“The smoking.”
She laughed. “It’s a sort of displacement activity.” She drained her can and crushed it. “I was shaken to learn that my own relationship isn’t immune to the problems I see in others.” This was said without rancour or edge, just matter-of-factly.
“Sorry, you don’t have to talk about it. You hardly know me.”
“You slept in my office, so I think we’ve broken the ice. And besides, it’s often easier to talk about these things with a stranger. That’s why I’m in business, after all.”
I picked at my sandwich, glad to be in the moment and not trying to process all the stuff that I was supposed to be processing. She leant back on her elbows and lifted her face to the sun, closing her eyes for a few seconds.
“The problem is that he’s a charmer,” she said, sitting back up.
“Who are we talking about?”
“My partner. Correction, my ex-partner. I was thinking about this while in the middle of a session this morning, and I remembered that charmers are sociopaths, psychopaths even, given the right circumstances. I mean I knew this stuff of course, but knowing it doesn’t make you immune. Charmers make you feel special, they have charisma, but it’s always about persuading you to do something or buy something or believe in something.”
“Like politicians, or TV celebrities?” I asked, thinking of Bill Galbraith.
“Exactly. They communicate well, even though when you think about what they’ve said afterwards you realise it lacks substance.”
“But not all politicians or TV personalities are psychopaths, surely. Aren’t psychopaths violent?”
“Yes, but psychopaths and sociopaths share common traits. They’re conniving, manipulative and deceitful, remorseless, to name just a few. Think of all those well-known people now exposed as abusers of children and women. Psychopaths are simply sociopaths who are willing to cross the line.” She picked up the plastic detritus from lunch and stuffed it into the small bag it had come in. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m just working through some stuff.”
“Always happy to be that stranger,” I said.
She smiled and punched me playfully on the arm.
As we walked back to the office I thought about what Maggie had said. She was obviously upset but there was something to it nevertheless. Had Bill Galbraith crossed that line with Bogdana, or perhaps it had been Kristina; as far as I was concerned she also fitted the criteria for sociopathy.
Anxious, I stood at the window, waiting for Sandra and Aurora to appear. Rhianna wouldn’t hang around if we were late. The landline rang, I strode over and picked up.
“What the fuck do you think you’re fucking playing at, Kocharyan?” I pulled the phone several inches from my ear but Bill’s screeching voice was still perfectly clear. “You better bring that fucking report back as soon as possible. And I mean today, otherwise you’re in deep fucking shit. That’s a confidential draft that hasn’t been signed off and if it gets in the wrong hands it can easily be misinterpreted. Do you fucking understand? Have you shown it to anyone? If anyone has seen it you’re fucked. As soon I hang up I’m calling my lawyers and if I don’t—”
I hung up, blowing out some air since I’d forgotten to exhale while listening to his tirade. I was pretty certain that when he caught his own breath he’d rethink calling any lawyers, especially when his wife showed him the front page of the Argus.
Sandra and Aurora came into the office. The landline rang again. I lifted the receiver an inch then put it down. In addition to the jeans and T-shirt Aurora now sported a baseball cap with “Just Do It” printed on it and sunglasses that covered most of her face.
“Here we are,” Sandra said, smiling. “That’s Aurora in case you didn’t recognise her.” She put the receipt from the taxi on her desk. The mobile rang. I checked the screen – my personal number, so thankfully not Bill trying to get through on the office mobile.
“Hello?”
“Mr Kockaryman?” A young man’s voice.
“Kocharyan, yes.”
“We have your father’s ashes ready for collection.”
“OK,” I said, hanging up before he could deliver some well-meaning but platitudinous compassion. Suddenly exhausted, I felt a sudden need to sit down. Sandra and Aurora looked at me expectantly. For the life of me I couldn’t remember why they were here. I needed to lie down, preferably in a cave.
“How about a cup of tea?” Sandra asked, frowning at me. “Before we go round to Rhianna’s?” I stared at her, remembering what was going on. “Aurora, why don’t we go and make some tea,” she said, making eyes at me.
