by A J Waines
Wire.
A piece of wire, just like this, had led to Kora’s death. I felt my nostrils flare as I sat back, trying to look only mildly interested. He didn’t straighten it out, but began to shape the wire, twisting it here, bending it there, turning it over, tweaking it. Within a few moments he was finished. He stood the finished shape on the table. It looked like a bird. A seagull, perhaps, with its wings extended in flight.
‘A bird?’ I said quietly. ‘It’s beautiful.’
His head dropped. I’d obviously missed the point.
‘Does it mean something, Aiden?’
He looked at it, ignoring me, changed the angle of the left wing so they were both symmetrical. He tipped his head from side to side judging whether he’d got it right.
‘What’s this in connection with, Aiden?’
He stood the intricate tangle of wire right in front of me.
‘Is it an eagle, a blackbird? I don’t know what it means.’
His hands became fists and he pressed them into his cheekbones, staring at the little creature he’d made.
‘I’m sorry, Aiden.’ I was lost for what else to say.
He tugged at a clump of his hair and got up. Dejected, he walked to the door at the stern and disappeared outside. I felt cross with myself. I’d alienated him, set us right back – but how was I supposed to know what he was getting at?
The door clicked shut and I heard his hollow footsteps on the roof of the boat. It rocked a little with the shift in weight then the footsteps stopped. I was on my own.
I returned to the cushion and pulled out the sheet of newspaper I’d hidden. I took it to my cabin and stuffed it under my pillow. I wanted to look at in more detail later.
Out of nowhere came a short electronic ping that made me jump. Aiden had left his mobile on the breadboard. The police had returned it yesterday when I was out for lunch, together with his laptop and tablet, having found nothing to connect him to Kora or CCAP. Instinctively I walked towards the sound, pretty sure Aiden wouldn’t have heard it from the roof. It was an invasion of privacy to look at the text, but I couldn’t help myself. Before I could change my mind, I was reading it:
Pippa still missing – police suddenly taking it more seriously now. Thought you’d like to know. Naomi – editorial assistant.
Chapter 26
I stood still, holding the edge of the sink with trembling fingers, listening for sounds on the roof of the boat. All I could hear was the gentle scrape of rope in a steady rhythm as we rocked against the pontoon. Aiden was directly above me, still engaged in his own private reverie.
I’d done a terrible thing. I’d invaded his privacy and read a personal message. And look where it had got me.
Naomi - editorial assistant.
I scuttled back into my cabin for the sheet of newspaper I’d dragged out of the log basket. I read the interview again and froze when I spotted something I hadn’t noticed the first time; the byline at the top; Pippa French. Her interview with Aiden had appeared just three weeks before she went missing. Perhaps Naomi worked with her. She certainly knew there was a connection between Aiden and Pippa, why else would she leave a message for him about her?
Aiden’s sketch had already indicated that he knew Pippa, but this was sending me towards a bigger question. How well did he know her? Aiden had drawn our attention to her, so why hide the interview in the log basket? I batted questions around inside my head. Why hadn’t he thrown this article away, or kept it with his other press clippings in the shoe box? He’d treated this one differently. What did that mean? I had another read, it was an excellent review of his work; he certainly had nothing to be upset about.
I kick-started all the psychoanalytical cogs in my brain. Aiden was secretive – even his close friends knew little about who he really was. What if he’d taken a shine to Pippa but didn’t want anyone else to know about it? What if he’d put the article where no one else would notice it? Where he’d see it every day, every time he lit the wood-burner? It was a possible explanation.
I gritted my teeth and returned to Aiden’s phone, goading myself to take down the number the text was sent from. I didn’t faff around for long. Before I knew it, I was back in the privacy of my cabin with a scrap of paper in my sweaty palm, my fingers tapping out the number.
‘Hi, is that Naomi?’ I said.
A cautious voice responded in the affirmative.
‘I’m Sally Moore,’ I said breezily, ‘a friend of Aiden Blake, the young artist.’
