by Kris Langman
“No, I don’t think so.” DC Singh flipped through more pages. “I have the address somewhere . . . ah, here it is. Austin Friars House. It’s in the City, just off Old Broad street. Davidson is one of three psychiatrists at the Austin Friars Psychiatric Clinic.”
“What was he treating Jimmy Soames for?” asked the Inspector.
“Alcoholism.”
“I’d like to talk to this Dr. Davidson,” said Inspector Beckett to the constable. “Who did the original interview?”
“DI Lawson, Snow Hill Division.”
“Right. We’ll talk to him too.” She handed Anne a business card. “My number’s on here. Call me if anything else occurs to you,” she said pointedly.
They left Anne staring down at the blurry card in her hand. She felt like a six-year old with a skinned knee who was getting zero sympathy from Mommy and Daddy. She was just entering self-pity city when she nodded off.
* * * *
Anne’s eyes snapped open. She couldn’t remember where she was. She was in bed, but instead of her comfy – if not always freshly laundered – duvet a thin, well-worn plaid blanket covered her. Then a piece in her brain seemed to shift. Oh, right. Hospital. She closed her left eye, then the right. Much better. The fuzziness was gone. She gingerly felt her head. A bump the size of an ostrich egg swelled above her right ear. She pushed on it and stars suddenly appeared, streaking across her vision. Ok. That was enough exploration. If other bumps had sprouted on her head she didn’t want to know about them.
Something had woken her up. Some noise. She was sure of it. She’d been dreaming about the Muppets. Kermit the Frog was hatching a plan for world domination, with Miss Piggy coordinating the air raids, when blam – she was wide awake. She turned her head carefully to the left. Nothing there. Just an empty room with sunshine coming in through the partially open window. The industrial-grade curtains were billowing in the breeze. London appeared to be having a freak spell of good weather. And here she was stuck in bed. Maybe they’d let her go home today. Not that she felt up to any outdoor activities. She yawned and turned her head to the right.
“Good Morning.”
Dr. Davidson was sitting in a chair next to her bed, hands folded in his lap, observing her calmly. A bunch of white carnations tied with a grosgrain ribbon lay on the nightstand.
“I just stopped by to see how you were,” he said, running a hand down his gray silk tie. Tiny red horses were racing each other across it.
“How did you know I was here?” croaked Anne, staring at him like a fieldmouse about to become a snake snack.
“Your accident was in The Evening Standard.” He handed her a folded newspaper. “You can keep it. Just think of it as a souvenir.” There was an odd overtone to this last remark which Anne couldn’t place. Threat? Humor? It was impossible to say.
She opened the paper, which was folded at page twenty-three. She scanned the page for her name and found it at the bottom in a tiny paragraph. No picture. The accident was described as a hit-and-run, and witnesses were encouraged to contact the City of London Police, Bishopsgate Division. It mentioned that she’d been taken to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, but no other details were given.
Anne re-folded the paper and ran her fingers along the crease, back and forth until they were black with newsprint. Maybe if she ignored him he would go away. Immature, true, but her post-concussion brain seemed to be stuck in six-year old mode. She was tempted to close her eyes and pretend to fall asleep, but rejected the idea as just too creepy. Being in the same room with him was unpleasant enough. Being in the same room with him with her eyes closed was not to be contemplated.
“Has Daniel been to visit you?” asked the doctor, breaking the awkward silence.
“Pardon?” asked Anne in surprise.
“Daniel Soames. Jimmy’s brother. He was the one who hit you.”
“Oh, right. The police told me. No, he hasn’t been here. The police said it’s possible it wasn’t him. It was his car, but he may not have been driving it.”
“Oh, I expect he was driving it all right,” replied the doctor in his confident voice. “Either him or that idiot Billingsley.”
“Who?” asked Anne sharply.
“Friend of Daniel’s. Always hanging around, touching Daniel up for money. Stays at his flat, borrows his car. According to Jimmy the Soames family tried to pay him off once – stay away from our son and we’ll hand you a nice fat wad of cash. Didn’t work. Little Daniel’s too fond of his cocaine, and Billingsley is his supplier.”