“Mr George OK?” Aurora asked as they walked out.
“Mr George just needs a minute.”
They disappeared and the mobile buzzed with a text.
found the key! got wine and something to bung in the oven. Lxx
How was London? I replied.
:(
Oh dear. Should be home in a couple of hours and you can tell me all about it. Gxx
It felt comforting to know Linda was waiting for me at home, I—
“What’s up, Kocky?” Jesus. I looked up to see Stubbing leaning against the open doorway, arms folded. “It’s end of day, matey. Whatchya got for me?”
46
SHE CAME INTO THE ROOM AND IDLY PICKED UP THE ANTENNA in its sealed bag from the desk.
“Where do you get these bags?”
“You can buy them online.”
“Makes you feel like real police, I suppose?”
I said nothing – the best option when she’s like this.
“What is it?” she asked, sitting down and holding the bag up, letting it swing a little.
“Why are you here?” I asked. Behind her Sandra stopped at the door. She muttered to someone out of view in the hall, presumably Aurora. Stubbing followed my gaze and Sandra came in alone, carrying two cups of tea. She put one on my desk and went to hers.
“Give us a minute, love,” Stubbing said to her. Sandra, to her credit – it must have taken an awful lot of willpower – ignored her and turned to me.
“What shall we do about your five o’clock?” she asked, gesturing to the clock on the wall. It was a five-minute walk round to Rhianna’s and there were fifteen to spare.
“How long will this take?” I asked Stubbing.
“How long is a piece of string?” she asked, examining the antenna through the plastic.
“If I’m not done in five can you go ahead?” I asked Sandra. “You know what’s involved and we can’t afford to miss it.”
“Of course,” she said. She took her untouched cup of tea and put it in front of Stubbing, smiling sweetly. “Don’t burn your mouth. It’s hot.”
“Where’d you find her?” Stubbing asked when Sandra had gone.
“Shall we do this?”
“You said you’d have something for me by end of day.”
“Actually I said tomorrow morning. You said end of day.”
“So here I am.”
“Give me a couple of hours.”
“I’ve got boxercise in an hour,” she said, deadpan.
“Really?”
“We can sit here until I have to go to it if you like.”
“OK then. Aurora de la Cruz is having her statement taken by a solicitor as we speak.”
“Saying what?”
“I told you this morning. About what happened in the car. And some other stuff.”
“What other stuff?”
My plan, when I’d spoken to Stubbing this morning, was to tell her about what Aurora had said last night and to give her the statement that Rhianna would hopefully very soon be recording, ideally after Aurora’s departure was an irreversible act. But now that I had a little more to add to it, like the antenna, the photo of Bogdana at Kristina’s salon and the parking ticket confirming Aurora’s story, things hinged less on her testimony.
So I told Stubbing everything that Aurora had revealed last night and this morning with just enough context
for it to make sense but without complicating matters by mentioning Badem or the audit report – I was still worried about Badem’s threat against Linda. When I finished she sat back, not looking terribly excited.
“Let me get this straight. This domestic, who worked at Bill Galbraith’s… and, just to be clear, this is the life-saving surgeon and TV celebrity Bill Galbraith we’re talking about… this domestic ran away, stealing his briefcase, and told you that she’d seen Bogdana alive at his house on the Tuesday night.”
“Correct.”
“And where is Aurora de la Cruz now?”
“I told you, recording her statement,” I said.
“You’re not hiding her in your bedroom, are you? A little live-in Filipino maid. That would be considered harbouring an illegal immigrant.”
“The Galbraiths had her passport, so she didn’t know the visa had expired.”
“So basically I’m unable to speak to her to verify this wild tale?”
“She’s going back to Manila to see—”
“Please stop,” she said, face-palming me. We sat there for a few silent seconds while she studied the cracked ceiling. She looked at me sideways.