‘Oh, that’s funny, I’ve just sent him a message. I sent one a couple of days ago, too. Is he okay?’
‘That’s why I’m phoning… he’s not great, to be honest. He’s not really in contact with anyone at the moment. I just wanted to let you know. He’s been pretty down since it happened…’
‘Since Pippa went missing, you mean?’
I decided in a split second to go along with her. ‘Yeah… he’s certainly been cut up about it.’
‘Sure, I know. He rang a few times just after she first disappeared. Is he very upset? I hadn’t realised it had… gone that far between them.’
‘Well, Aiden plays his cards close to his chest,’ I said.
I could hear voices in the background, the tinkle of a spoon against a mug, phones ringing, the chug of a printer.
I took a chance. ‘You work with Pippa at The Bulletin, I take it?’
‘That’s right… who did you say you were again?’ she asked.
I fudged a reply, telling her I was going into a tunnel, then in a panic, I cut the connection.
If I’d understood her correctly, she’d made it sound like Aiden and Pippa were actually seeing each other, in the early stages of a relationship.
I couldn’t rest. I couldn’t leave it like this. Nor could I face Aiden coming back inside and finding my guilt-ridden face. Instead I did the half-decent thing and took the mobile out to him on the roof. I apologised and said I’d knocked his phone onto the floor and pressed a few buttons by accident. I handed it over and hated myself. Five minutes later, I left the boat, calling Natalie to tell her Aiden was on his own.
It was time to pay The Bulletin a visit.
I stood outside the glossy revamped offices at Charlington Street, near Blackfriars Tube and pushed the button on the silver intercom. After a click and echoing Hello? I asked for Naomi, saying it was a police matter about Pippa French.
A woman came clattering down the stairs to meet me at the reception, clutching a file to her chest. Everything about her looked inexperienced and flustered; the flyaway strands of blonde hair that were meant to fit snugly under the hair clips, the lipstick on her teeth, the stiletto heels that were too high and threatened to snap beneath her. I explained I was a psychologist working with the police and showed her my hospital ID. She seemed satisfied.
I followed her up the stairs to the first floor. Desks were uniformly laid out like a checkerboard; half-occupied, half-abandoned, but with items such as cardigans and packets of peanuts left behind to indicate ownership.
‘We’ve got a lot of people out on stories,’ she said, as if in answer to a question. She parked her backside against a desk without offering me a seat. ‘The receptionist said this is about Pippa, right?’
‘Most specifically about Pippa’s interview with Aiden Blake.’
Her forehead puckered, clearly bemused at having his name crop up once again. ‘What do you need to know?’
‘The article that was published in The Bulletin on May twenty-fifth,’ I said, ‘do you know when she did the interview?’
She turned and led me over to a desk in the corner, reaching over to open a diary. ‘Er… it was May twenty-first,’ she said, running her finger down the page. ‘They met at The Royal Court Hotel near his college.’
‘Did they only meet once, for the interview?’
She shifted her weight to the other leg and seemed in two minds about answering.
‘It’s very important,’ I insisted. ‘She’s still m
issing.’
‘Pippa was clearly struck by him and she’d told a couple of us that she was meeting him again, you know, socially.’ She snatched a stray biro from an in tray and began rolling it around in her fingers.
‘Do you know how many times?’
‘Once or twice, as far as I know. They had another date fixed up… only…’
‘When was that?’
‘Supposed to be on June sixteenth.’
‘The sixteenth? The day after she went missing?’
‘Yeah.’ She was still holding the file against her chest like a shield. ‘And there was a note from Aiden on Monday morning, the eighteenth.’
‘A note?’
‘Yeah – he’d rung the switchboard to leave a message for her asking if there’d been a mix-up, because she hadn’t shown up. He couldn’t reach her on her mobile, so he’d rung here.’
‘And that was the first you knew she’d gone missing?’
