Die of Shame

by Mark Billingham

  Caroline says, ‘Yeah,’ and sucks at her drink.

  ‘I’m sure there’s plenty of things the rest of us haven’t opened up about yet.’

  Caroline grunts her agreement, sucking until the juice has all gone. She straightens up as a barman stops at the table to collect the empties. She half smiles at him, but he doesn’t respond.

  ‘Maybe he topped himself because of Robin,’ Chris says, when the barman has gone.

  ‘You’re an arse,’ Heather says.

  Chris yawns extravagantly, stretching his arms out so that one snakes across the back of Heather’s neck and laughing as she cringes from it. ‘Maybe Robin just bored him to death.’

  ‘Oh,’ Caroline says.

  ‘What?’

  She nods towards the door through which Robin has just entered and they all turn to look. He waves and hurries over, breathing heavily. His silver hair, usually carefully styled and lacquered, is all over the place. It looks as though he’s been running.

  ‘I thought you couldn’t come,’ Diana says.

  ‘I put my appointment back.’ Still panting, he takes off his coat and folds it across his arm. ‘Couldn’t miss this, could I?’

  Diana gives a small cheer.

  ‘We’re a group, aren’t we?’

  ‘Right,’ Heather says, looking around. ‘We just need to find another chair…’

  Robin shakes his head, bends down and squeezes in next to Chris. ‘Listen… I want you to know that whatever gets said at Tony’s has nothing to do with… this.’ He gestures towards the others. ‘With us, I mean. Naturally people are going to get upset in there and emotions are going to run high, but that’s part of it. All part of the process.’ His face is just inches from Chris’s. ‘It’s all useful in the end, OK? No hard feelings on my part.’ He puts a hand on Chris’s arm and rubs. ‘That’s all I wanted to say. Family, yes?’

  Chris stares straight ahead, unblinking, one finger drumming rapidly against the edge of the table, but when it becomes clear that Robin will not move until he’s had an acceptable response, he says, ‘Yeah.’

  Robin closes his eyes for a few seconds, then turns to the others and claps his hands together. ‘Right, then, who wants a wholly satisfying non-alcoholic beverage?’

  A few seconds after Robin has taken orders and gone to the bar, Chris stands up and walks back to the fruit machine in the far corner. He jams in a few coins and begins stabbing at the buttons.

  The three women watch him.

  ‘What’s the matter with him now?’ Caroline asks.

  Chris leans against the machine, that finger still drumming.

  Heather says, ‘He doesn’t like being forgiven.’

  … THEN

  Group Session: February 23rd

  Resolved issue with Chris and Caroline. Usual tricks from Chris throughout and my suspicions about his abstinence, or lack of it, are getting stronger week on week. He continues to play a ‘role’ – archetypal fear of authenticity – preferring to be disliked for who he pretends to be than who he really is. Suggested some more one-to-one sessions, but he didn’t seem keen.

  Exchange about cost of sessions initiated by Heather. Talked about fee differentials/support of outside services. Interesting exchange between Robin and Chris about ‘equality’ among addicts. Worth pursuing at a later session, I think.

  Robin’s S. Africa story was extremely revealing. Catharsis powerful and obvious. Chris still has doubts about relevance of shame in recovery process and was aggressive with Robin afterwards. Raised issue of Robin’s son which heightened tension further. Good to see Robin on the offensive for a change. Empowered by his own revelations? More convinced than ever that this is a worthwhile exercise.

  Did not ask for volunteers for next time. Would be good to draw Caroline out a little in future sessions, so may put her on spot. Thinking that spontaneity might be way forward. Given a week to prepare their stories, is it easier to self-censor?

  Tony puts the radio on to drown out the music from the floor above him; the repetitive thumping only marginally worse than the smell. The associations that go with the smell.

