by A J Waines
I was about to walk away, when he spoke again. ‘There’s something that bugs me,’ he said, rubbing his chin. ‘We’ve spoken to a number of Aiden’s college contemporaries and no one has a bad word to say about him. Not one. It’s a bit unrealistic, don’t you think? He’s coming across as a saint even on a bad day.’
I let out a tense laugh. ‘Hmm… I’ve noticed the same thing.’
‘Where are the students who’ve been elbowed into the shadows, the tutors who have been humiliated by his precociousness, struggling artists who can’t compete? There must be plenty of people out there who find Aiden’s “five easy steps to fame” somewhat galling.’
‘Do you mean the murder was aimed at him, rather than the victim?’
‘I don’t know. I just know something doesn’t ring true…’
A frown stayed firmly etched into my forehead all the way back to the boat.
Chapter 18
Aiden was sitting on the upturned bucket on the bow of the boat. He must have been waiting for me. As soon as I approached, he wasted no time getting the engine running again. As he took us into open water, I told him that neither the psychiatrist nor I could make out what his sketch was about, but I made sure it sounded like that was our fault, not Aiden’s.
‘I thought it might be what you were seeing inside your head, something abstract…’
The oncoming breeze swept back long swathes of his golden hair. ‘But, I think it’s incredible that you’ve managed to do anything at all, Aiden. You’ve already come such a long way and I need you to know I’m very impressed with your progress. I don’t want you to rush anything. The police are in a hurry, of course they are, but we can’t let ourselves get involved in that.’ I was probably telling myself this advice as much as giving it to Aiden.
Between locks he let me take the tiller for a while, but I couldn’t enjoy it. I was aware of time ticking away and it was nearly dark by the time we got back to Limehouse. Several boats had left our area of the marina, so he moored the boat parallel to the pontoon, this time, at the usual spot.
Aiden didn’t return to his sketch book, but I noticed he’d left a thick scrapbook with the title ‘Concepts’ open on a table. He disappeared and when I heard the shower running, I took a look at it. It was too bulky to shut, bulging with swatches of silk and linen, photos, doodles and postcards. I carefully turned over one page after another, taken aback by the plethora of creative ideas.
He’d also left sketch pads in different sizes around the place, with various grades of pencils and boxes of charcoal and pastel stubs. For the first time in my adult life I was tempted to have a go.
With Aiden still occupied, I sat under a lamp opposite the wood burner and pressed open a small pad to a fresh page, trailing my fingers across the bevelled surface of the paper. Taking a 2B pencil, I began making tentative marks, curving this way and that, looking back and forth between the page and the stove. The lines went awry several times, but I kept going. After twenty minutes or so I held the page away from me and decided it wasn’t a bad effort. The angles weren’t right and the chimney was too thin, but you could tell what it was meant to be.
I felt a tickle brush the hairs on the back of my neck and realised I was no longer alone. Aiden had been standing right behind me. I slammed the pad shut but I knew he’d seen my drawing. For once I was the one avoiding eye contact. Instead, I got up and went outside, finding the box seat on the stern in the sultry evening air.
Aiden stayed inside and I let time pass, inhaling the charcoal drift of wood smoke as the nearby waterfall splashed its soothing, meditative rhythm. A dog barked, then a door shut and the barking stopped. Gradually everything stopped. The evening fell still. It was oddly mystical and bewitching, slowly rocking as the darkness seeped into the spaces around me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done something as simple as this; sitting doing nothing, except take in the dying end of the day.
When I returned to the galley I found a glass of sherry on the table where I’d been sitting. Aiden was in the saloon staring at a book, but I wasn’t convinced he was reading. He’d done this before. He never seemed to turn the pages and his gaze was at the wrong angle, like he was looking through the book to whatever was beyond it, rather than at the words themselves. It was the same with the television. He sat through films staring at the screen, but I’m not sure what he was seeing. He didn’t react to anything; humour, drama, kids’ programmes. It was as if he was waiting for the programme he really wanted to watch. Only it never came.