“You seem to know a lot about the Soames family’s private affairs,” said Anne.
“Yes, well, these things come up in therapy. Family is always the main topic of discussion.”
“I’m sure that’s true, but aren’t these things confidential? I mean, should you be telling me this stuff?”
The doctor was studying his manicured fingernails. “The patient is dead,” he said calmly. “I doubt that his ghost is bothered by such technicalities.”
Anne shivered. The temperature in the room seemed to drop sharply. She pulled the thin blanket up higher over her shoulders. She was about to muster the courage to ask the doctor to leave when he suddenly picked up the bunch of carnations and stood up.
“These reminded me of you,” he said, pulling a white petal off and shredding it between his thumb and forefinger. He laid the flowers on the bed and left.
Chapter Four
Anne sat at her desk, chin in hand, watching the rain run down the window in tiny rivers which spilled off the window ledge into a pot of blue hyacinths. It was the first week in March, and hints of spring were evident all over London. Mostly it was daffodils. They had sprung up overnight in flower boxes and planters. Tower Hill was a yellow carpet of daffodils trying to hold up their heads in the rain. Britannic House, the nineteenth century building where Anne worked, had gone with hyacinths instead, their blue petals glowing against the white stone of the building.
Anne had been back to work for a week now. Her left hand was still in its plaster cast, which made typing code difficult. Like all programmers she was a fast typist, and the one-fingered approach she was temporarily reduced to was making her irritable.
“Damn it!” Anne pounded on the backspace key, erasing the gibberish she had just typed.
“Dude, that’s gotta be annoying,” said Nick, his fingers flying over the keyboard in his lap. He had his feet up on his desk, mud dripping from his Pumas onto the new technical documentation from Barclay’s. “If I had one hand in a cast I think I’d just take a long vacation. I mean, how can you work?”
“I can work,” replied Anne through gritted teeth. “I’m just doing it a bit more slowly than usual. And besides, programming is more about thinking than typing anyway.”
“Yeah, but sooner or later you have to type your thoughts into the computer. What you need is a direct brain-to-PC hookup. Like a broadband cable with nerves on one end and wires on the other. Dude, that would be so cool!”
Anne glared at him, which had no effect whatsoever. It was impossible to squelch Nick. He was the Energizer Bunny of cheerfulness. Normally Anne found his unflagging optimism endearing, but there were times when a girl was just entitled to be in a bad mood. She was dredging her brain for a scathing retort that even Nick couldn’t ignore, when she was interrupted by Lindsey’s sudden appearance in the doorway.
“Hi guys,” said the receptionist. “Anne, there’s a gentleman here to see you.” Lindsey’s nose twitched on ‘gentleman’ as if she had gotten a whiff of sour milk.
Anne stood up, bruised ribs creaking, and followed Lindsey as she glided down the hall. Lindsey’s outfit for the day was a stunning jade green silk dress paired with towering black patent leather heels. Anne had once seen her walking to work in those same shoes, negotiating London’s crowded, scaffold-covered, potholed streets as if she were headed down the red carpet on Oscar night. Anne knew she herself would be lucky to just stand up in shoes like those without breaking her ankle
.
“I hope this guy isn’t a friend of yours,” Lindsey said over her shoulder, “because he’s very creepy. Plus his nose seems to be over-indulged, if you know what I mean.”
“What?” asked Anne, baffled by this last remark.
“Coke,” said Lindsey, making sniff-sniff noises.
As they emerged into the reception area a man Anne had never seen before stepped forward. Since he was staring avidly at Lindsey Anne had a chance to study him. He was of medium height, on the thin side, with light brown hair and gray eyes which looked familiar for some reason. He wore a well-tailored dark blue suit which just screamed Boy Trader. Every young male stockbroker in the City had the same suit. She looked carefully at his nose. Yes, it did seem a bit red and runny.
“This is Anne Lambert,” said Lindsey, barricading herself behind her desk and ignoring his stares. Since Lindsey had years of experience ignoring gawping males he soon had to admit defeat. He turned to Anne.
