by Joan Smith
That’s right, on Sunday evening,’ Jamie said, surprised. ‘How did you know that?’
Loretta explained about Andrew, and Jamie sat back in his chair, absent-mindedly sipping his coffee.
Another question occurred to Loretta. ‘Who was the girl, the one with the red hair who brought the note?’ she asked. Jamie looked up with the ghost of a smile.
‘Oh, that,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I played on the porter’s misogynist sentiments to get him to lie about that. I told him my girlfriend had left me because she’d fallen in with the bunch of women’s libbers and lesbians meeting upstairs, and I was desperate to see her on my own. I said I’d signed the note in my sister’s name, and it was vital that she didn’t know I had anything to do with it.’
Loretta frowned, remembering the porter’s sly smile when she pressed him for details of the messenger. It was a shabby trick, she thought angrily. She was about to tell Jamie so, when she checked herself. She was getting more upset at the thought of this small deception than she had during his account of the murder. Where was her sense of proportion? She must be suffering from shock, she supposed. ‘I still don’t understand why you wanted me to come here,’ she said.
Jamie laughed. ‘Believe it or not, I was going to throw myself on your mercy,’ he said. Though I did rather fuck it up with my little performance when you arrived. I really didn’t plan that scene, by the way. I just lost my temper when I saw you coming up the stairs. Not that it hadn’t occurred to me to kill you,’ he said evenly. ‘When you stood in my room at college, bragging about going to Paris - well, that’s what I thought you were doing,’ he added, seeing the pain on her face, ‘I thought I’d follow you and kill you. From my limited experience of the deed, I thought I’d have more chance of getting away with it in a foreign city. But then I realized there was no point. I remembered your husband, you see. I was convinced you were in it together, and he’d know why you were in Paris. If you disappeared over the weekend, my name would be all over the front pages in no time at all. So I dreamed up a new plan. I decided to get you here and plead with you. Not that I thought that would be enough on its own. I was going to find out what you expected to get for your story - my night of passion with a killer, and all that - and offer you more. I come into a lot of money from my grandmother next year, when I’m twenty-one, and I was going to try and buy you off with a share. God, I’d have offered you the lot if you’d agreed not to turn me in.’ Loretta stared at him, bereft of speech. How could he have so misjudged her? She was about to voice this thought when Jamie held up his hand. ‘It’s all right, you don’t have to convince me,’ he said wearily. ‘I got it all wrong, I see that now. It’s not money you’re after, it’s justice, isn’t it? Too bad for me you turn out to be a nice, decent person instead of the bitch I thought you were.’
Loretta said nothing. She didn’t feel particularly nice or decent. And why had she set out to find the murderer? She had never really examined her motives. She supposed it had come about almost by accident, like the murder. In the first place, she hadn’t been sure enough to go to the police - and she had had a pressing reason for going back to England in the shape of her mother’s hysterectomy. Then the evidence had disappeared. By the time the body was discovered, she had been too afraid for her own skin to go to the police. It wasn’t a sense of justice that had involved her in the investigation, it was straightforward guilt. Her gaze slipped away from Jamie.
Downstairs, a young woman entered the café, a black leather folder under one arm. She peered round, and then spotted two friends at a table. Joining them, she barely paused before unzipping the folder, which Loretta now saw to be a portfolio of paintings. The girl was an art student, Loretta guessed. She handed a sheaf of paintings to her two companions, and waited anxiously while they examined them. One of the men finally began to speak, and the girl’s face broke into smiles. Whoever the men were - friends, teachers, art dealers? - the verdict was evidently favourable.
Loretta turned back to Jamie, who was staring unseeingly into space. He had become impenetrable to her, and she had no idea what he was thinking. She supposed she ought to stop a waiter and ask him to call the police. There was some tea left in her cup, and she drank it, making a face at its lukewarm temperature. She leaned down beside her chair, and picked up her bag. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
She walked down the pale green stairs to the ground floor, and saw the sign to the lavatories, down more steps in the basement. She descended the stairs and went in. The lavatories were in a row to her right; to her left, a series of floor-length mirrors had been placed at angles to each other. In each V, a washbasin had been formed by the skilful insertion of a piece of glass. She took a couple of tissues from her bag, and put it on the floor. Trickling a few drops of water on to the tissues, she used them to wipe her cheeks and forehead. She bent down and rummaged in the bag, taking out her mascara and lipstick. Carefully reapplying both, she blotted her lips on a fresh tissue. She put the cosmetics away, and took out a comb. She ran it through her hair, observing with mild disapproval how the drizzle had made it curl. Putting the comb away, she slung her bag over her shoulder and went back up the stairs to the ground floor. She stood back to let a waiter pass, and walked to the street door. A glance upwards and to her right told her that Jamie was gone. It was raining outside, and for the second time that day she wished she had brought an umbrella.
for Francis Wheen
This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London
WC1B 3DP
Copyright © Joan Smith 1987
First published by Faber and Faber Limited
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ISBN: 9781448208098
eISBN: 9781448207855
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