by Joan Smith
‘What?’
‘Yeah, spoke to him this morning. There’s nothing in her bags but clothes –’
‘He’s lying!’
‘How d’you mean?’ Ghilardi’s voice had sharpened.
‘I –’ Loretta bit her lip, then blurted out the truth.
Ghilardi heard her out in silence. He said reproachfully: ‘You might have told us all this before, Loretta.’
‘I didn’t know he was going to lie, did I? And I did try to tell you, but you were never in –’
‘Steve Farr would have your guts for garters, you know that? I’ve got his notes here, you said –’
‘He only asked if she’d left anything behind, he didn’t say anything about what was in them!’
‘Yeah, but you must’ve known what he was after.’
‘I – I’m sorry,’ she said in a low voice. ‘You do believe me, don’t you?’
Ghilardi sighed heavily. ‘Yeah, I suppose – thousands wouldn’t. You academics,’ he added unexpectedly. ‘Thinking you know what’s best. . . Let’s get this straight. You say there was how much in this suitcase?’
‘Nearly two and a half thousand pounds,’ Loretta said. ‘I’ve got it written down somewhere –’
‘That’ll do for now. And you’re sure you put it back?’
‘Of course.’
‘Don’t get excited. I’m just trying to – where did you put it exactly?’
‘In the case – Oh, I see. Almost on top, I think I put a dress over it. . .’
‘So if he just lifted the lid, he wouldn’t necessarily see it?’
Loretta frowned. ‘I suppose not, but surely he’d have a proper look?’
‘He wasn’t very co-operative in the first place – said the whole idea was preposterous. I’ll have to get back to him. Anything else you haven’t told me, Loretta?’
‘No –’ She felt like a naughty schoolgirl. She remembered the photograph of Sandra, lying on the desk in front of her, and she picked it up eagerly, glad to have a reason to change the subject. ‘There is one thing – something I’ve only just thought of,’ she added quickly. ‘I’ve been looking at some photos, a friend took them at Christmas –’
‘And?’ Ghilardi said impatiently.
‘Well, she’s wearing glasses in all of them. Those pictures you showed me – I don’t remember seeing them.’
‘She was in a car crash,’ the detective pointed out. ‘Things get thrown around –’
‘Oh – you mean they were in the wreckage?’ Loretta asked, relieved.
Ghilardi didn’t answer directly. ‘What’re you getting at?’
‘Just – well, if they weren’t in the car –’ She didn’t want to spell out what she’d imagined – a blow to Sandra’s face, her glasses breaking, the woman being dragged to the car. . .
‘I’ll check,’ Ghilardi told her without enthusiasm. ‘There’ll be an inventory. You sure she always wore them? What about contact lenses?’
‘Not while she was staying here,’ Loretta said confidently. ‘We shared a bathroom.’
‘I’ll check,’ Ghilardi said again. ‘Now, about this money. I’ll go back to Neil, but I’m probably going to have to get another statement from you. Unless he changes his story there may be trouble.’
‘You don’t believe me!’ Loretta felt betrayed.
Ghilardi sighed again. ‘I do, actually. Why’d you have to spring this on me, just when everything was shaping up so nicely?’
Loretta assumed the question was rhetorical, and treated it as such.
‘You going to be there all day?’
‘Yes,’ she said meekly, her mind racing. Should she contact a solicitor? She’d never employed one, except for conveyancing, and she hadn’t a clue where to start.
‘OK – leave it with me. I’ll be in touch. Bye.’
Loretta put the phone down without answering, a tight feeling in her chest. What the hell was Tom Neil up to? Maybe Ghilardi was right, maybe he’d just glanced inside the suitcase . . . She certainly hoped so. It occurred to her to ring him herself, to urge him to have a more thorough look inside the suitcase, and she was reaching for the phone when she realized it would only make things worse. It was acting on her own initiative that had got her into this situation; she had no choice but to trust Ghilardi.
She was leaning back in her chair, trying to persuade herself that she had nothing to fear, when an unpleasant thought came into her head. Perhaps Tom Neil wanted to get her into trouble. He had been pretty unfriendly when he arrived at her flat –
Loretta jumped; someone was knocking on her door. ‘Come in,’ she croaked, then cleared her throat and said it again, louder.
‘Loretta, hi.’ It was Sarah Guzelian. ‘You still on for tonight?’
‘Tonight?’ Loretta’s mind went blank, then she remembered her arrangement to eat with Sarah and discuss the crime fiction seminars. Crime fiction: she was struck by the irony.
‘Yes – yes, of course.’
‘You’re through around six, right?’
‘Yes.’ She realized with alarm that she had another lecture at five o’clock.
‘I’ll come by your office, OK?’
‘OK.’
Sarah looked at her oddly. ‘See you later.’
‘Bye,’ Loretta said to the closing door. She swivelled her head to look at the blank computer screen, staring at it as though the machine contained all the answers in the world and would spill them out if only she knew which keys to press.
Chapter 14
There were flurries of snow on the pavement as Loretta got out of a taxi in Liverpool Road just after midnight. The temperature had been dropping all evening and it looked as though the weather forecast had been correct in predicting the imminent arrival of severe weather from the north.