“I’m Daniel Soames,” he announced in a high-pitched voice so nasal it verged on whiny. He didn’t offer his hand. “I just wanted to see for myself that you were okay, and to repeat that I was not the one driving my car when it hit you.”
Anne noticed Lindsey’s head snap up at this. She hadn’t said much about the accident to the people in the office, only mentioning that it had been a hit-and-run.
“Yes,” said Anne cautiously. “The police told me it was a possibility that your car had been stolen and then returned.”
“It’s not a possibility, it’s the truth,” whined Daniel so petulantly that Anne thought he was going to stamp his feet and launch into a full-scale temper tantrum.
“Okay, it’s the truth,” Anne replied in her best lets-humor-the-lunatic voice. “Well, I appreciate your coming here to check on me, but as you can see, I’m fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to get back to work.” She turned to go but was startled to find herself pulled up short. Daniel had grabbed her arm.
“You don’t understand. I came here to get you. You need to come to the police station with me. It’s over on Bishopsgate.” He stopped speaking abruptly, as if that was the end of the matter, and started yanking Anne toward the door. Anne dug her heels in and leaned away from him, looking toward the reception desk for help. Lindsey was already on the case. She dialed building security, and for good measure called Nick as well.
“Nick, come to reception please. Don’t ask me why silly boy. Just get up here.” Lindsey dashed out from behind her desk and planted herself in front of the door.
Daniel looked taken aback by this and came to a halt, dropping Anne’s arm. Anne was tempted to hit him with her other arm – the one with the plaster cast – but was afraid she’d do more damage to her broken wrist than to him.
Nick rushed in. “What’s going on?” he asked, looking like an eager but confused puppy.
“Nick, hit him,” commanded Lindsey, pointing imperiously at Daniel Soames.
“Uh, okay,” said Nick.
“Whoa, wait a minute!” said Daniel, jumping backwards. “There’s no need for that. We’re just going to the police station.”
“Anne’s not going anywhere with you,” said Lindsey.
“But she has to,” whined Daniel. “The police have my car and I want it back. Plus, they think I ran her down, which I didn’t. I don’t even know her. She has to tell the police that I didn’t hit her.”
“I can’t do that,” said Anne. “I don’t know who hit me. I didn’t even see the car, much less the driver.”
“But . . .” began Daniel.
“Stop. No more of this. You’re leaving. Now.” Lindsey stepped aside and pointed at the door like a traffic cop who was having a really bad day.
Daniel looked for a moment like he was going to argue the point again, but finally he slumped in defeat and slunk out the door, letting it bang behind him.
“Well!” exclaimed Lindsey. “What an unpleasant person.” She politely avoided looking at Anne as she took her place behind the reception desk again. Nick, however, was not so circumspect.
“What the heck was that about?” he asked.
“That was Daniel Soames,” answered Anne. “It was his car that ran me down, but like he said, the police can’t prove that he was driving it.”
“He seems like a real jerk either way,” said Nick. “If he shows up again you just let me know. I’ll teach him a lesson.” He threw a vigorous punch at the air, scrawny arms quivering. Lindsey rolled her eyes.
“Yes junior, you’re very brave. Now, be a good boy and go back to work.”
“Okay,” said Nick cheerfully. He disappeared down the hall, throwing a ferocious punch at a ficus tree along the way. The ficus looked unimpressed.
Lindsey was eyeing Anne speculatively. “I don’t want to pry,” she began, “but is there something you’d like to talk about? It’s almost noon. We could grab some lunch. The Tandoori place on Moorgate is having a two-for-one special.”
Anne appreciated the significance of the offer. Lindsey’s lunch hour was invariably filled with adoring guys treating her to three-course meals at Chez Gerard. Chatting with a co-worker over chicken tikka was definitely slumming.
“That’s really nice of you,” she began, “but I’m just not ready . . .”
“Not ready to talk about it?” asked Lindsey. “Absolutely not a problem. Just remember that I’ll be happy to listen if you change your mind. Now,” she said as she picked up the phone, “I’m going to give building security a piece of my mind. What good are they if they don’t come when you call them?”
