“If you wait a moment, I’ll see what I can do.”
It’s a busy practice, the phone constantly ringing and being answered in hushed tones, clients wandering in and out, to and from appointments. I glance at a board that lists the names of the therapists who work there, then at the young woman who comes over and sits down next to where Elizabeth was. Then Elizabeth comes back and I follow her into a small room.
“I’m Elizabeth Coleman,” she tells me. “I’ve worked here for fifteen years, so there’s not too much I don’t know. Please tell me—what’s happened?”
Sensing genuine concern in her voice, I tell her.
“It explains why the police were here,” she says quietly.
“When?” My ears prick up.
“Yesterday. Two of them called to see the practice manager. She’s called a meeting later today.”
“About April?”
Elizabeth nods. “I suppose it must be. I’m sorry, but I just don’t believe it. Not April, of all people. She’s gentle, compassionate.. . . She’s a therapist.” She looks completely flummoxed.
“If it’s any help, neither do I,” I tell her. “Can you tell me anything related to her personal life that might be helpful?”
Elizabeth shakes her head. “April kept to herself. She’s an excellent therapist. And enormously popular. It makes no sense. I suppose we’ll have to tell her clients.”
I pause, because this is tricky. “I know that many, if not all, of her private clients had difficult pregnancies. Some knew they were likely to lose their babies. I know it’s confidential, but do you happen to know what kind of issues she dealt with here?”
But Elizabeth clamps up. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know anything about her clients—and even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to discuss them with you. We deal with a whole spectrum of problems here, in confidence, as I’m sure you must appreciate, Mr. . . .”
“Calaway,” I say quickly. “Noah Calaway.”
“Mr. Calaway, I’d like to help, but you do understand, don’t you?”
“Of course. I shouldn’t have asked.” In a professionally run practice such as this, her response is what I’d expect.
“It’s fine.” Elizabeth gets up. “I’ll tell you what I can do. She used to have lunch with one or two of the girls. I could ask them for you—maybe if they know anything, they could give you a call?”
“Thank you.” I’m nodding but I’m not hopeful. “I’ll leave you my phone number. Er, do you have some paper?”
I’m silently cursing that I don’t have a business card to give her, realize how unprofessional it makes me look. She looks at me suspiciously. “Come over to the desk and I’ll make a note of it.”
* * *
After I leave there, I walk around Guildford until I find a small stationery shop that, for an inflated price, promises to have a hundred business cards printed in two hours’ time. Then hungry, I find a pub by the canal, where I order a pint and a sandwich, sitting outside, wondering whether Elizabeth will do as she promised.
I’m halfway through my pint when a number flashes up on my mobile. Hopeful that it’s one of April’s therapist friends, I answer it.
“Noah Calaway.”
“Mr. Calaway?” My heart sinks as I recognize the voice instantly. “Detective Sergeant Ryder here. Do you have a moment?”
“Of course, Detective Sergeant. What can I do for you?”
“Just one or two questions, sir. About Ms. Rousseau.”
“Okay.”
“Well, we’ve been analyzing calls to and from her phone. The day before the murder took place, she called your home number in Devon. Three times, to be precise. Would you care to explain why you didn’t tell me?”
I’m completely astounded. April called me? How did she have my number? And why? “I didn’t know. Are you sure?”
“We have the times, sir. Five-thirty P.M. Again at five-thirty-five, and then ten minutes later, at five-forty-five.”
“I had absolutely no idea she’d called me. I work from home. It’s rare for me to go out except maybe to get some food—it could have been around that time. I don’t remember. Even if I’m there, I don’t always hear the phone. In fact, I don’t use it.”
“Is there anyone who may have seen you to confirm your whereabouts?”
“No. Unless, maybe my neighbor saw me? Clara Hayward—she lives next door. She notices most things.” “One other thing. Am I right in saying that some years ago you and Ms. Rousseau were engaged to be married?”
