Off Script

by Graham Hurley

  ‘Shame. No harm in trying, though, eh?’ He’s about to leave the room, when he pauses. ‘I’ve seen you before, I know I have.’

  He’s seen one of my movies, I think. Or maybe he remembers my photo alongside some review or other. This happens more often than you might think, and it always puts a smile on my face. Never believe any thesps who pretend not to be in love with the limelight. They lie.

  ‘The Hour of Our Passing. Am I right?’

  ‘You are. It was a very long time ago. Which says a lot about your memory.’

  He offers his hand again. This time his touch is warmer.

  ‘I’d just met the woman who became my wife,’ he says. ‘It was our first date. How could I forget it?’

  We look at each other for a moment and the silence is in danger of getting awkward when I remember Carrie’s Walkman.

  ‘Do you listen to classical music, by any chance?’

  ‘All the time.’

  ‘Would you mind?’

  I dig out the little player and the ear buds and ask him for a clue about what I’ve been listening to. He fits the buds and presses the Play button. Seconds later, he starts to nod.

  ‘Hector Berlioz,’ he says. ‘“Harold in Italy”. Wonderful stuff.’

  Without going into details, I explain about Carrie. ‘The Berlioz might have come from Pavel. He loves music like this.’ I’m looking at the figure in the bed. ‘Would you mind if I tried it on him?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  The consultant slips the buds into Pavel’s ears, and then cues the music again. Because we’re so close, we can just pick up the violins in the higher registers. For a long minute, nothing happens, then – unmistakably – the faintest smile appears on Pavel’s face. Nothing else. No movement. Just the smile. Hector Berlioz has knocked on Pavel’s door, I think, and Pavel is struggling down the hall to open it.

  I glance up at the consultant. He, too, is smiling.

  ‘Remarkable,’ he says.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The call from DS Williams finds me still in the Stroke Unit. It’s early afternoon by now and I’m demolishing a tuna baguette at Pavel’s bedside.

  ‘Ms Andressen?’ Williams sounds far from happy. ‘We’ve been trying to find you.’

  I explain about Pavel, about leaving my mobile at the penthouse, about the dash to the hospital, and now about the Stroke Unit. This clearly gives her pause for thought.

  ‘That’s unfortunate. Might our visit …?’ She leaves the thought unvoiced and when I hasten to tell her that there are probably a thousand reasons for Pavel’s poor brain to seize up, she sounds relieved.

  ‘So how is he now?’

  ‘Still unconscious, I’m afraid. He raised our hopes earlier but not for long.’

  ‘What’s the prognosis?’

  ‘His consultant won’t commit but I still get the feeling there’s a chance he may come round.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Nobody knows. He may be able to talk, and his hearing might be OK but nothing’s certain.’

  ‘I see.’

  During the silence that follows I sense the presence of the elephant in the room. Will Pavel end up as a vegetable? Beyond reach? Nobody knows.

  Finally, Williams is back on the line. Operation Mandolin is moving forward. The need for another meet has become pressing. A police car could pick me up at the hospital and take me back to be interviewed in Exmouth. On the other hand, the interview could take place at Heavitree police station in the city itself. My choice.

  ‘Heavitree,’ I say lightly. ‘And then you can bring me back here.’

  I wait for the police car in the road outside the hospital, waving at the uniformed driver as he signals to turn into the hospital site. The drive to the police station at Heavitree takes a couple of minutes. Williams is waiting for me in the custody centre and I wonder for a moment whether I’m to be processed once again. A photo to go with my earlier prints and DNA? Mercifully not.

  The interview is to take place in a small, airless room that reminds me a little of the space that Pavel is currently occupying. Sitting behind the table is the DI who came to the penthouse in yesterday’s downpour. He gets to his feet the moment I step in and says he’s sorry to hear about Mr Stukeley. It seems Operation Mandolin was contemplating a second interview with him as well.

  ‘That might not be possible,’ I tell him.

  ‘So I understand.’

