“Perfect?”
“Yes.”
“I believe you and Hugh have been trying to have children. That you’ve suffered a number of setbacks.”
“Did Hugh mention that?”
“It’s on your medical file.”
“I see.”
“It’s natural to mourn loss, Madeleine. Failing to do so leads to unresolved grief and, potentially, depression.”
“I’m not depressed.”
“Mental illness is quite difficult to self-diagnose, I’m afraid. It doesn’t always manifest as melancholia.”
“I’m not depressed.”
McCauley made a note. “How about we just talk about how you’re feeling, without worrying about labelling it. Tell me about this novel of yours.”
Madeleine exhaled. Getting frustrated was only going to look like she was covering something up. Surely he’d be able to see she was perfectly lucid once he’d talked to her for a while. So she told him about her manuscript, the set-up, the victim, the murder, the investigation, and of course, Edward McGinnity. She discussed the tropes of crime fiction, the psychology of the genre, and the importance of finding a fresh angle.
McCauley showed particular interest in her protagonist, enquiring about character development, backstory, etcetera. He took detailed notes.
Though a little part of Madeleine baulked at talking about Edward, she was heartened by the fact that the psychiatrist seemed interested. Perhaps he was beginning to see that she was just an ordinary writer with only a very ordinary level of obsession. She began to feel confident. “I hope you’re not planning to steal my idea,” Madeleine laughed as McCauley turned the page and wrote some more.
He seemed a little alarmed for a moment, and then he too laughed. “No, no…but this is very interesting and I’m eager to learn more about young Edward McGinnity. Unfortunately, our time is up. Perhaps when you come to see me on Thursday.”
“Oh.” Madeleine had been hoping, expecting that after this session he would deem any further visits unnecessary. “I thought—”
McCauley leaned forward in his chair towards her. “What do you think if we keep meeting for a while to set Hugh’s mind at ease? We can just talk about your books or anything else for which you need an objective sounding board. I’ve agreed to see you as a professional courtesy to Hugh, so there’ll be no fees involved. I suspect knowing you have any support you may need, may help him deal with his own grief.”
“His grief?”
“You’ve both suffered a loss…a number of losses.”
“Of course…if you think it would help Hugh.”
“I know it would.” McCauley closed his notebook. “I’ll see you at ten o’clock on Thursday, then.”
***
Edward hadn’t used his gym membership in months. He preferred to run on the road or the beach rather than on some machine which simulated the road or the beach. About that, he’d not changed his mind, but he had remembered that Elliot Kaufman was also a member of Phytness Phyrst. In her more resentful moments, Willow complained that her husband spent more time perfecting his own body than he did those on his canvasses, though Edward noticed that the figures in Kaufman’s work also seemed burdened with an excessive amount of muscle. It was that musing on Kaufman’s artistic style that unearthed from indifference the realisation that Kaufman only painted men. His portraits, group compositions, even his crowd scenes were made up of solely men. It might not mean anything—perhaps it was just a stylistic quirk, some generalisation of humanity into mankind. But in the light of Peter Blake’s revelations about Vogel, Edward wondered if it was something more fundamental. Was that the link between Kaufman and the dead man?
And so Edward McGinnity had started working out…or at least turning up to Phytness Phyrst in gym gear. It wasn’t long before he spotted Kaufman at the bench press. Edward joined an army of joggers advancing upon personal goals via treadmills. From there he had a good view of the weights area from behind the phalanx of runners.
Kaufman called for someone to spot him. The man who obliged was gorillaesque in both stature and follicular abundance. He and Kaufman exercised together for a while, first at the weights and then with the punching bags. A couple of others joined them and though they seemed in earnest conversation, Edward could not tell if they were discussing anything more interesting than protein shakes.
The treadmill beeped to indicate that the maximum one-hour session would be over in five minutes. Edward skipped the warm down, surveying the gym for equipment that would put him unobtrusively within earshot of Kaufman and his companions. He was just about to take his place at a rowing machine when the men he was watching walked out. Edward grabbed his towel and followed.
