“I suppose you want to know about my connection with the body,” Alan said, nodding to the door.
“What?”
“You see I lied a little before. I did recognize that man. There was no point explaining it at the time—but now here we are. I see a lot of people in my line of work, so I pick up on all the details I can. My peers joke that I can recognize people by the backs of their heads—I guess I just proved that right. That coupled with the fact that I saw that man yesterday wearing the same suit—that made me sure. You showed something to Mandy, I assume it was his wallet. Anyway, that man’s name is Simon Winter. He is a private psychologist operating out of his home in East London. The psychologist to my client, Hamish MacArthur. Winter is a key witness. That’s all I can disclose.”
Sheppard was speechless and Alan seemed to relish that.
“You’re wondering why I’m offering all of this up so easily,” Alan said, failing to hide a smile. “You know how many clients I see try and hide the facts, even from someone who’s trying to help them—just because they’re scared of the outcome? It’s pitiful and it’s weak. Don’t confuse this with me being cooperative.
“Now I believe I’ve answered everything from your stellar line of questioning. Shall I see myself back to my window?”
“Wait...” Sheppard said. How could this man be so defiant, even in the face of death? That was the kind of person who was dangerous, the kind of person who found control in chaos. But still...
“Try to keep up, Mr. Sheppard. Yes, I know Simon Winter. I haven’t really ever talked to him,” Alan said.
“Because,” Sheppard said, “he’s not your witness.”
Alan scowled. “No. I was rather looking forward to grilling the bastard in court.”
“What is this case?”
“I can’t disclose any details of the case, Mr. Sheppard. Much speculation has been made in the media. Maybe you could ring down to room service for a newspaper.”
Sheppard rubbed his eyes. “If Simon Winter is here, is it possible that the person behind this is connected to the case?”
“Of course,” Alan said. “That’s why I thought it best to be as aboveboard as possible. There is a possibility that this revolves around the MacArthur case.”
“But you still won’t tell me anything about it.”
“No, Mr. Sheppard. I won’t. Because I think that I might be able to figure this out a lot better than you. I’m keeping my cards close to my chest, sure, but I’m doing what needs to be done. If that makes me more suspicious, so be it.”
Sheppard shook his head. “Of course this makes you more suspicious. How could I take it any other way?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Alan said, “I am already a prime suspect. You want a motive, Mr. Sheppard? Well, I’ve got a hell of a one. That man in there has been a thorn in my side for the past year. I have dreamed of gutting him like a fish, slicing him up into a million little pieces. But that doesn’t mean I would. It is clear what’s happening here. The horse mask is trying to pin this murder on me. And if you take the bait, then you’ll kill us all.”
“Pretty big ego, even when defending yourself against a murder.”
“My ego is not the one on trial here.”
A lot of information, buried in not much at all. Alan was presenting an account that surely the murderer would want to hide. If it was true. Still, Alan did have motive. And he knew how to play the game.
“So the MacArthur case was supposed to be today?”
“Yes. But none of the other details matter. They are not related to this...this case, although calling this a case is charitable to say the least.”
“Not related? Or you just won’t tell me?”
“As a lawyer, I am bound by my station to keep certain things between me and my client.”
“MacArthur?”
“Yes.”
Sheppard could see Alan was not going to budge. How could he compete with a lawyer? Alan was really doing what Sheppard pretended to do every day. “Two people involved with this case in the same hotel room. That can’t be a coincidence,” he said, more to himself than Alan. Was there some way that Sheppard and the MacArthur case were connected? The horse mask seemed to have had only Sheppard in his sights, but maybe he had Alan too.
“No.”
“I really need that information, Alan.”
Alan smiled. “You really are terrible at this, you know.” Alan was prepared to die for what he believed in. Morgan knew people like that—so honorable they would fall on their own sword. He wasn’t one of those people and didn’t understand those who were.
“You’re a very successful man, Mr. Hughes, I can see that,” he said, picking his words carefully. “You like being the leader of the pack, like all the attention...”
“Please spare me the psychoanalysis. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Sheppard held up a hand. “You’re a winner. You muscled your way into your business, didn’t take no for an answer. You’ve won. Is this really how it ends? If the horse mask is correct, we all die.”
“You’re asking me if I want to die? Of course I don’t. But if I am to die, I will do it with dignity.”
“You don’t want to die. You think we have nothing in common. But that—we have that in common. You don’t want to die, and you’re scared. Just like everyone else in this room. Just like me. I’m terrified. And when I look at you, I can see somewhere in there that you are too. Whether you like it or not, we’re the same type of person, Mr. Hughes. The kind of guy who busies himself and mouths off to forget his problems. But this problem, we can’t walk away from.”
“No,” Alan said.
“The thing I keep thinking is that we were all put here for a reason. But I haven’t worked out quite why yet. Until you. You might be the key to the puzzle.”
“I was gassed in my office. I was alone. Yes, I may well have been targeted for my involvement with the case. But you’re asking the wrong questions, Sheppard. You should be asking what connects all these other people, not me.”
Alan Hughes, the defense lawyer who conveniently disappears the morning of the trial. A key witness who disappears as well.
