by A J Waines
She tutted. ‘Well, then. Keep on with his therapy and don’t tell the cops.’
I gave the idea some thought.
Maybe this time she wasn’t so wide of the mark. I couldn’t abandon Aiden; that was becoming clearer the more I considered it. Perhaps I could take more time off work and continue with him until he was more stable. I could carry on at the boat, surrounded by still waters, floating inside my own bubble.
I reached over and planted a loud kiss on her cheek. ‘Thanks. You’ve been a big help.’
‘Bloody hell,’ she retorted, ‘I think that’s the first time you’ve ever said that without being sarcastic!’
I laughed. Poor Miranda, I’m sure I hadn’t been the most patient of sisters when we were growing up. I wish things had been different. There was so much about her I didn’t know, didn’t understand, but she was secretive and independent and getting past her garrisoned portcullis was a tall order.
I went back to the boat in two minds about telling Aiden there’d been another death. I rounded the first bend of the marina, then realised someone had got there before me. The blue lights from two police cars flashed at the far side of Aiden’s pontoon. I ran along to Louisa II. Two officers I didn’t recognise were climbing on-board and PC Ndibi, who looked embarrassed and wouldn’t meet my eye, stood outside talking to another man.
‘What’s going on?’ I snapped.
The man, dressed in a brown suit, stepped between Ndibi and me. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Denton,’ he said, without shaking my hand. ‘You’re Dr Willerby, I understand.’
‘That’s correct. Is Aiden alright? I need to see him.’ I tried to peer past his shoulder into the boat.
‘We’d like to ask you some questions, Dr Willerby. If you could step inside.’
He led the way. Half the boat had been partitioned off using the sliding doors and I couldn’t see Aiden. DI Denton sat opposite me.
‘Does Aiden own a vehicle? A car, a van?’
‘No, not that I know of.’
I tried to think. Aiden certainly had a driving licence. I’d seen it one time when he’d opened a drawer in the Welsh dresser. The police could easily check government records, anyway.
‘You slept on the boat, last night, is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did you last see Mr Blake?’
I tried to remember. I’d been at the local pub. ‘Must have been around eight o’clock.’ I gave him the details.
‘When did you return?’
‘I’m not sure… around ten… ten-thirty?’
‘Did you see Mr Blake when you came back?’
‘Er… no. Aiden had already called it a day.’
‘You have your own key?’
‘Yes. I let myself in.’
‘How did you know Mr Blake was on the boat when you came back?’
I felt my jaw retreat sharply. ‘Well, he’s always here.’ I glanced up at Spenser Ndibi who’d followed us inside. He should know that. Hadn’t he told them? ‘Aiden’s agoraphobic at the moment and can’t go anywhere beyond the boundary of his own boat.’
‘So he leads us to believe…’
‘No, it’s true.’ I remembered something. ‘His cabin light was on when I came back – I could see it under his door.’
I caught the hint of a sigh. ‘Can you be certain he was on the boat all night?’
I didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes.’
‘But, you said yourself, you didn’t see Mr Blake at all… until when? This morning?’
‘Er, no…’ I faltered. ‘He wasn’t up when I left this morning.’
‘You assume he was on the boat all night. Did you hear him?’
There’d been the raging storm and then I’d slept like a log. If Aiden had cried out during the night he hadn’t woken me, for once. ‘I don’t know,’ I said slowly. ‘His cabin door was closed. I saw his mug on the draining board last night before I went to bed. He always leaves it like that before he turns in.’
‘But you didn’t hear or see him during the night?’ he persisted.
‘I don’t think so, but I slept really deeply. I was tired.’
‘Is it possible that Mr Blake wasn’t on the boat? That he left sometime yesterday evening after you went out?’
I twisted round to try to find Ndibi again, but he had slunk back outside. ‘I really don’t think–’
‘Is it possible?’ He jerked forward so his face was inches from mine, his pale, windowless eyes unnerving me.