Chapter Five
Fat, apparently, was in. Anne squinched her nose up in distaste as she contemplated the latest addition to the Tate Modern’s collection of Really Weird Stuff. She decided that Joseph Beuys was not one of her favorite artists, though it seemed that many of the over-dressed art lovers around her disagreed.
“The felt wraps around the fat like a lover’s embrace,” said a woman in a pink-sequined cocktail dress, her red fingernails pointing provocatively at a splodgy sculpture which looked ready to fall off its pedestal in greasy chunks.
“Please,” said the man next to her. “It looks more like my obese Aunt Millicent wrapped in her felt overcoat. Let’s head over to the buffet. I hear Flying Chef is catering. They did baked king prawns at the Courtauld Institute which were to die for.”
Anne moved closer to read the plaque under the disintegrating sculpture, nearly bumping heads with a fellow exhibit attendee.
“Sorry. I didn’t see you,” she said.
“No, my fault entirely.” A pair of boyish blue eyes twinkled at her. “I was so enthralled by the sight of such elegance that I lost control.” He shoved a thatch of black hair out of his eyes and waved a hand in the air, outlining the shape of the sculpture.
Anne looked at him doubtfully. “Really?” she said, wondering if he was entirely sane.
He grinned at her. “No, not really. Beuys has some interesting themes, but his execution leaves a lot to be desired. I’m much more fond of Anselm Kiefer myself. Do you know his work?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Anne apologetically.
“No reason you should. No reason at all. I keep forgetting not everyone is an art geek like myself. I’m a student at the Royal College of Art. Jason Gilbert.”
Anne shook the hand he held out, predisposed to like him because he was one of the few people at the exhibit who was casually dressed. Besides herself, of course. Their T-shirts and jeans stood out in the sea of sequins and tuxedos like two sparrows thrown in with a passel of peacocks.
“And you are?” asked Jason.
“Anne. Not a student at the Royal College of Art.”
“Well, then I certainly shouldn’t be seen talking to you.” His blue eyes pretended to scan the crowd, searching for a more profitable target to chat up, before zeroing back in on her. “Sorry. There I go again. My sister is constantly reminding me not to tease people so much. Especially complete strangers. But then
, we’re not strangers. We’ve bonded over Beuys. Would you like a prawn?”
“Wha. . .” Anne was a bit slow making the leap from Beuys to prawns, partly because she had decided that Jason was quite attractive, in a twenty-something sort of way. She had been trying to guess his age, finally settling on twenty-five. Which was way too young. She preferred guys in her own age group, somewhere in their thirties. Guys still in their twenties generally had no depth. They were all penis and ego.
“Can I get you something from the buffet?” Jason added by way of clarification.
“Oh. I see. Why don’t I come with you.”
They threaded their way through the crowd and attached themselves to the end of the buffet queue. Jason grabbed a plate and began piling on the prawns, not to mention the baby roast potatoes, the mini-quiches oozing edam, and the asparagus wrapped in Prosciutto. Anne skipped the prawns, but took a sample of everything else. She was tempted to squeeze in the crème brulee when they arrived at the dessert section, but there was no room left on her plate. A return trip was definitely in order she decided, eyeing the Death By Chocolate and a Pavlova so light and fluffy it looked ready to float right out of its bowl.
Jealously guarding their full plates from the jostling crowd, they made their way to the central hall of the museum. Scores of round tables covered in white sheeting had been set up in this cavernous space – the former heart of the Bankside power station. The power station had started its transformation into the Tate Museum of Modern Art in 1995. A giant crane formerly used for hauling machinery was still visible high above their heads. Art exhibit chit-chat echoed off the steel walls. They were hunting for an empty table when Jason turned to her.
“Some guy is waving at you,” he said, sounding a bit miffed at this development.
Anne followed Jason’s pointing champagne glass. The man wasn’t hard to spot, being one of the few men in the museum not dressed in a tuxedo. Dr. Davidson was wearing his usual elegant gray suit, his transparent blond hair slicked back from his forehead. The change in hairstyle gave him a slightly gangsterish appearance, as if he had switched careers and was now John Gotti’s accountant.