I raised the glass to him in thanks, joining him in his silent landscape.
I sipped slowly, watching him out of the corner of my eye, contemplating this odd situation; the two of us thrown together. To an outsider, it might look as though we were a devoted couple, living our dream on a luxury narrowboat, so able to read each other that words were unnecessary. I sighed; it was so far from the truth.
I couldn’t work out how Aiden perceived me. As a therapist? A doctor? A detective? A friend? It was tempting to hope he saw me as a companion, walking beside him as he tried to step into his unbearable nightmare for the sake of justice. But, of course, being his ‘friend’ wasn’t possible. I remembered what Petra had said; I had to be careful.
Since I’d moved in, I’d noticed the different paths we made through the confined space. Aiden had a way of coming out of his bedroom and curling into the bathroom in a single swoop, keeping close to the wall. He also had a little ritual of approaching the table at the centre of the boat and gently resting his index finger on the edge, halting for a moment, then moving on into the galley. When both of us were on our feet at the same time I tended to wait to see where he would go first, before making my move. It was all part of a strange background dance going on between us.
When I next looked at Aiden, he had a sketch book in his hand.
Chapter 19
Monday, June 4 - Five weeks earlier
Honoré was standing on the pavement outside the gallery, hopping from one foot to the other barely able to contain her excitement. Moments later a taxi drew up alongside her.
‘For a Mr Craig Doyle?’ queried the driver, craning his neck.
She laughed. ‘No that’s me… Honoré Craig-Doyle…’
He glanced over at his hands-free phone. ‘Oh, okay… that must be it.’
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, as she opened the rear door and slid inside.
‘Knightsbridge,’ he said.
The flutters in her stomach escalated into uncontainable shivers as she tried to figure out whether this was a business lunch with just an agent, or whether Henby himself might actually be there. Thank goodness she’d worn her sexy grey suit to work, that morning. The rose-gold earrings Trisha had bought her worked a treat as an accompaniment. Made her look not only elegant, but bang on-trend. At least she’d be able to stride in with her head held high.
Now she was on her way, the temptation to ring and break the news of her invitation to all and sundry was almost too much for her. She punched in the number for Monty’s, her rival gallery in Soho, then as her thumb lingered over the final digit, she changed her mind. Better to announce it once the deal was done; she didn’t really know at this stage what kind of offer was going to turn up on the table. It could be excruciating if she’d misunderstood or if Romana was only interested in letting her have one or two of Henby’s early, unremarkable canvases.
As they pulled up at traffic lights her phone rang.
It was Romana’s PA, this time – a guy named Bruce.
‘Okay… Henby’s running a bit late and Romana thinks it would be better if you meet at his studio. Where are you?’
Honoré leant over to the window and took in the surroundings. ‘Just by Cartier’s on Sloane Street… in the taxi,’ she said.
‘Okay, can you get out and catch the Tube to Bank.’
She wasn’t expecting this. ‘Can’t I just stay in the taxi?’ she grunted. ‘If you give me the address, I can tell the driv
er where to go.’
‘Not sure where it’s going to be yet. Might be Henby’s studio, might be a hotel. Romana thinks it’s better to get to Bank Station, then she can send someone to meet you there.’
‘Oh…’ she tutted, ‘alright.’
‘The taxi fare’s been covered, so if you could just go back to Sloane Square Tube…’
‘Yes, I know how to get there,’ she snapped.
She tapped on the glass partition and explained the situation.
Twenty minutes later she reached the pavement at the busy junction at Bank. She hung around for a further five minutes looking out for someone who could be in search of her, before Bruce rang again.
‘If you could walk down Threadneedle Street, then take a right and take the street down the side of the bespoke tailor towards the church.’
‘What?’ She pressed her finger into her right ear, to block out the din from the traffic. ‘I thought Romana was sending someone to fetch me.’