‘Yes… I suppose, it’s possible,’ I conceded.
‘There’s been a witness who says they saw a man matching Mr Blake’s description near the spot the latest victim was killed.’
‘A witness? Who?’
‘We can’t tell you that, I’m afraid. We also know Mr Blake was dating another woman who’s missing.’
A clatter could be heard and then Aiden appeared ashen faced from behind the partition, accompanied by a police officer. DI Denton stepped forward.
‘Aiden Blake – I am arresting you in connection with the murder last night on the Camden Towpath and the disappearance of Pippa French.’ I launched to my feet. No!
‘This is ridiculous,’ I yelled at them, trying to get in their way. ‘He can’t speak! He’s suffering from clinical trauma, for God’s sake…’
I knew what was coming next and how ridiculous it was going to sound.
‘You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if–’
‘You’re not listening,’ I pleaded. ‘He can’t say a word.’
‘…you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
‘I must go with him,’ I demanded. ‘You can’t question him like this. He must have an interpreter or a responsible adult with him in the condition he’s in. It’s his right.’
‘We have a psychiatrist ready for him once he gets to the station,’ said Denton, brushing me aside.
The ever-so-sympathetic Dr Melvin Herts, no doubt, if he deigned to give Aiden a few minutes of his precious time.
When the group got to the door there was a scuffle. Two officers pinned back Aiden’s arms as he flailed around at the thought of having to leave the boat.
‘He’s not resisting arrest,’ I shrieked. ‘He’s agoraphobic! This is outrageous! You’re re-traumatising him.’ I tried to reach out, to grab Aiden’s arm, but he was hauled away. ‘He’s my patient. This is completely out of order. Where’s DI Fenway? Who agreed the warrant for this?’
They all ignored me, even Spenser Ndibi, who had strategically positioned himself so there was always an officer between the two of us.
Aiden was utterly distraught at being dragged from the boat. His shirt split with a loud rip as he writhed and kicked. At one point I thought he might be having a fit. The officers practically had to carry him, one limb each, and the fracas brought other boat owners out onto the pontoon. I stood helpless as they bundled him into a patrol car.
I was on the phone to Jeremy straight away.
‘What the hell’s going on? Where are you!?’
‘I’m sorry, Sam, there are more officers than just me on this operation.’ He sounded cold and detached. ‘And he’s not your patient any more. We’re just doing our job, whereas yours, I believe, has ended.’
The nerve of the man!
I was furious. I could scarcely speak without swearing at him. ‘You… idiot… I can’t believe you let this happen. You clearly don’t understand what this could do to him.’
No objection or justification followed – it was clear my opinion counted for nothing.
‘I spoke to Naomi Norton at The Bulletin,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Seems she’s been talking to a Dr Willerby… working with the police. You had no business interfering with a police operation.’
‘If you’d been doing your job, maybe I wouldn’t have had to,’ I spat out.
‘I saw you as someone who cooperated, Sam,’ he sai
d in a patronising tone. ‘I’m disappointed.’
Bloody hell, now he was sounding like my mother. To think, at first, I liked the guy.
‘I can’t just drop my professional responsibility towards Aiden. You have not only betrayed him,’ I hissed into the phone, ‘you have ridden roughshod over both of us.’
‘Mr Blake will be in good hands.’
I wanted to scream that there was no way that was going to happen, but knew it was futile.
‘I’m sorry, Sam,’ he said, his tone softer. ‘We have to play this by the book.’
I didn’t reply. Instead, I took a breath. ‘Who was the woman you found?’ I asked tersely, as though I had a right to know.
I was surprised when he answered. ‘She’s just been identified in the last half an hour – Katarina Bartek, Polish woman, lived in Islington.’
Perhaps it was an olive branch, a small gesture to make amends.
‘Is she an artist? A journalist?’
‘Neither. She worked as a PA in a bank, south of the river, in Vauxhall. She’d just lost her husband. Lubor Bartek recently died in a road accident. She was waiting for his funeral.’
