Charlie thought about what he'd said, looking for the wriggle room. 'What if she'd still been conscious? Rolling about in pain? Could she not have gone over the edge then?' It wasn't that Charlie doubted Patel. She wanted to believe him, wanted to be convinced that Corinna hadn't sent her on a wild-goose chase. But she was trained to mistrust, to call into question, to test.
'Exactly what the policeman said. And I will tell you what I said to him. It is my professional opinion that she could not have been conscious after that blow to the head. But here's the thing. It's notoriously difficult to be definitive about the effect of head wounds. There are recorded cases of people being shot in the head and walking round perfectly coherent afterwards. So in theory, what you suggest is right out there on the outside edge of what might be possible.'
Charlie released the breath she'd been holding. 'What did the policeman say?'
'He said there was no evidence to indicate this was anything other than a tragic accident. Nothing. No circumstantial, no forensics, no witnesses. If there was an explanation that covered it, he would take it. If an anomaly was the only way to explain it, he'd live with the anomaly.'
'You didn't say anything about this at the inquest,' Charlie said.
'No. Because anomalies do happen. And apart from that, there was nothing that raised the slightest question in anybody's mind. In those circumstances, you have to think of the impact on the family. There was no evidence to support a murder inquiry, and if I'd raised a doubt in their minds…' Patel ran a hand over his hair. 'All I would have done was to deny them closure. For ever. Because there could be no closure.'
'What if she was murdered?'
'You mean, what if your patient is telling the truth about witnessing a murder?'
'Yes.'
Patel looked troubled. 'Then there's a lot of pain coming up for a lot of people.'
'You included?'
He gave a sad smile. 'I won't be joining your club, Charlie. I'm not the one rocking the boat.' He stood up. 'Good luck getting anyone to take your crazy person seriously.'
Charlie was feeling pretty pleased with herself. Halfway round the barely moving car park that was the motorway encircling Birmingham, and she still hadn't opened Lisa's text or email. Just as she was congratulating herself on her strength of will, her phone rang. 'Blocked,' the screen read. Could be anyone from her lawyer to her mother, who liked to call from work when her boss was out of the office. Charlie decided to go for it. 'Hello?' she said cautiously, aiming for an accent not quite her own.
'Charlie?' From the sound of it, she'd succeeded in confusing Nick. 'Is that you?'
'Hi, Nick.'
'I just thought I'd give you a ring to see how it went with Dr Patel.'
Charlie told him. At the end, he gave a low whistle. 'An anomaly, eh? We like anomalies, don't we, Charlie?'
'What's this "we", Nick?'
A moment's silence, then he said, 'You're not fit to be let out on your own on this, Charlie. You need somebody that knows which way is up.'
'And that would be you?'
'It would.'
Charlie was touched, but she was also wary on Nick's account. Heaven forbid he should get dragged into her particular professional hell. 'You've got a job of your own already. Don't be greedy,' she said sternly, braking as the van in front juddered to a halt.
'This is like a stress-buster for me,' he said. 'I want to help, Charlie. You've never let me do anything for you, and that's not good. Friendship's supposed to be a two-way street. So let me help you with this.'
Charlie felt tears constrict her throat. She wasn't accustomed to people seeing her vulnerability, never mind acting on it. 'Whatever,' she said gruffly. 'I can't very well stop you, can I?'
'Good. Now, the way I see it, we're not going to get much further with the Jess Edwards case. Its main evidential value is that it establishes an MO — this is how she killed Jess Edwards, almost identical to the way Philip Carling was killed. And the two people banged up for his murder very definitely didn't kill Jess Edwards. So what you need to do now-'
'Nick?' Charlie interrupted. 'Is this some meaning of the word "help" that I'm unfamiliar with? The one where you just take over?' There was a laugh in her voice, but she hoped he picked up on her underlying seriousness.
'Sorry, Charlie. Just getting carried away in my own area of expertise. What were you thinking of doing next?'
'I want to find out as much as I can about Kathy Lipson's death. Apparently, in Scotland they have a thing called a Fatal Accident Inquiry instead of an inquest, and the reports are in the public domain. Online, even. How advanced is that?'