‘Change of plan… Henby’s definitely heading over. Once you get to–’
‘Hold on, hold on, let me get my bearings… right, Threadneedle Street, I’m on it.’
She was starting to get decidedly cheesed off with this expedition across town. The soles of her feet had started to burn inside her new platform sandals.
‘When you reach the square with the church in the centre, it’s the third house on the right with the dark red door. It’s not far.'
‘What number is it?’ she grunted, then groaned as the strap of her sandal caught the ballooning blister on the back of her heel.
‘Henby doesn’t have a number on the front…’
‘Oh… so that’s his studio?’ This was more like it.
‘Yeah… hold on… I’ve just been told he’s arrived.’
If ever anything could put a spring in her step, in spite of the blisters, hearing those precious words was it.
‘Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
Only once she ended the call did she experience a flutter of confusion. Weren’t Henby’s studios in Rotherhithe? Had he moved? If she hadn’t had to focus so hard on trying to remember where on earth she was supposed to go, she’d have looked it up on her phone.
He was waiting for her when she rapped on the front door. He knew from the meeting they’d had, months ago, that she was a glamour puss and he’d banked on the fact that she’d be wearing the most unsuitable footwear imaginable. He was bang on the money. Shoes designed for standing still, not for making a quick getaway. She was doomed before she even set foot inside.
He spotted the glimmer of recognition in her eyes when he let her in. Then, as he led her into the back room, he saw the frown of concentration consume her face as she tried to place him.
‘Who did you say you were, again?’ Then when she got no response, ‘Where’s Henby?’
The room was sparsely furnished with tatty armchairs and a lopsided sofa. Under their feet lay bare floorboards, the ragged curtains at the windows, closed, the only light provided by several flickering candelabra on a long table down the centre. He led her to a wooden chair.
‘What’s going on? Why is it so dark?’
‘You know Henby,’ he said, with an easy chuckle, ‘he likes a bit of mystery. The champagne should be here any minute, then he’ll come through to give you a very special welcome.’
She sat down gingerly, her handbag propped on her knees, gawping at the open door, listening for the sound of footsteps. She didn’t notice him walk behind her. And that’s when her life took a dramatic turn for the worse.
She didn’t know it then, but she’d be welcoming people in, in her own unique way, in no time at all.
Chapter 20
It was late and I was about to turn in when my phone rang. I slipped quietly outside the bow door to answer it.
‘Why are you whispering?’ It was Miranda. ‘Oh,’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re still with that bloke on his boat, aren’t you? Isn’t that a bit dodgy, you know, sleeping with the enemy?’
‘Miranda, he’s not the enemy – and in any case, I’m not…’ I started again. ‘It’s completely above board. I’m his therapist.’
She tutted. ‘Made any progress? Do you know who killed Kora, yet?’
‘No. And I can’t share any of this case with you, anyway, I’m really sorry.’
‘Yeah… yeah,’ she said in a sing-song voice.
‘How are you holding up?’ I asked.
‘Crap, but I’m alright. Been seeing Sponge and trying to keep busy.’ There was a short gap. ‘Before you ask, I’ve been taking my tablets and I’ve got loads of support here.’
In other words, she was doing perfectly fine without me.
‘Look, got to go,’ she said. ‘Speak soon.’
‘What did you want to–?’
In a flash, the line fell dead. That was Miranda all over. I never knew what to expect. Why had she rung, exactly?
I stayed outside and looked around at the collection of masts and ropes in the moonlight. Each shape was mirrored in the still water, two of everything – and my thoughts turned back to my sister.