He sounds almost unbearably smug, as though he’s enjoying the chance to catch me out. “That’s right. We were. She broke it off.”
“So I heard. But she must have told you, surely, that she’d been raped?”
Anger twists inside me, that he even knows about this, that he’s been digging into the fine print of April’s life.
“Or perhaps you didn’t know?”
I know then, from the edge in his voice, the exaggerated fake surprise twisted with delight as he hits a nerve, he’s enjoying this.
“She didn’t tell me. I never found out why,” I tell him, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. “She never explained. If you must know, I heard only very recently, from someone else.”
At the other end, Ryder coughs. “You expect me to believe, sir, that the woman you were about to marry didn’t confide in you? Strange, wouldn’t you say? Or maybe she didn’t trust you. Thought you might do something rash . . .”
“We talked about most things. Just not this.” I knew I sounded defensive at his barbed words and sharp tone. “It was her choice—she must have had her reasons. It wouldn’t be that surprising, surely, to want to forget?”
“You tell me. . . .” I can tell from his voice Ryder smirks. “Anyway. That will be all for now. Sir.” That last mocking me; pausing for effect. “No doubt someone will be in touch.”
After he’s hung up, I drain the rest of my pint, slam the empty glass down on the table before hurling my sandwich into the canal, where a flurry of ducks fight over it before it sinks. Online or otherwise, I’m not an easy person to find. And again I’m thinking, where had April got my number? And why?
Then I’m remembering finding out about the rape, from Will, in the pub. How I had been fraught with horror at the picture my mind had painted. Had he seen it, written on my face, that I hadn’t known?
Ryder would undoubtedly have questioned Will. But also, if he was any good, he would have checked April’s medical notes. Presumably it’s all there, from her time in the hospital.
* * *
Back in my room, I remember the little notebook that I found hidden at the back of April’s bookcase, that I’ve previously only glanced at. Trying to decipher the scrawl of names, I recognize some from her client notes. Again, there are dates, but also what appear to be the names of hospitals. Effingham Wood, Croydon Central, and St. Richard’s being the ones I recognize. Then next to some of them, two initials.
The WF catches my eye. Will Farrington? He told me he referred patients to April. Perhaps she was tracking where most of her clients came from.
Then, out of curiosity, I google Will and start to understand why people are in awe of him. According to the articles I find, he’s involved in groundbreaking surgery in newborns with heart defects. This must have been what John at the North Star had been talking about.
The more I read on, the more I realize just how highly he’s regarded. It also explains his association with April, because surgery on a newborn carries a far higher than average risk. As Will told me himself, not all his patients make it. Some of their stories are there, too—stories like Daisy Rubinstein’s and stories where Will’s or someone else’s skill changed the course of a baby’s life.
Even so, I’ve an inescapable sense I’m missing something. There’s no arguing with the cold, hard facts—the motive, the evidence, the murder victim, an unconscious murder suspect—but it’s too neat, too obvious. Too perfect. Then there’s the broken secu
rity camera. The police may be mistaken. There’s another possibility they can’t rule out. That all along, this was planned by someone.
That April was set up.
30
The possibility that April was set up haunts me but leaves me none the wiser as the day of Norton’s funeral arrives, dull and overcast. I park in the crematorium car park, knowing I have no place here, but curious to see who shows up.
As I walk up the path, seeing the police officer standing slightly apart from the people gathered outside one of the chapels, I realize this must be Norton’s service. When I draw closer, I notice his name displayed beside the door. As I scan the tight faces and hooded eyes that show nothing, the creased suits and dark coats brought out for the occasion, I notice the small crowd contains no young people, nor is there anyone I know.
There’s something odd about the mood, a lack of emotion of any kind, which means I’m somehow surprised that when the hearse pulls up, when life and death are briefly roommates in the small square outside the crematorium, the woman who steps forward to follow the coffin looks so normal.
