“Course not. I’ll finish making the tart.’
‘She’s a saint, that woman,’ Trish said as she fumbled her way up the spiral stairs, giving George the merest outline of what had been going on.
She’d told him quite a lot of the rest between emerging like an otter from the shower and dressing in plain black trousers and the scarlet cashmere tunic. She left her feet bare.
‘Like a penitent?’ George suggested.
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘I’m beyond decoding what my psyche’s doing to us all these days. Oh, help, there’s the bell. We must go down.’
Nicky had let Henry Buxford in and was standing beside him with his bulky coat in her arms, offering him white wine or whisky. He chose whisky, breaking off his thanks to greet Trish.
She took both his outstretched hands and peered uncomprehendingly at his anxious face.
‘There are no words – and certainly no orchids – to tell you how sorry I am that I involved you in all this, that I didn’t listen to what you said, and then put you and the boy at such risk. I can only throw myself on your mercy.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said, looking over her shoulder at George.
‘I think it’s possible that Trish is more in the dark than you think,’ he said. ‘I certainly am. Can you tell us what’s going on?’
‘Didn’t you know? Toby’s been arrested for this murder in the Blackfriars tunnel.’
‘Good God!’
‘Yes. The police found parts of a deliberately destroyed umbrella in his study. The whole room was stinking of bleach and there were peculiar traces of carbonized nylon in the grate. He had obviously been trying to burn the fabric of the umbrella. That, combined with various other pieces of evidence, has led them to believe that the wound they found under the corpse’s chin might have been made with an umbrella.’ Henry looked sick. ‘An umbrella which penetrated and destroyed the brain.’
‘Henry, you don’t have to tell us all this,’ Trish said, remembering all her efforts to warn him of what scaring Toby might do. Even she hadn’t imagined anything like this.
‘I owe you a great deal more than that, Trish. I have asked Antony to recommend suitable counsel for Toby and obviously his case will be fought with the utmost rigour, but I—’ He broke off, covering his eyes with his hand.
She wasn’t aware that she was moving until she found herself standing beside him, patting his shoulder.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’m not blameless in all this. If I’d—’
‘Don’t try to make me feel better. You couldn’t. No one could. Anyway, that’s the root of my confession, and the branches are that it looks as though you were right about everything.’
She was beyond speech now and merely gaped at him.
‘The murdered man is known to the authorities,’ he told her. ‘He’s suspected of being the money-laundering manager for a growing drugs-importing operation. He has been under intermittent surveillance by Customs & Excise, as well as the National Crime Squad. Unfortunately no one was following him in the fog yesterday, and no one had picked up the fact that he was in touch with Toby. Obviously I haven’t said anything, but you and I know that he must have been, and why, Trish.’
‘I think we should all have a drink,’ George said, getting up off the sofa, ‘and try to look at this less excitably.’
‘Yes. And maybe open the letters David found.’ Trish collected the two crackling envelopes from her desk and offered them to Henry. ‘If you are going to do that, I’d like to get him out of bed so that he can witness it.’
He took them and nodded. Trish fetched David. By the time they’d got his dressing gown on and tied around his minimal waist, Henry had opened the first envelope and was skimming through it. Trish saw that he was blushing until his whole face was claret coloured. After a moment, he recovered and handed her the sheet.
To Whom It May Concern
I write this in case I cannot be present to show you that my wife knows nothing of the origin of these paintings. She has no idea that she has been transporting stolen property to England. She is wholly innocent of everything I have ever done.
This is my statement, with my signature witnessed by a notary. I do not know whether it can be a valid document in an English court, but I trust that you will accept it and not punish my wife for crimes she has not committed.
Jean-Pierre Gregoire
Trish couldn’t read the name of his witness, but that didn’t seem to matter. She couldn’t look at Henry’s humiliation either.
‘I don’t know what to say. You were right about that, too. Helen was indeed a mule.’