‘Was it a tripwire?’
‘No. She was strangled.’
‘Your DI said there was a witness.’
‘Listen, I’ve got to go.’ That was all he was prepared to let me have. ‘We’ll look after Mr Blake,’ he said, but I didn’t believe one word of it.
Chapter 30
I stayed on the boat. It didn’t seem right to abandon it.
Aiden’s absence left a strange hollow emptiness. The space felt not only reduced in size, but flat and cold without him. I was used to hearing his padding footsteps, doors opening and closing, his latent struggle as he tried to come to terms with what had happened and put down on paper the tortuous scenes in his mind. Even in his silence, the boat had been bursting with his presence and saturated with his emotions. As I moved aimlessly from room to room, the memory of his tortured essence continued to mark the air.
I felt like an intruder and was reluctant to move things, take anything from the fridge or use any electricity. I had to remind myself that I hadn’t barged my way in; Aiden was the one who had invited me here. At least I could make sure everything was in order for when he got back.
How long would the police hold him? How would he cope being away from the boat, unable to speak for himself? Who claimed to have seen him on the towpath in Camden last night?
Aiden was innocent. There’s no way he could have left the boat and meandered over to Camden, when I’d gone out for a drink. The police had made a big mistake. If only I’d stayed put, last night – all for the sake of a lungful of air and a couple of G&Ts.
I should have been with him at the station. I was the only one who had any inkling as to what he was trying to convey. No one else would be able to understand him, they’d put his silence down to being stubborn and uncooperative. No one else would think of offering him a sand tray or a notepad. Dr Herts would defend him, wouldn’t he? That’s if he bothered to show up.
Then the solution hit me. I had to find something to clear Aiden’s name. And I had to find it now.
From my brief conversation with Jeremy, it would appear that Katarina Bartek hadn’t been connected to the art world; she was a PA in a bank in Vauxhall. Could Aiden have known her? I turned to my primary source of information; Aiden’s shoebox. It was on the Welsh dresser, so I scoured everything again, looking for her name or any other clue to a link between them.
Nothing.
I returned to the list of names on Pippa’s interview list and one caught my eye. Simon Schiffer. The director and Miranda’s tutor at CCAP whose name had come up during my last meeting with the police. It turned out he’d been interviewed in March by Pippa French. I hadn’t made the connection before, as Miranda hadn’t used his surname. That meant Simon knew both Kora and Pippa, at least.
I made a call. Simon was working at the kiln, but a project user had persuaded him to come to the phone.
‘I’m Samantha Willerby, Miranda’s sister,’ I said earnestly.
‘Oh, yes?’
‘I wondered if I could pop in and see you. I’m… a bit concerned about Miranda and hoped I might be able to have just a few moments of your time.’
I hoped my plea was hard to refuse, even if it wasn’t strictly true. Miranda had taken Kora’s death badly, but she hadn’t done anything to worry me unduly.
‘I’m busy just now, but you could come over later... say seven?’
The last time I’d been at CCAP was for their legendary annual dinner, the social high point of the year, held in April. Over a hundred people had been invited for a sit-down meal, champagne, music and dancing, culminating in speeches from high-ranking artists. I remember thinking at the time that Simon must have been maintaining a mighty-fine fundraising strategy to be able to put on that level of showcasing.
I stopped outside the front entrance. There was a new bronze sculpture that hadn’t been there last time I was here. Positioned as a centrepiece in the walkway, it was a fountain with the Greek god, Poseidon, holding a conch to his mouth. The water corralled into a large scalloped shell, then gushed onto the rocks below. The plaque read: Transformations. Where had the money for that come from?
I eventually found Simon in the kitchen drying his hands.
‘You’ve got a new addition at the entrance,’ I said, after our initial introductions. ‘Looks beautiful.’
‘It was made by one of our very own tutors,’ he said with pride. ‘It’s bringing a lot of people in, to be honest. It’s the traditional, timeless look of it, I think. Helps visitors see that we’re not so off the wall as they might think. “Transformations” – that’s what CCAP is all about.’
