“Coffee?” she asked.
I grunted as she put the wrong amount of coffee into the cafetière. I’d tried numerous times to explain that two level scoops was just right and that she should wait thirty seconds after the kettle had boiled before pouring on the water. This morning, however, I let it ride. “You going to tell me what the face is all about?” she asked, putting the croissants on a plate.
“It’s a case I’ve been working on.”
“Well duh, I didn’t think you’d taken up a career in boxing,” she said, bringing the coffee and sitting opposite, smiling. She reached out and stroked my eye and swollen lip. “Poor baby,” she said. “Does it hurt?”
“Only when I laugh.”
“Ha ha. So who did this to you?”
“Bullies.”
“Again, duh. But who were they, what did they want?” she asked, ripping a croissant in two.
“Bullies don’t want anything, they just need someone to torment.”
She poured the coffee. “I get it; you don’t want to talk about it.”
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s just that if I tell you about it you’re so clever you’ll easily put two and two together and realise who my client is. Next thing you know it’ll be in the Argus.”
“Mmmm. So it’s someone well known enough to write about. That’s just piqued my interest even more.” I sipped the weak coffee and decided it might be better soaked up in croissant.
“However, I have enough on my plate at the moment. The police here may have matched the dead girl with a Polish teenager reported missing by her parents. She left Poland several months ago and they hadn’t heard from her since. They’ve arrived here today and I plan to interview them.”
“How did the Poles get wind of it?”
“The police here sent photos of the dead girl to Europol, since they couldn’t link her to any reported missing people in the UK. They think it’s the same girl but the parents are arriving to identify the body.”
“And you’ve got an interview with them?”
“Not yet, but I will,” she said, winking. “I think they might go up to Byron’s Pool to see the tributes there. Assuming it is their daughter of course. If she is then Stubbing will want to make a photo public – one from when she was alive, obviously – in the hope people will recognise her.”
“You want to take them to the place their daughter was murdered?”
She shrugged. “She wasn’t murdered there, she was found there. If it was me I’d want to see it. Anyway, I thought you might want to meet up afterwards; we could have lunch in Grantchester.”
Visiting the site where a dead girl had been found seemed prurient to me but at least I’d be able to keep an eye on Linda, and make sure Leonard and Derin weren’t keeping tabs on her.
“I’d nothing else planned except sitting around feeling sorry for myself,” I said, which was true.
“Ahhh… poor Georgie.” Her hand went to my face again. Her touch was cool and gentle.
“I seem to remember you offered to kiss it better yesterday,” I said.
“I did, but you told me you weren’t up to it. Plus you had that cleaner here, remember?” She took her hand from my face and smiled crookedly to let me know that she didn’t quite believe me about the cleaner.
I gestured around the kitchen. “Have you ever seen the sink sparkle so?”
“It is very clean,” she acknowledged grudgingly. I took her hands and made a show of looking into her eyes.
“Don’t we owe it to ourselves, Linda, to at least try and find out whether I’m up to it or not?” She pulled her hands from mine and stood up.
“I think we already know the answer to that, don’t we?” She sashayed to the door, then looked at me over her shoulder. “Well? I’m not bloody carrying you upstairs.”
* * *
Afterwards, I downed painkillers in the kitchen as Linda made a lot of noise in the shower. There was a message left on the mobile from Kristina Galbraith, greeting-free as per.
“I wonder if we could meet some time today. I’d like to follow up on our conversation. Can you come to the house this evening at six-thirty?” She didn’t say what she wanted. A day ago I would have told her to throw herself in the sea but she could be a useful conduit to finding what had happened to Aurora. I rang her back and left a message confirming that I would come to the house.
We drove up to Grantchester in Linda’s car (with me surreptitiously checking that nobody was following), where we had lunch at a pub crowded with tourists looking for the ghost of Rupert Brooke. I wanted to tell them he was buried just miles from where Olivia was restoring a farmhouse with her lover but they might have regarded me with pity, and there’s nothing worse than that.
We walked off our lunch by going down to Byron’s Pool. It was busy which was good for Linda, who wanted to capture some vox-pop about what it was like to visit a walking spot where a body had been found, or some such ghoulish nonsense. I left her to it. At the base of the post of the height restriction barrier – where presumably the car park had been cordoned off by police – was an unhappy collection of faded and fresh flowers with a now sodden teddy bear thrown in. Lots of handwritten messages from the general public had been stuck in the flowers and taped to the post, many of them illegible due to overnight rain. Those that had survived because they’d been put in plastic bags looked rather sad. Leonard and Derin were nowhere to be seen and the whole setting was making me depressed. As I walked back towards the road Stubbing drove up in an unmarked car, parking before the barrier. She opened the back door and a middle-aged couple got out – they must have identified the body as their daughter’s. Looking tired and shell-shocked Stubbing led them to the barrier where she stood back as they looked at the offerings left for an unknown woman. The mother, petite and lank-haired, clung to a pot-bellied man with a smooth shiny head who made no attempt to stem his tears. Linda was hovering, trying to catch Stubbing’s eye. Stubbing nodded and gestured to her.