  The interview gets underway: the same notepad, the same recording machine, the same hint of weariness on the faces across the table. The investigation, says the DI, has been concentrating on the victim, Carrie. Specialists attached to the enquiry team have been analysing her phone records, her emails, her Facebook page, and the contents of the hard drive on her laptop.

  ‘I want to take you back to last September,’ the DI says, ‘when you first interviewed her for the job looking after Mr Stukeley.’

  I nod. Early autumn, I think, and my first real taste of Exmouth.

  ‘That was a bit of a nightmare,’ I say. ‘We’d found the apartment and had some work done but finding the right person for Pavel wasn’t easy. We’d put the word round where we could, talked to various care agencies, even advertised in a couple of retirement magazines. Pavel, of course, was the key. He didn’t like any of them.’

  ‘And Carrie?’

  ‘He loved her, I’d like to say on first sight, but that would be unkind. Let’s just say he thoroughly approved. And that, to be frank, came as a bit of a relief. Time was moving on. We all had lives to lead.’

  ‘Loved her? What exactly do you mean?’

  ‘I mean he took to her, trusted her. In a situation like Pavel’s, it has to be an instinctive thing. He liked the sound of her voice. He liked how relaxed she was, how easy she was to have around, we all did. And she made him laugh, too.’

  ‘She told jokes?’

  ‘She was quick. She was witty. The pair of them shared the same sense of humour. Given the time they’d be spending together, that was going to be important. We needed a companion, a friend, as well as a carer. It was obvious from the moment they met that Carrie could be all those things. That made us lucky. To be frank, we were getting desperate.’

  ‘She came with references?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you checked them?’

  ‘We checked it.’

  ‘There was only one?’

  ‘Yes. It came from the owner of the nursing home where she’d been matron. The place had been forced to close, no fault of Carrie’s. There’s a problem now with local authority funding. There simply isn’t enough.’

  ‘You met the owner? You talked to him?’

  ‘We corresponded. He’d gone back to Scotland.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He confirmed everything he’d already written about her. How trustworthy she was. How conscientious. How good she’d been with the residents. How she’d managed to keep the place going way past its sell-by date.’

  ‘That was the phrase he used?’

  ‘Yes. We already knew we’d found the right person for Pavel and here was the proof that we were right. I remember H bought champagne on the strength of that letter. We were celebrating.’

  ‘H?’

  ‘My son’s father.’

  The DI writes himself a note. Then he looks up.

  ‘Did you ever ask to see a birth certificate for Carrie? Or a driving licence? Or any other form of ID?’

  ‘No, I don’t think we did.’ I’m frowning. I’m trying to remember. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because her name wasn’t Carrie Tollman at all. It was Amy.’

  ‘Really? And her surname?’

  ‘Phelps.’

  Amy Phelps? I’m finding this hard to believe.

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘She did it by deed poll. Her application was dated the thirteenth of July. She never told you?’

  ‘Never. As far as we were concerned, she was Carrie Tol
lman. She had a bank account in that name. That’s how we paid her. BACS. Straight into the account. Carrie Tollman. The first of every month.’ I shake my head. I can’t begin to understand any of this. ‘So why would she have changed her name?’

  ‘That’s a question we’d like to ask you. And Mr Stukeley, of course.’ The DI’s pen is readied over his pad. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘You think Mr Stukeley might have known?’

  They’re both looking at me, both waiting. I hold their gaze.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I say finally. ‘Maybe one day you might be able to ask him.’

  Williams lifts an eyebrow, says nothing. I can almost taste their disappointment, their frustration. I’d like to help them – I’d be only too happy to solve this riddle – but the fact is that I can’t. Pavel may well know. It would be completely in character for him to have become the keeper of Carrie’s secrets. But even if he comes back from the brink, from this chilling half-death, there’s every chance that he won’t be able to speak, or to move, or to even hear.

  The DI has produced a list of names. He wants to move the interview on.

  ‘We’ve checked people Carrie was in touch with. One of them is obviously Jean-Paul. You knew about him?’