I’m last through the door into the chapel, sliding into the row of seats at the back, next to a thin woman in a skirt flecked with dust who smells of cheap scent. The police officer remains outside. The service that follows is a one size fits all, unremarkable, impersonal, yet somehow evoking emotions in me that don’t belong here, that come from when my father died. Not just a sense of loss, but the reminder that for none of us can life be certain.
Anywhere else, for anyone else, the lack of a eulogy, the smallest personal touch would have saddened me, but the man inside that wooden box raped his stepdaughter. There can be no rejoicing in his life.
It’s a service in which no thought has been invested, just the briefest of brief words, the cheapest of gaudy funeral flowers, the only music a few piped bars as the curtain closes on Norton for the last time.
* * *
After, there is no invitation to a wake, which makes me think that perhaps there isn’t one. I hang back, but everyone drifts away quite quickly, and as I walk to my car, suddenly I’m irritated, with the time I’ve wasted, that I’ve learned nothing. Away from the crematorium, I drive too fast, heading out of Musgrove until I miss the turnoff to the motorway and find myself caught in a one-way system. As I narrowly miss hitting the car that pulls out of nowhere just in front of me, my irritation peaks.
The driver sticks his finger up at me as my hand uncharacteristically connects with the horn, and I’m unable to contain my frustration at everything that suddenly seems set against me. Then, recognizing the road to the North Star, on impulse I turn down it.
Leaving my jacket in the car, I pull off my tie before wandering into the bar. There’s no sign of John today and I wonder if he’s taken a day off. I order a pint, out of the corner of my eye noticing the funeral party come in.
I watch them emerge butterfly-like from their dark coats, shedding their silence, splashing noise and brashness across the room. Lively talk and shrill laughter has replaced earlier indifference, as they order drinks and make jokes, before tucking into the platters of sandwiches that are brought out from the kitchen.
I feel myself frown, because this is definitely a wake of sorts, with the venue planned and food ordered, but not open to just anyone. The ranks of Norton’s followers-on are clearly closed.
But it’s a strange send-off. My own sense of decorum would find gravity more appropriate, no matter what Norton has done—or perhaps nothing at all, rather than this fairground-ride jollity. I continue to watch, their demeanor making me increasingly uncomfortable. And why come back to where Norton was killed? I flit between whether it’s right or wrong, settling in the end on a need for closure. Until suddenly, it comes to me, from their raised glasses and flushed faces, it isn’t Norton’s life they’re celebrating.
It’s his death. My uncomfortable feeling stays with me, such that I don’t notice my neighbor from the funeral service weaving her way toward me, clearly the worse for wear, until she lurches into me.
“What are you doing over here?” Waving her empty glass around, clearly recognizing me. Under thick pancake makeup, her cheeks are reddened and eyes too bright for just the one glass.
“I just got here.” I hold out my hand. “Noah. Forgive me—you are . . . ?
“Lena.” She winks a heavily shadowed eyelid. “How did you know the old bastard, then?”
“We go back,” I say briefly. “I happened to be in the area. But I didn’t know him well.”
She steps closer, lowering her voice slightly. “If you knew him at all, you’ll know we’re better off without him. Especially Fiona, the poor love.”
I frown. “They weren’t happy?”
Lena tips her head back and laughs, a horrible guttural sound. “Happy? I should say not.”
“Why did she stay with him?”
Lena’s face takes on a look of suspicion. “Didn’t really know him at all, didja? Here, come over to talk to the others.” She’s still talking to me as she turns and waves across the room. “Someone will remember you—like Don. Don? Donny?”
Her shrill voice cutting through the hum of voices. Forgetting her empty glass, she starts weaving her way back toward them. By the time she turns to check whether I’m following, I’m already out of there.