  He tunes to a phone-in, sits back and closes his eyes. The same station has a show on a different night which he listens to on catch-up if he can’t be at home when it goes out. A therapy phone-in. Some cut-price Frasier Crane dispensing faux pearls of idiocy that might just as well have come from a Christmas cracker. It annoys him, but he listens nonetheless, enjoying the anger as it builds and comes to the boil.

  How can you love others if you don’t love yourself?

  You need to get closure and move on.

  Try smiling more often.

  Jesus…

  It’s envy of course, pure and simple. He wouldn’t be much of a therapist if he couldn’t recognise that, though he doubts very much that the moron on the radio show could. He knows it’s the kind of show he should be doing himself, knows how good at it he would be. He has some media experience, after all, and he was always very good in front of an audience. Well, perhaps not at the end, but by then he had a hard time remembering which city he was playing in.

  Good evening, Birmingham.

  Coventry, you twat…

  A nice radio job would be handy in terms of money as well, no question about that. He thinks back to the session, his discomfort during the discussion about money. It was more than just the awkwardness he always feels when clients try to elicit personal information. They had touched a nerve, the five of them sitting in that conservatory paid for by his wife. The house largely paid for by his wife. He enjoys his work, values it, but he does not like being supported.

  He particularly dislikes being reminded of the fact.

  Some nice, ulcerating shame of his own.

  ‘Get in touch with them then,’ Nina says, whenever he mentions the radio show. ‘Send a CV instead of moaning to me about it. You need to push yourself a bit more.’

  She’s always telling him that he isn’t pushy enough, that he should ‘sell’ himself more and that it all comes from spending too much time listening to other people. He knows she’s got a point. Trouble is, somewhere in whatever she’s telling him, however encouraging she might sound, he can always detect a seed of doubt. Some sharp and tiny seed he imagines she’s taking great care to plant, and nurture. If the subject of his past life ever comes up – if he happens to mention an old song of his, or a gig he once played – Nina always seems to find a way to pour cold water on it.

  A few months ago, a singer he had worked with years before – who had supported him at a handful of shows – was playing at the Hammersmith Apollo. Tony had suggested to Nina that they go along, told her he was sure he could organise tickets and backstage passes. She had sounded keen, but only for a day or two.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be a bit… embarrassing though?’ she had asked eventually. Her hand on his arm. ‘Afterwards, I mean. Eventually, he’s bound to ask you what you’re doing now.’

  He’d gone on his own in the end and enjoyed it. Paid for his ticket like everyone else and come straight home afterwards.

  The radio host gives out the number for the phone-in again and Tony reminds himself that he needs to talk to Heather about the messages. He had been about to put it into his notes, but had stopped himself when it occurred to him that Nina might look at what was on his computer from time to time.

  You know exactly who I’m talking about…

  He’s probably being stupid. Because he’s becoming convinced, more so by the day, that his wife doesn’t really care a great deal.

  The one who looks like a boy.

  Thinking back on their conversation in the kitchen a week before, it seems obvious to him that Nina was amusing herself. The pained accusations and the fake jealousy.

  When a caller starts ranting about how the Polish have taken over Earls Court, Tony leans across and turns the radio off. Without being aware of it, his fingers begin tapping at the edge of his desk in time with the beat from Emma’s room above him. H
e looks up and sees the central light fitting moving gently over his head. A month ago it was reggae, which he could just about cope with, but this is mechanistic, ceaseless. It’s like a furiously racing heartbeat and the smell tells him that his daughter’s heart is almost certainly keeping time with it.

  Thumping against her skinny chest, up to twice as fast as normal.

  Tony gets up and opens his door, breathes it in. The same burned sweetness that was once the way his own world smelled. Him and his friends and every place they went. On his clothes, in his hair.

  Now, it just smells like waste.

  … NOW

  Once Tanner had introduced herself and Chall, the man who had answered her knock drew the grey front door a fraction closer to himself. Narrowed the gap. It was the way many people would behave with Jehovah’s Witnesses or salesmen, but in Tanner’s experience it was not the normal reaction to a pair of amiable-looking police officers. In certain areas of London after dark perhaps, but not usually in the middle of the day and rarely on the doorstep of a house like this.