I couldn’t watch. I walked back to the pub and sat in the garden with a fresh pint, contemplating what it was that motivated people to leave messages and flowers for complete strangers. Was it a form of collective mourning? I reached no conclusions worth sharing but became aware that I was sitting alone at a table in an otherwise busy garden being suspiciously side-eyed. I remembered that I looked like I’d been in a fight, which I suppose I had, albeit one-sided.
I was at a loss as to what to do about Aurora, if I could do anything, and had no reason to think she was in physical danger. I felt angry with her at letting herself be convinced to leave with Leonard at the airport. All she’d had to do was go through passport control; I couldn’t imagine he’d risk forcing her anywhere in a crowded airport with armed police everywhere. However it happened, things did not sit easy with me, and I felt some responsibility for her predicament. But maybe there was a way back in via Kristina that didn’t involve antagonising Badem and putting Linda at risk.
The pub had emptied when she returned, a glow in her eyes and a large envelope in her hands. She was itching to be off.
“Did you speak to them?”
“Yes of course.” She waved the envelope. “They’ve brought a picture of their daughter with them. Her name’s Bogdana.” In the car back to Cambridge I asked her what she’d learnt.
“You’ll have to read it on Monday like everyone else. You don’t tell me what you’re working on.”
“Fine. What were they like, her parents?”
“Sweet couple, unsophisticated in a way. He’s a carpenter, she works in a school as an administrator. I’m going to talk to them properly tomorrow with an interpreter.”
“They’re happy to be interviewed?”
“Of course; they want to know what happened to their daughter and getting her story out there is going to help.”
She dropped me off at the end of my road. The previous day’s events, the morning’s sex, the lunchtime beer, the depressing sight at Byron’s Pool – it had al
l taken its toll. When I got in I crawled onto the unmade bed that still smelled of Linda and submitted to the Sandman.
34
GALBRAITH’S PORSCHE WASN’T IN THEIR DRIVE, NO DOUBT undergoing some satisfyingly expensive repairs somewhere. I pulled up behind the Range Rover, my back window freshly covered with my own efforts to keep probable rain out. As I waited for Kristina to answer the door, my phone declared a text from Kamal: Notes of IB currently in medical records, last checked out for follow-up clinic 2 weeks ago. Kx. So Galbraith had lied: those weren’t Badem’s notes in his briefcase. I was increasingly curious about what was. Then I got a second text from him which made me ninety per cent sure: WG would have received copy of audit.
She opened the door, flushed and in her purple running gear. She looked at my battered face with interest but no comment, and let me in.
“You’re early. Wait upstairs; I’ll be five minutes.”
With some effort I climbed the stairs to the open-plan living space to find a view of the low sun struggling through some dark clouds over the distant fields. A low growl came from the sofa. Misha was curled there, his head following me around the room. I decided ignoring the mutt would teach him some manners. I examined the sound system. Only a man would spend so much on music technology. The speaker cable alone probably cost more than my hi-fi system, such as it was. There were hundreds of records, most of them classical and jazz. To the left of this setup was an archway into another room. I stepped through it to have a look. It was a large space, with windows onto three aspects. In the middle was a glass desk on a Turkish rug. The desk was empty apart from a closed MacBook Air sitting neatly in front of an expensive-looking ergonomic chair with lots of levers, the sort that you had to keep the manual handy to operate. Medical books lined the wall around the window behind the desk. There, under the window that faced the front of the house, sat Galbraith’s attaché case.
“That’s Bill’s study,” Kristina said behind me.
She wore the kind of black dress that women in films ask gooey-eyed men to help zip up at the back. My limited expertise in that area wasn’t required, however, and she put some heels down next to the sofa and walked on stockinged feet over to the kitchen area where she poured a little red wine into two ridiculously large glasses and came back to sit on the white leather sofa. She leant over and put a glass on the table near me. I chose a white leather cube to perch on. Misha stood on his hind legs and I was treated to a thankfully brief smooching show. He then lay back down next to her and watched me warily, smacking his lips in satisfaction.
“Were you hit by a car?” she asked.
“I fell down the stairs at work.”
“I wondered, because my husband said he hit something with his car, a small deer or something. We have them round here.” She smiled, and I realised she was making a joke so I showed her a grin.
“That wasn’t me, no,” I said.
“He’s having to have the seats reupholstered.” She lifted her glass in a toast. “I wanted to thank you for returning his briefcase.”
“And you got your pearls back,” I said, thinking she could have done this on the phone. But I picked up the glass.
She shrugged. “I haven’t seen them yet. Apparently Aurora broke them, so he’s getting them restrung.”
I didn’t tell her that the pearls had already been broken – you don’t play your hand without some money on the table. It was worth finding out what she knew and didn’t know.
“So I put her on a plane to Manila,” I said. Her eyes widened in surprise, but I couldn’t tell whether she knew Aurora hadn’t boarded the plane.
“Really? That’s good.” Her hand went unconsciously to Misha, who squirmed in pleasure under the ministrations of her fingers.
“Yes, she’s probably with her daughter as we speak.” She nodded and I was unable to resist continuing the charade.