This had to be connected. Maybe the horse mask wanted to know who had killed Simon Winter. And Alan looked like the prime suspect.
Was the horse mask Hamish MacArthur? But Sheppard had never heard of him before. And MacArthur would have had to know Sheppard too well. And that theory discounted how involved Winter might be? Why was Simon Winter here? Maybe he was more than just the victim. His mind circled as though he were chasing his own tail. Too many loose ends...unable to be tied up. A good idea. But a wrong one.
“Kidnapping six people. To make a murder puzzle. What are we missing?” To himself. He was surprised at an answer.
“Kidnapping five people. We have to assume the murderer and victim were already here,” Alan said.
Ryan. Ryan was here. But, that look when he’d seen Winter. That kind of look you couldn’t fake.
“I think the horse mask wanted Simon Winter dead, so he enlisted one of us to do it.”
“So, how do I find the murderer?” Sheppard asked, before he could stop himself. Weak. Weak. He was acting weak.
“Maybe it’s just a question of simplicity. Maybe the murderer is the one with the simplest story. Murderers don’t tend to be great storytellers.”
“Your story seems simple enough.”
Alan chuckled. “Yes, I guess it does. That is all I have for you, Sheppard.”
“Okay,” Sheppard said. It had to be him. It had to. But he had two more people to interview and already too much to think about. He had to get everyone’s story first. “If you think of anything else, please tell me.”
“I will,” Alan said, not sounding very convincing.
“And, Mr. Hughes, since you’ve been hones
t with me, I’ll be honest with you. You’re my prime suspect.”
The lawyer laughed again. A gruff, joyless laugh. “And I’ll be honest with you, Sheppard. You’re mine.” He smiled and winked, before moving away. A glint in his eye. Easy to miss. Knowing.
A chill ran through him, that smugness. Alan had to know of Sheppard’s link with Winter. Somehow, he knew. And he didn’t know why, but that scared him more than anything else.
22
Two left. He looked at the clock. 02:14:00. Where was the time going? How could forty-five minutes have gone already?
He cleared his throat, trying to get attention. No one looked at him—they were all gone to their thoughts.
“Ms. Ahearn?”
Slowly, Constance looked around. Mandy whispered to her and she stood up. She was wearing a black flowing dress that matched her hair. It was baggy, and Sheppard couldn’t see her body underneath. She looked like a ghost, floating around and wailing. She was still clutching the hotel Bible, and as she made her way toward Sheppard, he could see the whites of her knuckles. On her face, her makeup had run so dramatically she looked like a mixed paint pallet. She looked old, but wore the years well.
Constance tucked one curtain of hair behind an ear, and Sheppard saw a fresh scratch down her left cheek. Must have done it to herself, with her long, clear manicured nails.
Sheppard guided her to the alcove. Not much point but the illusion of privacy at least. They were all, at least, pretending not to listen.
“I’m sorry we have to do this here. Limited space,” Sheppard said. Taking Constance into the bathroom would be a mistake. She was bad enough out here. “Maybe it’s best if you just focus on me. Forget about everyone else, forget where we are.”
Constance looked at him and opened her mouth. He expected lunacy. But coherence came out. “Yes.” Black hair, dislodged, cascaded down her face again. Like something from a horror film.
“I have to ask you a few questions. It’ll all be stuff I need to know for the case. I need to know all about everyone in the room. I won’t ask anything I don’t need to know. You see?”
Constance peered at him, one eye out, one eye through hair. “Yes.”
“Good.” Where to start? He’d only thought this far. He looked down. “You’re religious?”
Constance laughed. He thought he might have lost her. But then, “Yes, Mr. Sheppard. And now we are in Hell. And we are being punished. Not just you. All of us. We all must atone.”
“And what do you need to atone for?” Sheppard said.
Constance frowned at him. Looked to the floor.
Needed to be softer. “Okay, let’s start a little simpler. Do you remember where you were, before you came here?”
“I was...” Constance thought. “I was in my dressing room, I think.” Sharp voice. One built for singing. And projecting.
“Your dressing room? At the theater? I understand you’re the lead actress in a play?”
Constance looked angry. “A musical. It’s a musical. Rain on Elmore Street. Three years. Never missed a show. Eight times a week.”
“What were you doing there this morning?”
“A rehearsal. The male lead’s off sick, so we had to run through some scenes with the understudy. Amateurs, both of them.” Constance stopped. Stuck her nose up, like a dog. “Is that blood? I don’t want to stand here.”
“Sorry, I’ll make this quick. So you were on your own in your dressing room?”
“I have my own dressing room, but no one is truly alone.”
“Excuse me,” Sheppard said.
“I am receptive, Mr. Sheppard. I am one of the few who can see those lost on their way to the next life. I see through people. I see their auras.”
Suppressing a sigh. “Ah,” he made do with. “Okay then.” She was crazy then. That proved it. Ghosts and auras.
“Your aura is very troubled, Mr. Sheppard. Light and dark mixing all together. Tell me, do you think you are a good man?”
Sheppard fumbled. “What?”