  ‘Mr De Silva?’

  ‘Yeah…’

  Tanner held up a photograph. ‘Could you confirm for us that this woman is a client of yours?’ It was the picture held on record by the DVLA. They had not found a more recent photo at the victim’s home and her father had been unable to provide any.

  Now, De Silva opened the door a little further and straightened up. ‘Ah… I hope you understand, but you clearly know what I do for a living and professional ethics mean that I’m unable to confirm or deny that. I’m sorry.’

  Tanner nodded, expecting it. ‘We’re from the Homicide Command, sir.’ She looked for a reaction, but none was apparent. ‘I need to tell you that, unfortunately, the woman in this photograph has been murdered.’

  A well-fed tabby cat appeared in the doorway and darted into the front garden. Chall smiled and turned to watch it go. De Silva ignored it, breath hissing from him like a punctured ball as his shoulders dropped.

  He said, ‘Right,’ then stepped back, opening the door good and wide.

  He led them into the kitchen, pausing to offer fresh coffee which Tanner unilaterally declined, then carrying on into a bright and spacious conservatory.

  ‘Nice,’ Chall said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  They sat in wide rattan chairs with deep cushions. An earthenware bowl filled with polished pebbles sat in the middle of a matching table.

  ‘I have an office upstairs for one-to-one work, but this is a good space for group sessions.’ De Silva looked around. ‘We push these against the wall and bring in the chairs from the garage.’ He sat back. ‘They’re not quite as comfortable, though.’

  ‘These are great,’ Chall said. ‘I’m worried I might nod off.’

  ‘My wife chose them.’

  The therapist was tall and looked to Tanner as though he took trouble to keep himself in shape. He wore jeans and a red hoodie, and with greying hair cut close to the scalp he could easily have passed for a good few years younger than the forty-six Tanner knew him to be. He lowered his head for a few seconds, and when he looked up again the lines on his face were suddenly more evident.

  He said, ‘This is horrible.’ There were tears gathering now at the corners of his eyes. He wiped them quickly away with a fingertip. ‘I mean, you always have to maintain a professional distance, but there’s still a bond, you know?’

  ‘When did you last see her?’ Tanner asked.

  ‘About… three weeks ago. Yeah… the Monday night group.’

  ‘Monday, March the twenty-second?’

  ‘Sounds about right,’ De Silva said. ‘I can check my diary.’

  ‘We’re almost certain that was the same night she was killed.’ Tanner glanced down at her open notebook. ‘That evening or the early hours of the following morning.’

  ‘We checked her phone records,’ Chall said.

  Tanner looked up, listened. ‘Who’s playing the piano?’

  Chall said, ‘Whoever it is, they’re very good.’

  ‘What’s funny?’ Tanner asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ De Silva crossed his legs and leaned back.

  ‘You smiled when I asked, that’s all.’

  ‘Nothing, just… it doesn’t seem awfully relevant, that’s all.’ De Silva looked at his watch. ‘I do have a session in half an hour, so —’

  ‘Did you miss her?’

  De Silva looked at her.

  ‘If she was part of your Monday night group, she would have missed three sessions now.’

  ‘Yeah, obviously I noticed she wasn’t there. It’s not unknown, but I did wonder what had happened.’

  ‘Did you not try to contact her?’

  ‘I called, but it went straight to her voicemail.’

  ‘You weren’t worried though.’

  ‘Yes, of course, but like I said, it’s not unknown. I’ve had clients who suddenly stopped coming to sessions and then turned up again eighteen months later like nothing happened. Some of them can be a bit… unpredictable.’ He waited for Tanner to say something. ‘You do know I work with people in recovery from addiction?’

  ‘Yes, we do know that,’ Tanner said.

  ‘And some of them are a bit more famous than others, right?’ Chall ignored the look from his boss. ‘One or two, anyway.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I googled you.’