'Very impressive. Are you going to go to Skye and talk to the mountain rescue people?'
'Funnily enough, I thought I might do just that.' The traffic started inching forward again and Charlie put the car in gear.
'Don't forget to ask about the phone,' he said.
'What about the phone?'
'If it was retrieved with Jay's backpack.'
'I don't even know that the backpack was retrieved,' Charlie pointed out.
'Something else to ask about, then.'
'Nick, with it being a satellite phone, would there be a record of the calls made to and from it?'
'Back in 2000? I suppose so, in theory.'
'Do you think there's any way you could get hold of it?'
'Probably not without a warrant. Even if I knew which company it was.'
'There can't have been many sat-phone companies around in 2000.'
'Yeah, and the chances of any still being around now in the same form are pretty low.' Nick sounded glum.
'They were so expensive back then, it would be really interesting to see who she thought it was worth spending money talking to.'
'You'll get no argument from me on that. I just think the chances of getting hold of that info are near to vanishing point.'
Seeing a space opening up, Charlie moved over to the outside lane. 'You're probably right. Thank God it's not the only shot in our locker. I also want to touch base with Magda, ideally when Jay's not around. She opened up to me so readily on Saturday, I think it would be useful to capitalise on that. Find out what she might know that she doesn't know she knows, if you see what I mean.'
'Totally. Good idea.'
'So, what was it you thought I should do next?'
Nick chuckled. 'I think you should talk to Paul Barker or Joanna Sanderson. If Corinna's right and they've been framed, they might have something to say worth listening to. You know how it is — the lawyers decide on a line of defence and anything that doesn't sit right with that gets put to one side.'
Charlie sighed. 'You're probably right. But they're in jail now and I've got no standing to get in to see them.'
'You could talk to the lawyer. Offer to help with the appeal. They'd jump at a free psychological assessment from you, Charlie.'
Charlie snorted incredulously. 'I'm in disgrace, Nick. I'm persona non grata. Nobody's going to want an assessment from me, free or otherwise.'
'Ah, bollocks to that, Charlie. You're going to be back in the driver's seat in no time. We both know they're going to find you're guilty of nothing more than honesty. You'll be queen of the castle again before you know it.'
She wished she could believe him. But the Bill Hopton case wasn't going to disappear from memories or headlines any time soon. And for as long as it lived in people's minds, she would have no role as an expert witness. 'Yeah, sure,' she said, subdued now.
'Talk to the lawyer, Charlie. Make the call when you get home. If you're accredited by the lawyer, you can get in to see them at short notice. What have you got to lose? Promise me you'll make the call.'
'All right, Nick. I'll make the call. And since you're so desperate to help, you can talk to your opposite numbers in Spain and find out what you can about Ulf Ingemarsson.'
It was Nick's turn to sigh. 'He's the one whose work on 24/7 she allegedly stole, right? How do I spell that?'
Charlie o
bliged. 'He died in Spain in 2004. If you can talk to the cops, that would be great. What I really want is a contact for Ingemarsson's girlfriend. She apparently knew all about his work. I'd be interested to hear what she has to say about Jay.'
'OK, boss. I'll get on to Spain, you get on to one of the defence solicitors. We'll talk again.'
And he was gone. So too was the traffic jam, dissolved as if by magic. Charlie put her foot down, feeling more uncomplicated delight than she had for a long time. Until Nick had weighed in on her side, she hadn't allowed herself to realise how isolated she'd been. Or how negative an impact that had been having on her. Now she had someone to bounce her ideas off and, more importantly, she had someone to take on the things she couldn't do.
By the time she got home, Charlie was more upbeat than she'd been in a while. It was far too late to get hold of lawyers; she would deal with that first thing in the morning. She had two hours' teaching in the morning at a sixth-form college, but the rest of her day was free to chase solicitors.