  ‘Only recently.’

  ‘They were talking and texting since Christmas. She never mentioned it?’ ‘I live in London,’ I point out. ‘I never saw much of her. We put her in place. I was talking to Pavel, of course, and I got the impression that it was working out very nicely between them. That’s all I needed to know. I wasn’t concerned about her private life.’

  The DI nods, and then gives me a couple of other names, both of them female. Jodie? Cara? I shrug, shake my head. Never heard of them. Finally, another name, a man this time.

  ‘Miedema? Rolf Miedema?’

  I hesitate. The way I’m staring at him must give the game away. He repeats the name a third time, then adds – almost as an afterthought – a nickname. Deko.

  ‘You know him, Ms Andressen?’

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘Might I ask how?’

  ‘I met him one night. It was very recently. We were in a pub.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We’ve become friends …’ I shrug. ‘Sort of.’

  Another note on the DI’s pad. Williams is watching me carefully.

  ‘He came to the police station,’ she says. ‘The day you found the body.’

  ‘Carrie. She has a name. I found Carrie.’

  ‘Yes. I apologize.’ She pauses, then sits back from the table. ‘Did he ever mention her?’

  ‘You mean Carrie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, never. Was he supposed to? Did he know her well? What are we talking about here? You’re telling me they were in touch all the time? Is that it?’

  ‘Not at all. Just a handful of calls.’

  ‘When?’

  Williams and the DI exchange glances. Neither of them will tell me. Then, far later than I should have done, I get the link.

  ‘Deko bought that same nursing home,’ I tell them. ‘The one where Carrie was the matron. Maybe it was a business thing. I’ve no idea.’

  Business thing. I realize I’m searching for some kind of excuse, rationale, and I hate being on the defensive like this. Deko has done nothing, and neither have I.

  ‘That afternoon at the police station.’ Williams hasn’t finished. ‘I got the impression you were glad to have him there. Would I be right?’

  ‘Of course. Pretend you’re me. I’ve just found someone I was close to ripped to pieces. I think the word might be shock. Deko was there for me. He gave me what I needed. He took care of things. If it’s any of your business, I was grateful.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘He’s still taking care of things. And yes …’ I offer them both an icy smile. ‘I’m still grateful.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The interview lasts for another hour or so. Between them, Williams and the DI trawl endlessly up and down the last few months of Carrie’s life, pressing for every detail I can remember from the few conversations we had on the phone, and from what more I might have gleaned from Pavel. On one level, their persistence is impressive. The closed book that turns out to be Carrie is obviously where Operation Mandolin begins and ends, but the longer I spend in this cell of a room, the more I realize that I never knew Carrie at all.

  As promised, Williams arranges for me to be taken back to the hospital. Sitting in the same marked car, glad to be out of the custody centre, I’m only too aware that the police and I are beginning to be an item. Only last year, thanks to my wayward son, I spent hours and hours at the hands of another pair of detectives, that time in Bridport, up the coast. On that occasion, I was under arrest in connection with the death of a young junkie, and the experience was deeply unsettling.

  I had the services of a solicitor I both liked and admired, and thanks to his candour, I knew that the Crown Court and a lengthy prison sentence might await me if all went wrong. Looking back, it was beyond surreal, but in a way this experience is equally troubling. Both Williams and the DI have made it clear that I am a witness, not a suspect, but as we creep ever deeper into the events of the last few months, I’m becoming more and more aware that nothing is quite what it seemed. How come Carrie hid her pregnancy for so long? And why on earth did she change her name?

  Pavel, God help us, is probably the key to all this. In his writerly way, he’s always been mean with information, rationing it out spoonful by spoonful, hint by hint, making any story a rich source of guesswork. This, of course, is what writers do and I get it completely. Indeed, I owe my own career, my own success, to the imagination and penmanship of a small army of Pavels. But if scripts are one thing, real life is quite another.