  ‘Oh.’ De Silva shook his head in disbelief. ‘That’s what the police do now, is it? They just google people.’

  ‘Not just, no,’ Chall said.

  Tanner glanced out into the garden. A pair of squirrels chased each other around the base of what was probably meant to be a relaxing water feature. She looked back to De Silva. ‘So, did the rest of the group talk about why she’d stopped coming?’

  ‘We talked about it, yeah.’

  ‘Were they worried?’

  ‘Of course they were. The group’s like a family. But at the same time, everyone has issues and problems of their own and they understand the way it works. They know that people can drift in and out, can go off the rails. It might be them missing the next session, you know?’

  Tanner nodded, like she did know. She wrote others in her notebook and underlined it. ‘Was Christopher Clemence worried?’

  De Silva looked down at his hands, laced his fingers together.

  ‘Is Mr Clemence not also a member of that same group?’

  ‘Like I said at the door. Professional ethics. I can neither confirm nor…’ He stopped when he saw Tanner nodding.

  ‘His fingerprints were found at the victim’s home,’ she said. ‘At the crime scene.’

  ‘Right.’ De Silva sighed. ‘Yes, Chris is one of the group.’

  ‘We also found your fingerprints at the crime scene, sir.’ Chall leaned forward. ‘That’s how we found you, matter of fact. Possession of a controlled drug with intent to supply.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

  ‘I know, a long time ago.’

  ‘I think I nicked some sweets when I was eleven,’ De Silva said. ‘You might want to look into that.’

  Chall didn’t blink. ‘Well, if you can give me the name of the shop, I’ll see if they want to prosecute.’

  ‘More to the point,’ Tanner said, ‘what were your fingerprints doing there?’

  De Silva took a few seconds. ‘Oh… she had a birthday party. Well, not a party, really. Just the group.’

  ‘So, you’re in the habit of going along when your clients have a party? What about that professional distance you mentioned?’

  ‘I didn’t go,’ De Silva said. ‘Meaning, I didn’t stay. I just popped in with a cake. She’d made amazing progress. She was celebrating another year clean. I was just being supportive.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that,’ Chall said.

  ‘No, there isn’t.’

  Tanner looked down to her notebook again. ‘Those phone records we mentioned.’ She turned a page, studied it, turned back. ‘According to those, s
he made a number of calls to you in the week before she was killed and several before that. Calls in the early hours. Most of these were no more than a few seconds in duration, so I presume you were in bed.’

  De Silva nodded.

  ‘Did she leave messages?’

  ‘Just to call her back.’

  ‘Do you still have them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And did you call her back?’

  ‘Of course I did.’

  ‘So your clients also have your personal number, do they?’

  De Silva considered it, his expression pained suddenly. ‘Well, actually it’s something I’ve been wrestling with for a while,’ he said. ‘Several colleagues of mine already have two different numbers for exactly this reason and it’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot. Getting these kinds of calls was starting to become a problem.’

  ‘What did she want? When she called.’

  The therapist shrugged. ‘Just to talk. She was up and down, you know. She had problems with depression, which date back to before the drug abuse even began. She was taking prescribed medication.’

  ‘Yes, we found it,’ Tanner said. ‘In her flat.’ During the pause before she spoke again, she became aware that the music had stopped. ‘And in her liver.’

  ‘I didn’t think you could do that,’ Chall said. ‘Take Prozac or whatever, if you’re supposed to be keeping off drugs.’

  ‘Ironically, that’s one of the things that was making her anxious,’ De Silva said. ‘Narcotics Anonymous, one or two of the other groups, don’t really approve. It’s a major bone of contention, because a lot of people on those sorts of medication have problems with relapse.’

  ‘You were actually the last person she called,’ Tanner said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The night she was killed. The last call was made to you, just after ten thirty.’

  ‘Ten thirty-six,’ Chall said.

  ‘Do you normally go to bed that early?’

  ‘Not as a rule.’ De Silva looked shaken.

  ‘You were at home, though?’