She pulled into the drive, glad to be done with the journey. The M6 was always hideous. Clotted with traffic, clogged with lorries and plagued with roadworks. Charlie, an inveterate driver, hated to admit it, but now they had free Wi-Fi and power points, she was definitely starting to prefer trains. She got out and stretched, then realised Maria's car wasn't already parked up by the garage. She checked her watch. It was after eight. When she'd called earlier to say she'd be back, Maria hadn't said anything about going out.
The house was dark and chilly. The heating had obviously been off since Maria had left in the morning. Charlie snapped the lights on as she went, ending up in the kitchen where there was no note on the table. Odd, she thought, pulling out her phone to call Maria. She noticed a text had come in earlier, presumably when she'd been talking to Nick. Going to early movie with girls from work. Home by nine. Xxx, Charlie read. It was unreasonable of her, but she felt pissed off. She'd wanted Maria to be home.
She knew even as she pressed the keys that what she was about to do was petulant and childish. But she didn't care. The text message from Lisa filled the screen. Stomach suddenly hurting, Charlie read it. Sent u email, gues u didnt get. Hope ur OK. Want 2 c u b4 u go bk. Any time aftr 3. Pse? Hope ur gd. Xxx. For Lisa, it was effusive. It was, Charlie thought, the first time Lisa had been the one doing the asking. The second anomaly of the day, and even more welcome than the first.
And it made the email impossible to resist any longer. Charlie ran upstairs to the box room over the garage that had become her home office. She woke the computer and went straight to her email program. There, nestled among the twenty-seven emails that had arrived since Monday afternoon, was the message from Lisa.
Hi
Hope you are going well and not too cluttered by the burden Corinna has tried to place on your shoulders. I wish we'd had longer to spend together on Saturday. I feel neither of us really got the chance to say the things we wanted to. But still, I suspect it was more pleasant for both of us than the other calls on our time. I've been dealing with poor Tom, who is struggling with his wife's terminal cancer. He's very emotional, understandably. He's confusing me with a mother figure which is not his wisest move.
Are you back in Oxford? I thought I saw you in the car. Come and see me if you are. On the one hand, I want you not to waste your time on this crazy chimera Corinna has set breathing flame. On the other, I quite like the thought of you having a reason to come to Oxford. It's hard on both of us when we get so few chances to talk properly.
Thinking of you.
Lisa
Charlie leapt on the mention of Tom and his grief. Immediately she replayed the scene in her head. Could she have been mistaken? Had her mind created what she feared in what had been an emotional but sexually innocent embrace? It wasn't impossible. Charlie herself had been in a disturbed frame of mind, her incontinent emotions already churned up. And here was the innocuous explanation, offered before it had even been sought. She almost laughed aloud, cursing herself for a fool who'd been ready to believe the worst instead of keeping an open mind. Years of professional training tossed aside just because she was suffering the adolescent torments of longing for someone she thought was out of her reach. 'You're a fuckwit, Charlie Flint,' she said, hitting the 'reply' button with a flourish. 'But it's never too late to make amends.'
17
Magda ran through the rain, ducking into the scaled-down Sainsbury's round the corner from her flat. She'd come home ready to fix herself dinner and been shocked by how low her supplies had fallen. She'd been spending so much time at Jay's, she hadn't noticed how she'd been eating into her kitchen cupboard staples whenever she was in the flat. Tonight, Jay was in Bologna, probably eating a sensational meal in an intimate family-run trattoria, and she didn't even have a bag of dried pasta and a jar of sauce to pour over it.
With only half her mind on shopping, Magda filled her basket and stood in line. Here was yet another difference between her past life and her present one. When she'd been living with Philip, she'd savoured his occasional absences on business. They'd been an opportunity to do the things she never seemed to manage when he was around: a long candle-lit soak in the bath with a gin and tonic; late-night book shopping on the Charing Cross Road; renting a DVD to watch with a couple of the oncology nurses whose company always cheered her up; or just taking a good novel to bed with a bottle of San Pellegrino and a packet of chocolate digestives.
But when Jay left town there was never any cause for rejoicing. The flat seemed empty in a way it never had before. Magda felt restless, unable to settle to anything. Maybe it was because she never felt guilty indulging in whatever took her fancy when Jay was around. Either Jay would join her, or she'd do her own thing without the faintest flicker of reproach. So there was nothing she could do when Jay was gone that she couldn't do when she was around.