‘Guess so. She didn’t turn up for work that Monday morning. It wasn’t like Pippa; we all call her the hungry journalist. Someone called her flat and they hadn’t seen her since she left for work on Friday morning. They’d already called the police about it that weekend.’ She looked about her, ill at ease, sucking the end of the pen. ‘The police think it’s really serious now, don’t they?’
‘They don’t know for sure,’ I said, wanting to reassure her.
I noticed a series of photographs on a pinboard; pictures of The Bulletin team.
‘Can I look?’ I asked, already walking towards it. I recognised Pippa at once.
‘Did Pippa ever go to his boat, do you know? In Camden… on the canal or at Limehouse?’
She shook her head. ‘No, she mentioned she’d seen photos of it, but she hadn’t been there herself.’
‘Can I have a list of all the people Pippa interviewed in the last six months?’
Naomi stuck out her tongue as if to imply the task was gargantuan. I stood my ground, waiting. She thought for a moment, then turned to a computer terminal and typed in a password. Shortly after, she handed me a printed list and I made my farewells.
I had no idea in which direction I was heading once I stepped through the sliding doors out onto the street. I needed time to think. Once I’d got my bearings, I found my way to the Thames. It only took a few minutes to reach the glistening water, where I leant against the railing staring out blindly across the dancing ripples.
Aiden and Pippa were definitely dating. And he’d arranged to meet her on the evening after she went missing. But, why had Aiden drawn Pippa, not Kora, standing by the fence at the crime scene over three weeks later? The only explanation I could come up with was he was worried about Pippa and, knowing I’d pass the drawing on to the police, wanted to jolt them into cranking up the search for her. Perhaps that’s all there was to it.
I stood for a while watching the boats pass on the water, then crossed Blackfriars Bridge and walked east to The Globe. I didn’t have a destination in mind; I just needed to be outside and free, not cooped up on Aiden’s boat. Time stood still as I watched the tide drag the water out to sea, mesmerised by the steady, relentless rhythm.
My phone buzzed.
‘Hi, how’s it going?’ Terry’s chirpy voice. I realised I hadn’t replied to the text he’d sent last night.
‘Oh, I don’t know to be honest.’
‘Anything more from Aiden?’
‘No. I’m in a bit of a muddle.’ I shouldn’t have said that. He’d ask more and I didn’t want anyone else knowing what I’d found until I knew exactly what it meant.
‘Forget Claussen and Wilde with their ridiculous deadline,’ he said. ‘Just take your time and let Aiden open up when he’s ready. Don’t put yourself under pressure.’ I was grateful he didn’t press me. He must have realised there was only one day left before my ludicrous cut-off point.
‘Thanks.’
I got lost for a moment in the turbulence of the river gathering speed, making its rapid escape east. His voice pulled me back. ‘You okay?’
‘I’m fine. I got your text and I’m afraid I’m letting the side down. I haven’t given a holiday a moment’s thought.’
He laughed. ‘It would be nice to meet up again.’
‘I’d like that,’ I said. It was grounding to hear his firm but soothing presence.
‘I’ll call you soon. In the meantime, take good care of yourself.’
I held the warm phone against my ear after he’d gone, savouring the connection. I was starting to think there’d always been something between the two of us. I’d just never paid any attention to it.
That evening, after Aiden had turned in early for the night, I felt restless and left the boat to take a stroll around the marina. Aiden had re-moored, end on to the pontoon this time, as there’d been a sudden influx of residents claiming their berths. For a place cluttered with boats and hemmed in by apartments, it was remarkably quiet. I headed away from the water to the main street and into a pub across the road. There was a bracing view of the river from the sweeping terrace, so I took a seat, G&T in hand, and thought about Terry.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever thanked him for all those times at university when I’d turned up in a state after an episode with Miranda. He’d been rock-solid. Kind. Always there when I needed him. I’d never fully appreciated his concern, nor taken the trouble to look below the surface. Meeting him again felt like a second chance to get to know him. Properly, this time. Ironically, I had Claussen to thank for that.
