphine?”
She folded her arms over a large, protective bosom, exasperated, and not concerned. “Well, that could happen,” she said. “But it’s unlikely. You seem to have got very caught up in your internet relationship with this Charlotte. . . .” Then, in a kindly, patronizing voice: “The internet is a beguiling thing, relationships can become all-involving in such a short time. Is it possible that you’ve allowed your thoughts to get out of control—to run away with you?”