Except miss her, of course.
By the time she'd paid for her basket of food, the rain had eased. Even so, she was glad to reach the shelter of her lobby. She shook her hair like a wet dog as she headed for the lifts. Before she could put down one of her carrier bags to press the bell, a man appeared at her side, poking a finger at the button.
He was a stranger, which wasn't particularly unusual. The block was large enough and her hours sufficiently irregular for Magda to be unfamiliar with most of her neighbours. The man followed her in and as she turned to face the doors, she gave him a covert glance. Yes, definitely nobody she'd seen before. Only a few centimetres taller than her, a bristle of light brown stubble surrounding his bald patch, soft features and eyes the colour of boiled gooseberries. He was wearing one of those overcoats she always thought of as the preserve of public school men — camel-coloured with a brown velveteen collar, slightly nipped in at the waist — and carrying an umbrella and briefcase. He didn't look much older than her, but he was dressed at least a generation older.
'It's Magda, isn't it?' he said as soon as the doors closed and they were alone in the small metal compartment. His voice matched his overcoat — plummy, posh and very smooth.
Startled, Magda half-turned and stepped back simultaneously. 'I'm sorry? Do I know you?'
'I was on my way to call on you when you appeared just now.' It was as if she hadn't spoken to him in her best 'keep your distance' tone. 'I have something for you. I was a friend of Phil, you see.'
Not if you called him Phil, Magda thought. Philip had hated being called by anything other than his given name.
As if reading her mind, the man gave a little self-deprecating shrug. 'Well, not so much a friend. More a business associate.' He thrust a hand inside his overcoat and rummaged in an inside pocket. For a mad moment she thought he was reaching for a gun. Too many late nights watching film noir, she told herself as he produced an innocuous business card. 'This is me.' He seemed not to notice that Magda didn't have a free hand to accept it with.
The doors opened and Magda wasted no time leaving the lift and heading for her front door.
She put down the bags of shopping and turned to face the man. He was a few feet from her, holding his card out. She took it and read, Nigel Fisher Boyd. Fisher Boyd Investments. A mobile number and a URL but no physical address. 'I've never heard of you,' she said.
'I appreciate that,' Fisher Boyd said. 'But as I said, I do have something for you. And I'd rather not conduct business out here in the hallway.'
'And I don't invite strangers into my flat.'
'Very sensible. Why don't you put your shopping inside and meet me downstairs? I noticed an agreeable little wine bar just down the street. We might go there for a drink?'
Magda looked at his proposition from all sides and couldn't see anything wrong with it. 'Fine,' she said at last. 'I'll see you downstairs.' They both stood for a moment staring at each other. Then he got it.
He wagged a finger at her. 'Very sensible.' He backed away, then wheeled round and marched back to the lift. Magda watched him disappear behind the brushed steel doors before she let herself in.
The strange encounter had unsettled her. Of course she wanted to know what Nigel Fisher Boyd had for her that couldn't be handed over on her own doorstep. But she was aware that her recent notoriety made her interesting to the sort of criminals who saw crime victims as potential prey. And he had called her late husband 'Phil'. She wished for Jay's presence; not because she couldn't handle this alone but because it was always nice to have back-up.
Magda left her bags on the kitchen counter next to Fisher Boyd's card. If anything did happen to her, at least she'd left a clue behind.
Ten minutes later, she was sitting at a corner table in a wine bar she'd never visited before in spite of its proximity to her home. She'd never been tempted inside; it always appeared rather dim and sad, its occupants an odd assortment who looked as if they didn't fit in anywhere else so they'd fetched up there like driftwood. Fisher Boyd returned to the table with a bottle of Sancerre and a dubious look on his face. 'Not sure this is quite chilled enough,' he said, pouring two glasses and sipping it. He swilled it round his mouth, puffing out his cheeks, pursing his lips then swallowing ostentatiously. 'It'll do, I suppose.'
Trick of the Dark Page 20