The saunas were housed at the back of the gym and were going through a phase of unpopularity. A year ago it had been necessary to book them a week in advance. Now Kaufman and the others were able to walk in without notice. Even so, they all chose to use the same sauna room.
Edward waited several minutes before peering through the small glassed porthole into the room. He’d braced himself to witness some kind of illicit orgy. Strangely, there was no condensation on the window, no steam to cloak further what transpired behind the door. Kaufman stood on a stepped wooden bench with a towel around his waist, parted at the side, his eyes clenched closed and his face contorted into a grimace. The hirsute man, also wearing only a towel, was bent over a gym bag. He removed a vial, the contents of which he extracted into a hypodermic needle. He held the needle to the light, tapped it twice and plunged it into Kaufman’s thigh. The other two men stood watching with their arms folded. Then, in turn, each stepped up to take Kaufman’s place.
Drugs. Edward shook his head. Of all the uncomplimentary things he had thought about Kaufman, he had never suspected the artist of being an addict. The vice did not interest him particularly, unless it was being used as foreplay of some sort.
Certainly the men in the sauna seemed to be displaying their bodies to each other, flexing, comparing musculature, but in a way that was more narcissistic than homoerotic. And then it occurred to Edward. Steroids. He cursed, irritated that he had wasted time and effort chasing down something so facile and irrelevant to Geoffrey Vogel.
Perhaps he spoke more loudly than he intended, because Kaufman looked up. There was a split second when both men realised they had been discovered, and then, a call to action. Edward moved quickly, making his way hastily back towards the gym proper, knowing Kaufman and his comrades would have to put on more than towels in order to follow him.
“Ned! I say, hallo!” Adrian Barrington caught up with him as he passed the treadmills. He was attired for conspicuous exercise in a Nike tracksuit and running shoes which were so white they produced a glare. “I didn’t know you were a member here.”
“Will bought me a membership last Christmas,” Ned said glancing behind him.
“Oh, good show…I don’t suppose you’re interested in a personal trainer. It might be easier to let James go if I found him another client first.”
“To be honest I don’t think I’m a gym person, Al. This is the first time I’ve been in months.” Edward tried to manoeuvre past Barrington.
“A recalcitrant, eh? It sounds to me like you need James,” Barrington moved in front of Edward again, determined to make a sale.
The door leading to the sauna rooms opened. Elliot Kaufman, in track pants, a t-shirt, and untied shoes came through it into the hallway.
“I’m afraid I really must be going,” Edward said attempting to sidestep past the agent. “I’m sorry, I can’t take James off your hands, Adrian.”
“Oh, I say, there’s Elliot. You’ve met Willow’s beloved husband, haven’t you? Of course you have.” Barrington beckoned Kaufman, who hesitated now.
“Kaufman and I have already run into each other today.” Edward finally slipped past the enthusiastic art dealer.
“Drink—let’s have a drink soon,” Barrington called after him.
Edward waved apologetically as he wove through the equipment towards the side exit. He looked back to see that Barrington had quite obligingly delayed Elliot and the men with him in his desperation to offload his personal trainer. Kaufman was not taking it well. His face was dark and aggressive, his stance agitated. Barrington seemed disdainful, if anything. And so Edward McGinnity made his escape.
He next saw Kaufman emerging from Phytness Phyrst just as he was pulling the Mark II out of the parking lot.
Edward half-expected the four men to jump into a car, and give chase, but they didn’t. Of course they wouldn’t. This was real life not pulp fiction. Real people did not get involved in car chases. “Real people don’t wander about gyms spying, either,” he muttered to himself. “What the hell did I think I was doing?”
“What you had to,” Madeleine said.
“I didn’t have to do anything, Maddie,” Edward replied, happy to have her company. “I’m not a detective.”