* * *
There’s a sense of my world shifting, of the slashing of moral codes and social conventions; of solid ground under my feet turning to quicksand. Of too many people who live by their own rules, and I wonder if I’m one of them. I contemplate calling Will. Trading my principles for his familiar smooth arrogance across a table, for an hour or two of inflammatory conversation and a few beers. I even pull over to call him, but before I’ve switched off the engine, my mobile buzzes and the screen lights up with an unknown number. “Hello? Is that Noah Calaway?” It’s a husky, slightly hesitant voice—a woman’s.
“Hello. Yes, hold on a moment. . . .” Turning off the engine, I close the window against the traffic noise.
“Hello. How can I help you?”
“We haven’t spoken before. Daisy gave me your number. Daisy Rubinstein?”
“Of course, I remember Daisy. Are you another of April’s clients?”
“You could call me that. . . .” She hesitates. “My name is Lara, Mr. Calaway. Lara Collins. Daisy said you were looking for information about April. Anyway, if you still are, I think I can help.”
“Actually, if there’s anything at all you can tell me, it would be great. It really would.” After the grotesque charade of Norton’s funeral, Lara Collins is salve on my anger. I feel myself breathe out my tension, suddenly hopeful. “I can talk now, if you like.”
She hesitates. “Or maybe we can meet? Would that be better?”
I understand, she wants to take my measure, decide whether or not she trusts me.
“Where do you live?”
Her voice is light. “Oh. Of course, you wouldn’t know, would you? I’m April’s neighbor.”
I try to think where the nearest house to April’s is, failing. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure where you mean.”
“You can’t see it from the road. But if you pass April’s on your left, there’s a drive a quarter of a mile farther on. You’re probably busy. . . .” She breaks off. “But if you’d like to, you could come over now.”
“I could be with you in about an hour.” Adding hastily, “And it’s Noah.”
“Hi, Noah. See you in an hour.”
* * *
Lara Collins looks as delicate as she sounded when she called. Slight, with long, light brown hair in a ponytail, she’s wearing faded, ripped, loose-fitting jeans. She shows me into a small, cozy kitchen that’s dwarfed by an ancient stove.
“Please sit down. Would you like coffee?”
I nod gratefully. “Please, if it’s no trouble.” As I sit down, my head starts to clear.
“Daisy told me what you said—about April,” she tells me as she fills
the kettle. The softness of her voice belies what’s only faintly visible underneath. Steel. “I know it’s impossible to truly know someone’s heart, but I don’t believe she did it.”
“Nor do I. Thank you.” I take the mug she hands me, staring at the familiar blue and white design of Spode’s Willow Pattern, the only design I can put a name to, because April loved it.
“April gave them to me.”
I look up, startled.
“The mugs. I saw you looking.” Lara slips into the chair opposite, pushing an escaped lock of hair behind an ear, stirring her mug thoughtfully.
“Since I saw Daisy, I have been trying to decide whether to tell you this. What I’m about to tell you, even Mark—he’s my husband—doesn’t know.” She hesitates. “The question is, can I trust you?”
I’m not sure how you measure trust, whether in the honesty of a face, the directness of eye contact. Or deeper, on an instinctual level.
Lara takes a deep breath. “I think I’m telling you because April’s a good person. She helped me, but also, we were friends. And I imagine there are things only a few people know about her.”
My mouth opens to tell her that she’s wrong. That you can truly know a person’s heart. That I know April, probably better than anyone, because there are relationships where time is immaterial, because no matter how long since you’ve seen each other, whether two weeks or twenty years, it makes no difference.
“Something had happened to April.” Lara speaks quietly. “In the past. She never said what. But I know it was big.”
I frown. “What makes you say that?”
“You can see it in her.” Lara’s eyes are wide. “You know, how there are people who have no time for small things? Pettiness, I mean. In the way they let things go—because whatever huge, life-changing thing happened to them gave them a perspective most of us can’t ever have.”
She pauses for a moment, looking directly at me.
“April had no agenda.” Lara is resolute. “No ego. No awards she was chasing. No.”
She sits back in her chair; she frowns.
“What April did have was a gift.”
The Beauty of the End Page 16