‘Please, Henry, it doesn’t matter.’ She had her arm around her brother’s shoulders now and felt him lean against her. With that sensation, nothing else mattered.
‘Yes, it does. Not just because of what you and your boy have suffered, but because if I had listened properly to you, and not tried to frighten Toby into talking, I might have got to him before he—’ Henry glanced at the boy, then back at Trish and said quietly: ‘before he crossed the line.’
Remembering his stories of Toby’s father, his best friend, Trish had to distract him.
‘What’s in the other letter?’
He shivered and handed it to her. She held it so that David could read it, too.
Hélène, ma mie,
If you are reading this, then one or both of the two worst things has happened. Either the authorities have intercepted you on your way back from France or I am dead. Either way, you must know that even though I came looking only for a courier, I found a woman I loved.
The love was real, Hélène, even though my name and our marriage were not. Do not forget, ever, that I have loved you more than I believed possible.
Take care of our child. Love him as I would have loved you both.
‘Jean-Pierre’
‘Ivan will be glad to know his father had some feeling for his mother,’ Trish said, hardly able to bear the thought of Helen Gregory’s wasted life as the lonely victim of a thieving, art-smuggling conman. ‘Henry, don’t tear yourself up. You couldn’t have known any of this.’
‘Perhaps not. But Toby will go to prison for life because of my arrogance. If I’d done what you advised and had him followed by a professional investigator, this could never have happened.’
Trish suppressed the comment that if Toby’s barristers were any good, they would almost certainly get him off on provocation, or at the very least go for a psychiatric defence.
She passed the letters on to George, who was practically throbbing with impatience.
Much later, when the three of them had explained the significance of the letters to David and answered all his questions, Henry took the two documents away. George poured himself another drink, while Nicky went back to the onion tart she had been making and Trish escorted David back to his room. Sitting on the edge of his bed, she helped him to tell her everything he had seen and felt and done in Toby’s basement.
‘And I was pleased when the knife went into his hand,’ he said at last, shuddering again. ‘Because of what he did to you yesterday.’
Trish put her own hands around both of his so that he would know she would always hold on to him, however scared he made her, and whatever he did. ‘I can understand that because you must have been frightened as well as very angry, but it mustn’t happen again. No more knives. Ever. Whatever happens.’
He looked up at her, the black eyes that were so like her own unblinking. She couldn’t read anything in them.
At last he said: ‘He took me away from the trench, you know, that day we went to the museum.’
‘What?’
‘You know, when I said I didn’t like it and we had to leave? He’d pulled me into the loo and tried to make me give you a message.’
‘But why didn’t you tell me then?’
His head dropped and his eyes slid sideways so that he couldn’t look directly at her. After a while, he said: ‘I thought I could make it not be real if I
didn’t tell you. And I didn’t want you to be scared, too.’
Trish remembered Margaret Fullwell’s telling her about the anti-sneaking culture at the school.
‘That was kind of you,’ she said simply. ‘But I do wish you’d said something. Nothing like this will ever happen again, but if there’s ever anything that worries or frightens you, please tell me. There will nearly always be things I can do to help. And even if there aren’t, I will know who can help us. All right?’
He nodded, but she couldn’t be sure he meant it.
Later still, when he was asleep and Nicky had gone to her flat across the road, George said: ‘I don’t want to sound too much like Pollyanna, Trish, but you do see what those letters mean, don’t you?’
‘That I’m a prophetic genius?’ she said, trying to make a joke and failing. ‘No, it’s all right. I am taking this seriously. In fact what it means is that one crime always attracts a whole lot more, just as I’ve always believed. If Jean-Pierre hadn’t made Helen smuggle his stolen paintings into England, Toby would never have been in a position to use them for money-laundering, and he would never have been driven to commit murder.’
‘True, but that wasn’t what I meant either.’
‘No? Then what? That it’s dangerous to push vulnerable people? That’s definitely true. I can see why Henry was distraught at what he and I have done to Toby.’