“Nobody’s asking you to wear a deer hunter and cape.”
“No, but I really don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Do any of us?”
“That’s a bit philosophical for a crime-writer.”
“You’d be wise not to underestimate us.”
“I have no doubt.”
Madeleine regarded him fondly. “Crime-writers specialise in life and death, in justice and retribution. What could be more philosophical?”
“Does Veronica Killwilly consider the greater questions of existence while she tracks down killers, then?” he asked. She noticed the creases in the corners of his eyes, laugh lines which gave away a smile not yet visible.
She shoved him. “No. Ronnie isn’t quite so dull.”
Edward felt the gentle impact of her arm against his. His mother would push him like that when he was being cheeky, when the joke was just between the two of them. It occurred to him that he was projecting his memories again…perhaps that’s why he found it so easy to love Madeleine d’Leon. He glanced at her, in the car beside him. He was intrigued by her, seduced by her and he was not entirely sure why. Silently he cursed Vogel and Kaufman and Bourke for keeping him from sinking into her story, from languishing in the woman he’d conjured.
He pulled into his own driveway determined to write, to ignore the mayhem his own life had become for a while.
***
Hugh did not ask Madeleine about her session with the psychiatrist, but somehow he made it clear that he was pleased with her. He brought home flowers and a frozen Black Forest cake from the Ashwood general store. Madeleine felt both irritated and stupidly gratified by his approval. She thanked him for the flowers and put the cake out to defrost. They were so careful with each other nowadays. It was almost a relief when he announced he had to return to the surgery.
“Save me some cake,” he said grabbing his briefcase.
Madeleine wasn’t quite sure what to say…too scared, lest it start a fight, to ask what was so important. The thought of another quarrel was exhausting—the peace between them so brittle and fragile.
“I’ll try to be home by eleven, but don’t worry if I’m not. I’ve got a lot of paperwork to get done.”
Madeleine started on the cake whilst it was still partially frozen. She sat alone in the kitchen sucking cake and thinking about the two plates and two glasses that she and Hugh had fought over a couple of days before. The second glass he’d explained, but not the second plate.
Once upon a time she would have asked him, told him that she wished he’d come home, that she didn’t understand what was happening to them. But that time was once. Past. Madeleine wondered if she and Hugh would ever get back the closeness they’d known…the ability to say anything, speak frankly, a confidence in the other’s kindness that they’d taken for granted and forgotten to protect. She was aware that she loved Hugh less now, and it frightened her. How could something that was as constant and fierce as the sun be suddenly less? It made her feel like the sun, too, would one day diminish and the world would grow cold.
For a time Madeleine cried in the privacy of her empty house with only Edward McGinnity to see. She was aware of him and for some reason she was comforted by the fact that he remained—that, in her petty misery, he stayed.
“Maddie,” he said, gently pushing a damp wisp of hair back from her face. “I’m sorry you’re so sad.”
Her smile was watery and flickering. “You think I’m depressed, too,” she said, trying to hold back fresh tears.
He shook his head. He kissed her hand. “I think you’re sad. And I think Hugh’s a bastard.”
Edward was more surprised by his own words than Madeleine.
“It’s not Hugh’s fault.” Her defence was reflexive. “I’ve been…preoccupied.”
He let it go. “So what now, Maddie?”
“I’ll write I suppose,” she said quietly.
Edward nodded. Her hand still in his, he moved towards the bedroom. “Come, spend the evening with me.”
A Thickening
The knocking had begun some time before Edward McGinnity registered it enough to stop what he was doing. He cursed, placing the little Vauxhall Cresta onto the coffee table and recapping his fountain pen before answering the door.
“Detective Bourke.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. McGinnity. May we come in?”
Edward stood back to admit Bourke and O’Neil, who typically said nothing. “What can I do for you, Detectives?”
“Where were you this morning, Mr. McGinnity?”