  Back in the Stroke Unit, I once again close the door and pull up a chair. Absolutely nothing has changed since I left this room – the same wide-open eyes staring up at the ceiling, the same faint whisper of breath from the half-opened lips – but this time I’m determined to be firm with him. I’m his mother, his keeper, his conscience. I’ve had more than enough of his little games.

  ‘This has to stop,’ I tell him. ‘You have to help me here. It matters, Pavel. That lovely girl is dead, and I think you know why. Just a clue or two? Is that too much to ask?’

  Nothing.

  Is he faking? Is this so-called stroke just another piece of theatre? Neatly conceived, artfully delivered, wholly made up? Is he lurking in that head of his? Aware of me at his bedside, desperate for some tiny scrap of information, totally under his control? Worse still, was his blindness another fiction? Another piece of fakery? Another plot twist? Has he been watching us all this past year and a half, in perfect focus, with 20/20 vision, making his little mental notes, taking the measure of us while all the time we thought he lived in darkness?

  Mad, I think. Not him, but me. This, in a phrase that might well have come from Pavel himself in happier times, is not going well.

  I’m back in the apartment by early evening. To be frank, I’m sick of being at the mercy of events. Time, I think, to regain a little control.

  I find the phone number Carrie scribbled in the margins of the Jünger diaries and settle on the sofa with my mobile. Felip is out for the night, staying with a friend in Exeter, and I have the apartment to myself. When I ring the number, I get a recorded message. It’s a woman’s voice. She sounds rough, worn out, exhausted. She’s busy at the moment but she’ll phone back when she can. I play the message again. I’m good with accents and I recognize this one. West Country, I think. Maybe Bristol.

  I wonder about pouring myself a glass of wine. The irony, of course, is that once again I’m in the hands of someone else. She’ll phone when she wants to. Her call, not mine.

  In the end I don’t have to make a decision about the wine because my phone rings barely a minute later. It’s the same voice, the same number. Sensibly, she wants to know who I am.

  �
��My name is Andressen,’ I tell her.

  ‘What do you want?’

  I should have been anticipating this question, but for whatever reason, I haven’t. The way I’m feeling just now, putting a voice to a scribbled phone number is a major triumph.

  As far as Carrie is concerned, I don’t know where to start. Thankfully, she spares me the effort.

  ‘Is this about Jason? Because if it is you can fuck off. Just get out of my face, right?’

  ‘Who’s Jason?’

  ‘My son. Don’t think you’re the first. People are sick out there. He’s all over the papers, the telly, everywhere. It’s none of your business. It’s none of anyone’s fucking business. Do you understand what I’m saying? Do you?’

  She’s very angry and something is starting to occur to me.

  ‘Your son’s in the papers?’

  ‘Of course he is. Horrible picture. Just look at him. Would he ever have done something like that? Would he?’

  That emphasis again. Incredulity. Disbelief. Rage.

  ‘How old is your son?’ I’m trying very hard not to sound like a police officer.

  ‘Seventeen. What’s that to you?’

  ‘He lives with you?’

  ‘He’s away. He’s been away for ever. What is this? Who are you? A kick, is it? You’re getting a kick from all this?’

  At last I explain exactly who I am, who Carrie was, where we live, what happened. This takes quite a long time. She doesn’t interrupt once.

  ‘Hello? Are you still there?’

  Silence. I curse under my breath. I should have broken this account up, exactly the way Pavel would have written it. I should have turned a monologue into a conversation. I’ve lost her. She’s gone.

  Wrong.

  ‘That name of yours again?’

  ‘Andressen. Call me Enora.’

  ‘Ignora?’

  ‘Enora.’ Me laughing seems to break the ice. ‘And yours?’ I ask.

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Karen. Karen-Ann.’

  ‘Pretty.’

  ‘Pretty shit, is what I think. What kind of name is Karen-Ann?’

  I tell her again that it’s a lovely name. By now it’s dawned on me that this number must have come from Jason. Or Foster Montague. Or Moonie. Or whatever the courts finally decide to call him. He probably gave the number to Carrie. Which means that her account of what happened the first time might be – a generous word – incomplete.