On the surface Miranda’s life looked like it was going swimmingly, but as ever with her, it was hard to separate illusion from truth. She had a history of hiding things and putting on a brave face. Before all this happened I’d hoped seven days away in each other’s company would have given me enough time to cut through to the bedrock of her reality. I wanted to get her to sit still long enough for me to ask some simple questions. ‘How are you really getting on these days?’ ‘Are you worried about anything?’ ‘Are you happy?’ Questions I’d been unable to squeeze into our truncated conversations since her own accident. It would have required my most artful skills to do so, without Miranda smelling a rat and accusing me of interfering. She had an uncanny antennae for anything remotely patronising, for any suggestion from me that she wasn’t holding it together.
The bottom line was I wanted to convince myself I’d done my level best to be a good sister to her, but I was starting to think I was approaching it all back to front. In some ways, I was anything but her sister; her carer, her therapist or surrogate mother, perhaps – but never her sister. She was probably right to be fed up with me.
When I returned to the saloon, Aiden had put the sketch pad on the galley table, open at a fresh drawing he’d just finished. I took a look at it and recognised it straight away as the place we’d visited earlier. The crime scene; the iron staircase, the patch of grass, the fence. It was shadowy, with grainy hatching in pencil depicting dusk, but a tremendous improvement on what he’d tried to sketch so far. He had even got as far as outlining the bicycle lying on the ground, but there was no figure beside it. Aiden had stopped there, with no detail in that section of the picture.
I shook my head. ‘I don’t know how you managed this, Aiden. It must be so harrowing for you to try to picture it again.’
He winced and closed his eyes, then walked away.
I went out onto the pontoon and phoned Jeremy. I hadn’t realised how late it was.
‘Aiden has drawn the crime scene,’ I said. ‘But don’t get too excited. There’s no victim and no assailant.’
‘I see. Well, that’s not much use to us, is it?’ he said with a sigh. ‘If he can’t speak to us, we need at least a portrait of the killer.’
‘I know. It’s frustrating, but we’re making progress. At least he’s started to draw recognisable images. It’s the first step, it means he’s allowing himself to face the situation.’
Monday, July 9 – Day Four
Aiden was sketching again the next morning. I made him a camomile tea and sat at a distance, noticing that a fresh batch of Thinking of You cards had been propped up on shelves and cupboards. Well-wishers weren’t giving up on him.
I watched his hand move across the page, his wrist flick instinctive as he drew a line here, filled in a patch there. He worked away for about ten minutes, then suddenly stopped, looked at what he’d done
in horror and immediately started ripping it to shreds.
‘No, no, stop!’ I called out, rushing towards him.
Tiny fragments scattered around his chair. I wasn’t sure if he was upset because the likeness of his attempt wasn’t good enough, or because he was re-traumatised.
I hung back as he diligently picked up the pieces and put them in the galley swingbin. The strain in his face, the cowering in his shoulders and leaden shadows under his eyes as he straightened up, showed me how all-encompassing his plight continued to be. All I wanted to do was rush over and wrap my arms around him.
I stayed still and let my arms fall to my side.
He shuffled to his cabin and closed the door.
All went quiet, so I crept into the galley, removed the bin liner and took it to my room. There, I tipped the contents onto a pull-down surface, isolating all the torn pieces of paper. With a roll of sticky tape and a great deal of perseverance, I tried to fit them back together. It was a daunting task, the scraps were the size of postage stamps and the pencil strokes were faint.
Two hours later I had the complete picture and there was more to follow. When I emerged to make coffee, Aiden was nowhere in sight, but he’d torn out three more pages of completed sketches and left them on the galley table.
By 3pm I was striding into Camden police station with a carry-case under my arm. Jeremy came to meet me at the reception desk.
‘Well done!’ he said.
I sighed. ‘It’s not down to me. Aiden has put himself through considerable distress to do this. He’s been amazing.’
Wilde, Ndibi, Dr Herts and DI Foxton joined us in the meeting room. Edwin Hall and Joanne Hoyland, the two detective sergeants, had also been called in. I placed Aiden’s latest drawings, including the one I’d patched up, on the table. Everyone crowded over them as if they were newly discovered works by Monet.