“Given that she’d run away from her employers,” she said in a knowing voice, “it would make more sense if Bill Galbraith was your client and you were asked to look for her, or this briefcase that she stole. Am I right?”
“Does it matter?”
“You never know if something matters until it does,” she said, which sounded annoyingly like something I would say. “The facts matter,” she continued. “Besides, since when can a domestic afford to hire a private eye? Was she paying in kind? Is that how you saw her naked?”
I rolled my eyes.
“She has no reason to lie about what she saw,” I said.
“Uhm, I beg to differ. Sounds like she had every reason. Disgruntled employee who runs away, wants to dump her employer in the shit with the police as she leaves the country, but won’t talk to us? Give me a break. Did you fall for her or something?”
I had to support the weight of my head with my hands, something I was prone to do when being with Stubbing for any length of time.
“Look,” I said. “Galbraith was very keen to find her and for her to leave the country. He made up some bullshit about having an affair and not wanting her to go to the tabloids with it but it’s nonsense; he moves the goalposts every time I talk to him. Think about it, why didn’t he report the theft to the police?”
“I understand where you’re coming from. He’s a successful professional, good-looking, is on TV, probably even has a trophy wife. You subconsciously compare yourself to him and come up short, and are unable to attain the same heights so you want to destroy him instead. You’ve got nothing except a case of penis envy.”
“For god’s sake, Stubbing, spare me the pop psychology.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard the whole story, and what I have heard is certainly not enough for me to go knocking on the door of someone in the public eye. Even if I did, what do you think will happen if I ask him about it?”
“He’ll deny it. His word against hers, and his word is gospel,” I said, feeling deflated.
“Exactly, and that’s even if I interview Aurora myself, which I need to do if you want me to take this seriously.”
It was time to play my other cards.
“That antenna in the bag?” I said, nodding at it.
She picked it up again.
“I believe it comes from Bill Galbraith’s wife’s Range Rover.” I turned over the newspaper and jabbed at the picture of the barrier at Byron’s Pool. “The height barrier is just that bit lower than her model of Range Rover which has a lovely scrape along the top.”
“Where did you get this?”
“From Byron’s Pool. There’s an old guy living near the entrance who collects the antennas knocked off cars. The point is you could match it to her Range Rover.”
“First you point the finger at him, now it’s his wife?”
“I’m just giving you facts – they matter, right?” She opened her mouth to speak but I pushed on. “Here’s another fact: Bogdana worked at Kristina Galbraith’s salon on Green Street.” I handed her the photo I’d printed off from TripAdvisor and flipped over the newspaper so she could see Bogdana’s photo. Gratifyingly, she was genuinely surprised. I told her where I’d got it. She pulled a face.
“It sort of looks like her but it’s not exactly evidence; neither is this antenna, which you could have picked up anywhere. Let me explain something,” she said, her voice rising a register. “Unlike you I have to actually build an evidence-based case that I can present to the Crown Prosecution Service who will then tell me whether I have enough for them to take it to court with any chance of prosecuting successfully. Do you understand?”
“I know how the bloody system works,” I said, my own voice now raised. “I wasn’t suggesting this was evidence of anything. It’s a lead. Isn’t your job to turn leads into evidence?”
She looked at me with murder in her eyes. I braced myself, but she started to breathe and studied the photo.
“I’d like to speak to Aurora myself; a solicitor isn’t going to ask the right questions,” she said.
“She was locked in her room, so all she can do is establish that Bogdana was there that night, as well as what happened to her in the car on the A14.”
“That’s another thing I’d like to talk to her about. I’d love to know where Leonard Diski was taking them when the woman jumped from the car?”
“What does he say?” I asked.
“Nothing. I had to release him on bail not thirty minutes ago. He had a decent solicitor and no priors. What does Aurora say?”
That wasn’t good news about Leonard being released.
“Well, what does she say?” she asked.
“He took her to a house in the Fens. It’ll be in her statement,” I said.