Edward frowned. Tragedy had granted him freedom of movement earlier than most, thrust him young into self-determination. And so the intrusiveness of the question irked him unreasonably and he reacted in a way that may have appeared evasive. “What is this about, Detective?”
“We’ve received a complaint from Mr. Elliot Kaufman.”
“I see.”
“Mr. Kaufman alleges that you are stalking him.”
“Stalking?” Edward scoffed. “Why would I stalk him?”
“Mr. Kaufman says you are obsessed with his wife. He is concerned he may end up like Geoffrey Vogel.”
“Oh, for the love of—”
“Were you following Mr. Kaufman this morning?”
“Mr. Kaufman and I happen to be members of the same gym.”
“And is it your habit to attend this gym on Wednesday mornings?”
“Well…no, not really.”
“Can I ask why you chose to go this morning?”
“I wanted to exercise.”
“Mr. Kaufman says he’s never seen you at Phytness Phyrst before.”
“I’m flattered he’s noticed.” Edward shrugged. “I’m still recovering from the assault, Detective. I thought it would be more sensible to exercise in a monitored environment rather than running on the beach. I don’t suppose you’ve had any progress finding the men who broke in here?”
“No, I’m afraid we have not, Mr. McGinnity?”
“I see.” Edward decided to take the offensive. “Since you’re here, Detective Bourke, I’d like to report a theft.”
“You’ve been robbed, Mr. McGinnity?”
“Yes, I have. I did mean to report it when I first noticed, but circumstances got away from me.”
“What exactly has been taken, Mr. McGinnity?”
“A 1955 Mercedes Gull Wing, a black Model T Ford, and a racing green Aston Martin.”
Bourke stared at him. “You have a single car garage, Mr. McGinnity. Where exactly did you keep these cars?”
Edward pointed out the kilned-glass bowl which held his collection.
“You’re reporting the theft of toys?”
“Models, collectibles. Yes.”
“Are you sure you did not s
imply misplace them, Mr. McGinnity?”
“I’m certain, they were in that bowl before you took me in for questioning…while my house was being searched.”
“What are you suggesting, Mr. McGinnity?”
“Nothing really, Detective. It is interesting, though, don’t you think?”
O’Neil’s skin looked damp. He spoke for the first time in Edward’s recollection. “Do you have any evidence that these toys existed, Mr. McGinnity?”
“Now, what are you suggesting, Detective?” Edward demanded frostily.
“I wonder, Mr. McGinnity, if you are trying to cast doubt on the evidence gathered during the search of your property by alleging some form of impropriety.”
“Now that you raise the possibility, Detective…” Edward returned calmly.
Madeleine smiled. Finally Edward McGinnity was sounding like a crime fiction hero.
O’Neil cleared his throat. “We’ll look into it, Mr. McGinnity. Perhaps they were simply taken for testing…fingerprinting and the like.”
Bourke looked at his colleague strangely.
“Unfortunately,” Edward continued, “the models weren’t noted on the list of evidence. It seems a little odd that you would have taken three cars only.”
“That might have been an oversight. We’ll check.”
“I’d appreciate that, Detective.”
Bourke tried to claw back some power. “Allow me to caution you, Mr. McGinnity, that it is a crime to intimidate or interfere with a witness.”
“A witness…oh, you mean Kaufman. What did he witness?”
“Mr. Kaufman is seeking an apprehended violence order against you, Mr. McGinnity. Perhaps it would be better if you returned to running on the beach.”
Edward frowned. It would probably serve no purpose to tell Bourke about what he’d witnessed in the sauna. “Fine.”
***
Edward phoned his lawyer when the detectives finally left. Recalling their last conversation on the matter of his investigation, Edward cast the encounter as coincidental. Ian Denholm was not fooled and less than pleased.
“I’ll look into this apprehended violence order,” he said curtly. “You stay away from Kaufman. The best way to help yourself, Mr. McGinnity, is not to!”
Crossing the Lines Page 16