“It was good of you to hand over the passport,” I said, as if it were an act of extraordinary magnanimity. Of course, her husband may have just taken it from her but I let her soak up the compliment. She shrugged like it was nothing and put the lipstick-stained glass down on the table, sitting forward, her knees together.
“So did she tell you anything before she left?”
“About what?” I asked. This was why I was here. “You asked me this before. What is it you’re so worried she’s told me about?” I tried to cross my legs but it’s difficult on a stool with no back so I gave up. She stared at me with open hostility. I felt self-conscious and touched my face. The swelling on my lip had certainly gone down. She was about to speak when a phone rang somewhere. Putting the glass down again she got up and went to the source in the kitchen area. She picked up a mobile from the counter and took it into a room, closing the door behind her.
Without giving it much thought I got up, went into Galbraith’s study and moved quickly to the case. Would I remember the code? My hands sweaty, listening for Kristina, I tried the combination. The first attempt I got it wrong. Less haste, more speed, George, my father used to say. I managed it on the second go and got the flaps open. Inside was as before, the grey folder and the envelope with the pearls. I took out the folder and flicked through it: charts, text, tables of figures, all fastened together. I heard a noise and nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw Misha standing in the doorway, little head cocked. Ignoring him I tried to open the window overlooking the drive but had trouble figuring out how to open the bugger, because being an architect-designed house it couldn’t be a normal window. A door opened somewhere as I finally got it open and I pitched the folder into a bush next to her Range Rover, left the window open because I didn’t have time to close it, closed the flaps and locks on the case without having time to spin the dials, then wandered out casually, bending to stroke Misha who snarled at me. Kristina was picking up her wine from the table.
“Sorry, I was looking for the bathroom,” I said, feeling sweaty, my heart beating hard, although the worst-case scenario would have been Kristina throwing me out. She pointed to a door off the kitchen area. I went in and wet my face circumspectly in the marbled washroom, then dabbed it dry with a soft towel that smelled of lavender.
Kristina was on the sofa putting on the heels when I emerged. I sat in an armchair this time, at ninety degrees to her.
“Where were we?” she asked.
“You were worried about what Aurora might have told me.”
She finished buckling the thin straps at her ankles and looked at me, ready with something to say.
“It’s just that I think Bill has been seeing someone from work, and Aurora may have seen her.” She gestured at the room. “Here.”
“You believe he’s involved with someone else?”
“Was,” she said, without hesitation. “It ran its course as these things do. But I’m less worried about the fact that it happened than the effect on his career should it come out. You understand?”
I did understand. She didn’t care about him sleeping around – how could she if she was indulging herself? What did concern her was a loss of his status, which would affect her.
She stood up and smoothed down her dress, saying, “Well?” For a crazy second I thought she was asking me how she looked but I bit my tongue before realising that she was asking whether Aurora had said anything.
“She didn’t say anything to me,” I said. “And I don’t think she spoke to anyone else about it. Is this why you asked me here?” It had started to rain, and I was worried about the folder outside in the bush and wanted to retrieve it before she went out. She moved to the stairs and smiled at me, which was disconcerting given its rarity. She also stuck out her hand.
“I assume we can count on your discretion?” she said, looking into my eyes. She held onto my hand a few seconds too long.
“An unnecessary question,” I said.
We stood at the top of the stairs until I understood that I was to make my own way down. I had one last curveball to throw at her.
“How
well do you know Iskender Badem?” I asked, daring to look again into the dark wells of her eyes.
She frowned, asking, “How do you know him?”
“He’s a patient of your husband’s, a friend even. His medical notes were in the briefcase, so he had, shall we say, an interest in retrieving it.”
She appeared taken aback by this but shook it off.
“He’s been to dinner once or twice but otherwise… Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.”
She nodded and smiled politely as I went down the stairs. I looked up when I reached the bottom. She stood, arms crossed, staring down at me, unsmiling. I let myself out into the drizzle, moving quickly to the bush in case she went to the window. The folder was damp so I tucked it into my jacket and got into my car which I reversed into the turning area before driving out.
I drove into the pub car park down the road and parked facing the exit, so I could see when she left, providing she headed into Cambridge. After ten minutes of listening to the rain drumming on the plastic over the back window and switching on the wipers intermittently she still hadn’t emerged, so I had a proper look at the report I’d stolen. A lot of statistical tables and charts comparing readmission rates, complications, deaths by procedure – nothing I could make sense of. I started the engine. A taxi coming from the direction of Cambridge slowed as the driver peered through the rain for an address. Her good-looking special friend from the afternoon-delight hotel was in the back, pointing down towards the Galbraiths’. Of course, she wouldn’t drive in heels – he must be picking her up. I pulled out enough so that I could see down the road. The taxi stopped and he got out, clutching a bunch of flowers. The taxi left and he disappeared from view. I waited for another ten minutes, then decided they were having a cosy night in.
I nearly left for home but on a whim I parked the car properly then retrieved the digital camera that I keep in the glove compartment. It wasn’t heavy duty – I keep that stuff in the office – but it came in handy at opportune moments like this. I mean, what private investigator doesn’t enjoy standing in the rain taking photos of cavorting lovers?
The Runaway Maid Page 17