“How soon can I get this magical statement, and don’t say tomorrow.”
“Fine, tonight if you like. After your boxercise class?” I asked, unable to resist a smirk.
Ignoring me she took a biro from her jacket and wrote down a mobile number on the newspaper. “Call me when you have it,” she said, picking up the antenna and the clear folder with the photos in it. She stood up and rolled her shoulders. “Do me a favour. Don’t mention any of this to Linda – I don’t want her running around investigating Galbraith, or worse, publishing something.”
“You didn’t have to say that,” I said.
She moved to the door.
“Just out of curiosity,” she said, “what was in the briefcase that everyone was so keen to get their hands on?”
I saw no reason why she shouldn’t know. “Just a clinical audit report and a broken necklace belonging to his wife.”
Stubbing froze, drilling her pale eyes into mine. It was disconcerting, even at a distance. Her voice came from somewhere deep in her chest.
“What sort of necklace, George?”
“Pearls,” I said. “Why?”
47
STUBBING STOOD AT THE DOOR, LEAVING MY QUESTION unanswered.
“What’s the significance of the pearls?” I asked her. She removed whatever tied her hair back, which I’ve never seen her do, then pulled the hair really tight with both hands and reapplied it. It all took less than thirty seconds but she seemed transformed by it, recovering her impenetrable professional face.
“Did you say the necklace was broken?” she asked, her voice neutral.
“Yes. The pearls were unstrung, in an envelope. Kristina thought Aurora had stolen them but she didn’t know they were in the briefcase. It was locked.”
“You saw them yourself? This isn’t something Aurora’s told you?”
“Yes, Galbraith showed them to me when I gave him the briefcase. Although Aurora did tell me she found a single pearl in Galbraith’s study when she was cleaning it.”
“Please let me speak to her, George,” she
said, almost pleading. “It doesn’t have to be at the station, could be here or wherever she feels comfortable.”
“Are the pearls important?”
“I won’t know that unless I speak to her.”
“She’s leaving for Manila in the morning,” I said.
“Then tonight.”
“She’s quite fragile. Her daughter is dying of cancer and she’s been through a lot.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“That she needs handling with some sensitivity.”
“And I can come across as insensitive?” she said.
“Occasionally,” I said. Something flickered in her face and I wondered if I’d hit a nerve.
“That’s only when I’m dealing with arseholes and the criminal underclass,” she said. Touché. “I’ve had training, I know when to dial it down. What’s-her-name can be there if you want,” she said, gesturing at Sandra’s desk.
“I’ll talk to Aurora, see what she says, but she’ll have been through the mill already with the solicitor. I’ll call you as planned when I have the statement; you’ll want to read that anyway before you talk to her. If she agrees.”
Stubbing nodded and disappeared. I checked my phone: it was gone five-thirty and I’d missed a call from Linda. There was a text.
wheres the stash? nothing in the tin in hall.
I rang her.
“What’s that thing in the hall drawer, Georgie? Looks like a stun gun.”
“Ah yes, forgotten about that. It’s a Taser, I wouldn’t fiddle with it.”
“You planning some kinkiness?”
“Not with that. It’s more Guantanamo Bay than Fifty Shades of Grey. Anyway, I rang to say I haven’t got any stash; you took it home ’cause I couldn’t handle it. Was today that bad?”
“It was embarrassing. It was obvious that they were seeing me out of courtesy, because I knew someone at the paper. When I went through my pieces they felt cringeworthy really. I need a meaty story. Something with legs.”
“The Bogdana story might be that.”
“I’m just regurgitating what the police are telling me. I need a scoop, something that will trigger an investigation or something, not just reporting one that’s already happening,” she said, the words coming fast. She really wanted out of Cambridge, I realised, wanted to be in London. If only she knew what I knew. Of course I would never tell her anything that would jeopardise an investigation and was genuinely affronted that Stubbing felt it necessary to—
The Runaway Maid Page 23