“I cannot tell yet, that is all.”
Tell me, do you think you are a good man?
One of the last things Simon Winter ever said to him. “You’re a Catholic. Devout, by the looks of it. But you believe in all of this stuff?” Sheppard asked. Get away from the question. Get away.
“There are more things in Heaven and Earth than can be dreamt of in your philosophy,” Constance said. “Besides, I did not pick to become what I am. It just happened to me.”
“You can see everyone’s colors, can you see the murderer in this room?”
Constance smiled, baring her teeth in an animal way. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“Of course it doesn’t.” Before he could stop himself.
“You can choose not to believe, Mr. Sheppard. That doesn’t make it not real.”
Back on track. “You were in your dressing room. And then?”
“I was getting ready. Mainly going through my lines. They had to change them a little bit for the understudy. In my line of work, performing is like breathing. You don’t notice when you’re doing it. Shows slip away with the days, and the weeks, and the months. I know my lines back to front, and then they went and changed them. Fully knowing that I would have to overwrite my instincts. They knew, but they still did it. All because of that bastard and his bastard cancer scare. I can’t learn new lines in a day. I just can’t. I won’t, Mr. Sheppard.”
“Okay?” Sheppard tried.
“I was livid. I threatened to quit, you know. I threatened to quit five times over. But I didn’t. Because they want to replace me anyway. They want someone younger. So I stayed. And then I went back to my room to learn my lines. Like a good girl. And then I heard something. A...hissing. And then a bad smell.”
“Yes. A smell.” Sheppard was finding it hard to follow Constance’s rambling. But seized on the bits he could discern. “It seems that’s how we were all knocked out and brought here.” New question. Was the murderer gassed as well? Or did they just pretend? Whoever would’ve done that would’ve had to be a good actor. And Constance was definitely skittish enough to fit the murderer’s MO. She could even hide her nerves behind fake ones.
“Yes. Gas. That makes sense,” the woman said. “I don’t remember anything else until...I woke up here.”
“You think we’re in Hell, but you accept we’re still alive.”
Constance chuckled. A clucking sound. “There is more than one Hell. This is a Hell on Earth. We must atone.”
“And you still won’t tell me what you need to atone for?”
“No, Mr. Sheppard,” Constance said, “the bigger question you should be asking is what you need to atone for?” Sheppard suddenly felt itchy, like something sliding under his skin. How did she do that? Manage to get to him. Past all his defenses. “Ms. Ahearn.”
“No. I won’t hear any more. I did not kill whoever is in that bathroom. I can’t even stand next to the door without feeling like I’m going to vomit—that should tell you all you need to know. What makes you think I could kill a man? Just because I won’t talk about my private life with you, a stranger?” Every word lavish. As though she was reciting Shakespeare.
A dead end. Sheppard knew she wouldn’t budge. Constance was persistent. He took out Winter’s wallet and waited for her to calm down. He showed her Winter’s driver’s license. “Do you know this man?”
Constance looked at it. For too long. “I don’t think so. I never forget a face.”
“His name is Simon Winter. Ring any bells?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m...” Constance’s eyes flitted back to the driver’s license. Another long pause. “I’ve seen this man.”
“What, where?”
“I... I’m trying to remember,” Consta
nce said. She really was. “I saw him at the theater bar after a show. A few weeks ago, I think. I go out to the bar after the show once a week to sign autographs. There’s a lot of people usually. It was crowded.”
“What makes you remember Simon Winter then?”
“It wasn’t him I remember specifically. It was the man he was with.”
“What?”
“They were talking at the bar. I don’t know what they were saying. It was so noisy and people were rushing up to me. But, every once in a while, when the crowd parted, I saw them. This man was with a younger man, in a suit, red tie, with rectangle glasses. He had the darkest aura I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t stop looking. This man was evil, Mr. Sheppard.”
A man. Red tie. Glasses. The same man that Mandy saw. Was this him? Was this the man behind the horse mask?
“Can you remember anything else? Did you hear anything, anything at all?”
“No. But I kept watching. They were deep in conversation. They looked like they didn’t belong there. This...Winter was doing most of the talking, and the evil man was listening. The Winter man handed the evil man something. Something like a notebook, or a pocket book. They weren’t drinking anything, so I wondered why they were even there. I got distracted signing autographs for a few minutes, and I thought that when I looked back they would be gone. I hoped they would be gone. But when I looked back, they were still there. And...” Constance gulped at air.
“And what?”
“They were staring right at me, Mr. Sheppard. The Winter man and the evil man. Staring right at me. Like they knew I’d been watching them. The evil man’s eyes. They looked so...like they were on fire...they looked so hot. I’ve never seen anything like it. I felt so scared. Like a little child. But for some reason, I couldn’t look away. Until my assistant came and took me back to my dressing room. And all that time, he was looking at me.”
A shiver fluttered on Sheppard’s spine. If this was the horse mask, this solidified that Winter was in on it. This plot, this plan. Winter knew. And was working with the horse mask. The evil man. Handed him a notebook. The notebook that Ryan saw him writing in? It was all getting clearer.
Guess Who Page 9