I nodded. His voice was soft and welcoming. ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ I said. ‘I’m a bit worried about Miranda, she doesn’t know I’m here, by the way.’
‘Let’s go through to my office,’ he suggested. He was tall and had a commanding stance, not falling into the trap that many tall people do, of hunching his shoulders in order to lose a few inches.
When we arrived, a woman was inside using the telephone. Simon made a sign to indicate she should carry on and he pointed me towards the art studio instead. A couple of project users in white overalls looked up and nodded as we came in. One was painting with oils at an easel, the other was moulding red clay. There was a radio on in the background playing reggae music, slightly off-station.
A man with a badly shaved head and a scar running down his cheek called out. He was holding a delicate unglazed vase which looked decidedly at odds next to his thuggish appearance. ‘When’s the next bisque firing boss?’ he asked.
‘Won’t be today, Gazza,’ said Simon. ‘The kiln won’t be back on until Monday.’
The man shrugged and sloped back to his potter’s wheel.
Simon led me to a table at the far side. On each bench sat a series of unfinished items; unglazed vases, tangles of wire covered in wax, clay pots, beaded necklaces, the bust of a dog’s head. Simon was wearing a blue suit without a tie, the top button undone. I held out a tissue when I noticed a splash of red paint near his jacket pocket.
‘I hope it’s not your best,’ I said, pointing it out to him.
‘No worries, white spirit will do the trick. It’s not the first time.’ He had a beaming smile. I could see why Miranda liked him. ‘Don’t touch anything,’ he said jovially. ‘More for your sake than anyone else’s.’
The strong oily odour of the place made me feel light-headed. I blinked a few times before finding a stool to perch on. Although the streaks of orange on it looked old, I slapped a loose sheet of newspaper from the bench over it, just to be sure.
‘It’s been distressing for everyone,’ he said, scratching the back of his head. ‘I thought Miranda seemed to be coping pretty well.’
‘She is. Well, she makes out she is. I was just checking to see if you were concerned about her at all. Wh
ether you’ve seen a change in her, whether she’s been turning up for therapy group and work shifts?’ Miranda, like all the users, was expected to put in several hours each week at the café and gift shop in return for use of the extensive art facilities.
He rested his finger across his mouth. ‘She seems fine,’ he assured me. ‘Upset, obviously, and a bit subdued, but she’s coping, I’d say. She’s been coming to the extra group sessions we’ve fitted in since it happened.’ He undid another button on his shirt. ‘That’s helped everyone, I think. We’ll have a special ceremony here in due course, and create some long-term tribute to our dear Kora. It’s an absolute tragedy.’
‘Miranda has certainly been very happy here.’ I took in the whole studio space. ‘You seem to be running a very successful project,’ I added, aware that I needed to swing the conversation round to my real reason for coming. ‘You had a piece in The Bulletin not that long ago, I understand.’
‘That’s right. Glowing review, for CCAP, not me. Not only about the therapeutic work we do, but the high standard of art we’re producing.’
‘An interview like that must have stuck in your mind,’ I said.
‘I do quite a lot with the press,’ he said, without sounding pompous. ‘Publicity for events, launching our artists into the real world, announcing shows, awards, that sort of thing.’
‘I’ve heard of Pippa French,’ I said, cringing inside at my inept attempt to direct the line of discussion. I was tired and anxious about Aiden, and wanted this over with. ‘She does a lot of art interviews.’
‘You an artist yourself?’
‘No, no, far from it. Wish I was.’ I picked at a blob of crusty red paint with my nail on the bench. It reminded me of dried blood.
‘Everyone has some ability, you know. It just takes practice and dedication. You have to see where you might go with it. Take a risk.’ His smile reached his eyes.
Damn. He was gracious, but he’d neatly avoided talking about Pippa. I had to try something else.
‘Did you know that another woman has been found on the towpath?’