George kissed her. Still holding the back of her head in one big capable, comforting hand, he said:
‘I think Toby would probably have done something similar even if neither of you had put him under pressure. I don’t share your view that any one of us could turn violent under the right stress. I think the capacity for violence is either inborn or inculcated very early in life. But that’s not what I meant either. Trish, don’t those letters from Jean-Pierre show you that not everyone lies about love?’
She felt the familiar tugging between her eyebrows, then his finger, trying to smooth away the frown.
‘Don’t you think they show that it’s time to get over your terror of believing people care about you? People like David and Paddy?’ he asked. ‘And me?’
This was much too important to take seriously. Trish let her frown relax and kissed him.
‘The evidence is purely circumstantial, m’lord,’ she murmured when she could speak again.
A mobile rang. They both looked round and traced the sound to George’s little Nokia.
‘Leave it,’ Trish said, ‘and come to bed. It’s been another long day.’
‘I can’t. It could be a client.’ He put the phone to his ear. The voice that came through was so loud that Trish could hear it, too.
‘George? Jeremy Carfield here. Some idiot police officers have arrested me. I’m at Southwark Police Station and this is my one phone call.’
‘What’s the charge?’
‘Selling coke. They were tracking a street dealer, thought they saw something pass from me to him, and hauled us both off in one of their sodding white vans. And now they’re treating me as if I was some sad loony off the street. Come and get me out of here.’
‘I’ll get one of our crime specialists, Jeremy. He’ll do you far better than—’
‘I want you, George. Now.’
He looked at Trish, who nodded. ‘I know. He’s a client.’
‘And if that’s Trish Maguire with you, tell her to drop round to see how Angelique’s doing. She’ll be in a panic by now, wondering where I am, and these baboons won’t let me make two phone calls.’
‘I’ll see that your wife is informed,’ George said, ‘and I’ll be with you as soon as the traffic allows.’ He clicked off the phone to see Trish already on her landline to Nicky, asking whether she would come back to babysit. ‘You don’t have to do it, Trish. He’s not your client.’
Trish looked at him. After everything they’d said to each other – and not quite said – she wasn’t going to make him do this alone. ‘What’s yours is mine, George.’
While they waited for Nicky, she told him about the Procrustes icon, which was flickering madly away on the edge of her mind, like the jagged arcs of light that signalled a migraine.
‘God, how I hate drugs!’ she burst out.
‘I know.’
Nicky unlocked the door before he could say any more. They saw she was wearing her rose-splattered pyjamas under her coat.
‘I thought I’d make up a bed on the sofa, if that’s OK, Trish,’ she said, yawning. ‘It makes more sense than sitting up till you get back.’
‘Very sensible. I must look around for a bigger house, so that we can all have bedrooms under the same roof,’ Trish said lightly. ‘Come on, George. You could drop me off at the Carfields’ flat on your way to the nick. We’ll be as quiet as we can when we come back, Nicky. Sleep well.’
As they walked down the iron staircase, with their footsteps setting up a resonating clang, George said:
‘I hope you’re proud of the way you beat the pair of them.’
‘Toby and his victim?’
George laughed, the sound fat with satisfaction. ‘No. Henry and Antony. They tried to use you, then they tried to threaten you – in their customary ultra-civilized way – and in the end they tried to bribe you. But you just went on regardless till you got to the end. You showed them. Well done.’
‘I wouldn’t have got to the solution without David’s intervention.’
He slung a friendly arm around her shoulder. ‘I don’t think either of us could get anywhere very far without him now.’
Also by Natasha Cooper
Creeping Ivy
Fault Lines
Prey to All
Out of the Dark
A PLACE OF SAFETY. Copyright © 2003 by Daphne Wright. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
First published in Great Britain by Simon Schuster UK Ltd A Viacom company
eISBN 9781466808362
First eBook Edition : January 2012
First St. Martin’s Minotaur Edition: September 2003
A Place of Safety Page 29