On my return, there was a heavy stillness in the air as if the world was holding its breath. As I got undressed, a strange roaring noise erupted outside my cabin and I realised a downpour had been brewing. I lifted the curtain and took a look outside, watching the rain scattering like marbles over the surface of the water. It pounded against the roof, battering the windows trying to get in.
It looked like we were in for a heavy storm. It was the perfect metaphor for what was about to happen.
Chapter 27
Friday, June 29 – Thirteen days earlier
Katarina Bartek got the call at the office. A policeman was in the foyer waiting to see her. As she hurried down the stairs her first thought was that it must be about the terracotta pots that had been smashed in the front garden at the weekend. As she reached the last step she realised that couldn’t possibly be the reason. They wouldn’t send a police officer all the way to her place of work about something so minor.
She knew it was serious when he asked her sit down. He held his cap under his arm. Hell. This was bad news. The officer was talking about her husband. He was trying to tell her that Lubor had died in an accident, but that couldn’t be right. There must have been a mistake. He’d called her only an hour ago from his office to remind her to leave early that afternoon, so they could go for a drink.
The officer dropped his head and started again. ‘Yes, he did make it into work, Mrs Bartek, but at about 11am, he left the office on foot and was involved in a road accident. I’m so sorry, but he’d already passed away by the time the ambulance arrived.’
Passed away? No, that couldn’t be right. Lubor was always careful crossing the road.
‘It can’t be him. What makes you think it’s him?’
‘We checked his wallet and driving licence,’ the officer explained. ‘He was wearing a blue shirt and a red tie.’
No. The policeman still wasn’t making sense. Red tie? Lubor would never wear a red tie with a blue shirt. Did he even have one?
He spoke again. ‘There was an incident involving a bus. We’re not exactly sure what happened, yet.’
She shook her head. They’d got it wrong. Her husband would never step out in front of a bus.
The only way she would believe it was if they showed her the body.
Katarina went to the hospital. At worst, she expected to see him with tubes coming out of his nose and a machine bleeping at his side. But she was shown into the basement towards a chilled room, instead. She hesitated as the
cold blast of air hit her on the threshold, half-expecting silver hooks hanging from the ceiling and rows of swinging lumps of pink flesh.
There had to be a mix-up. Lubor couldn’t possibly be in there.
They coaxed her inside to a body lying on a silver trolley covered with a white sheet. Someone steadied her as another folded back the cloth.
‘We believe this is your husband…’ The voice seemed to be coming from above her.
‘It does look like him,’ she whispered, ‘but it can’t be…’
Another voice said he was dead on arrival. ‘There was nothing anyone could do,’ they confirmed, guiding her away. ‘It was very quick.’
After her initial shock, Katarina had to get a grip and face what came next. She had no idea how the system worked after a death in the UK; she hadn’t been expecting to have to deal with anything like this.
A friend from work went with her to a Citizen’s Advice Bureau and handfuls of leaflets were stuffed into her hand. She’d had to phone his family in Gdańsk. Tell her parents in Warsaw. She didn’t get on with Lubor’s family, so didn’t want to have his body flown to Poland. The funeral would have to be here, so she’d have to organise it all on her own.
Outwardly, over the next week or so, she asked all the right questions and signed all the relevant forms. Internally, she was in a dreadful state. After the post-mortem, his body was moved to the funeral parlour she’d apparently chosen in Islington. Her friend said they would keep him there in a fridge until the date of the cremation.
The GP had given her sedatives and sleeping tablets to help calm her down, so the days slid past in a blur at first. She wanted a clear head for the day itself, so before long she stopped taking the medication. The day before the funeral she woke stricken with renewed panic. She still couldn’t believe he was gone. It didn’t make any sense to her. She hadn’t been in her right mind when they’d shown Lubor to her in the hospital. What if they’d got it wrong and he was in a coma? She’d heard in the news about people who’d been accidentally pronounced dead. They were going to burn his body tomorrow and then it would be too late. She needed to see him again. Just one more time – to be certain.