‘Reckon we’re getting our white Christmas late this year,’ the taxi driver said cheerfully, feeling in a leather pouch for change of Loretta’s ten-pound note. ‘You’ll be skating to work tomorrow. Doesn’t bother me – I’ll be in bed,’ he added, registering Loretta’s look of surprise. ‘Ta, love.’ He took the fifty-pence piece she offered him as a tip, waved, and drove off.
Loretta turned and headed for the street door, keys in hand. She hadn’t intended to return so late, but Sarah had surprised her by suggesting they go to a screening of an old Visconti film before eating. Loretta relaxed in the cinema, largely because she was away from a phone and it was pointless to worry about if and when Ghilardi would ring. It had taken a superhuman effort on her part not to call him, especially as the afternoon wore on with no word. She’d invented various excuses to pick up the phone – she’d forgotten to tell Ghilardi about Sandra’s relationship with Paul Fleming, that was one of them – but somehow she managed to stick to her resolution. When Sarah arrived at twenty past six Loretta could tell from her colleague’s quizzical expression that she knew something was wrong, but she didn’t mention it, probably remembering Friday’s rebuff. By the time the lights came up in the cinema Loretta was feeling more like her normal self, and she was even able to hold her own in a lively discussion of trends in crime fiction over dinner in Charlotte Street, in a different Greek restaurant from the one in which she’d argued with Robert. She had parted from Sarah with regret, watching her through the back window of the taxi until she disappeared into Warren Street tube station. The American woman, who had taken self-defence classes in New York, refused to be intimidated into paying for expensive cab rides while the Underground system was still running.
Loretta let herself into the building, noticing out of the corner of her eye that Shahin still hadn’t collected her post. She closed the door, wondering when her neighbour would come back; she didn’t want to wait too long before changing the locks. Such chores tended to be forgotten if they weren’t dealt with quickly. Perhaps she should pin a note to Shahin’s door – Loretta yawned and began climbing the stairs, unbuttoning her heavy coat. The stairwell was still warm, even though the radiator in the hall turn
ed itself off around eleven, and she was aware of a delicious sensation of languor. Even if the answering-machine was flashing she would ignore it, leave it until morning.
Loretta reached the top of the stairs and as she inserted her key into the front door the stair light went out. She didn’t bother to reach for the switch, just gave the door a gentle push and stepped into the moonlit hall.
‘What –’
A shadow moved and pain exploded in the left side of her head. Lights flashed before her eyes in spider-web patterns, and she staggered forwards, her head seeming to expand until she was no longer conscious of her surroundings. She collided with something and lost her balance, falling to the floor where she lay immobile, aware of nothing but pain and the firework darkness in her head. Then there was a shift, and a sort of clouded consciousness began to return. Loretta groaned and tried to raise herself on her left elbow, a strange sensation in her head as though it was slowly shrinking to its normal size. She was starting to take in things outside herself: moonlight streaming through the open kitchen door, a small table lying across her legs and a man – a man whimpering behind her.
She tried to turn her head and cried out, dizzy with sudden pain. Struggling to a sitting position, she knew she was in danger, that she had to get past the crying man, but a spasm of weakness passed through her and she remained where she was. Now the pain was coming in waves, and she put up a hand to the left side of her head, remembering she had been wearing a beret ... It was gone, and her hair was a sticky mess.
The whimpering noise was subsiding. Fearing a fresh attack, Loretta put both hands on the floor, trying to get into a kneeling position. Her fingers touched something reedy which snapped and crumbled, and it took her a moment to identify the dried flowers which had been standing in a vase on the table she’d knocked over. She brushed them aside, gave up the attempt to get to her feet and began crawling towards the open front door.
‘No!’
The door slammed, followed by the bolt, and then someone was clutching at her back, trying to haul her away. Loretta screamed and struggled, sickened by whisky fumes and the touch of her attacker.
‘Don’t – I’m trying to help you!’ The man’s voice was high-pitched, hysterical.
Loretta gathered her strength and threw off the enfolding arms, staggering to her feet, but the effort was too much and she would have fallen had her assailant not clasped her from behind. They staggered grotesquely across the hall, Loretta’s head hurting so fiercely she was overcome by nausea. She retched, temporarily losing her capacity to focus on anything but physical sensations, and brought her hand up to her mouth. A warm, watery liquid ran through her fingers.
‘Come – in here –’ The man’s voice again, close to her right ear. She felt his arms groping for her waist, impeded by the bulkiness of her fake fur coat, and then she was being dragged across the hall towards the drawing-room.
‘Let me–’ was all she got out before a gush of vomit silenced her. She heard an exclamation of disgust and the man’s hand moved round to grasp the handle of the drawing-room door. Loretta resisted with all her strength but was propelled into the room, raising her hands ineffectually to her head in terror of further blows. He pushed her towards the sofa, and she fell on to it with a protracted moan, closing her eyes as if she could escape this nightmare. . . Then she opened them and saw her attacker for the first time –
‘You!’
The yellow light of a street lamp streamed through the uncurtained windows, illuminating Tom Neil’s haggard features with a ghastly glare.
‘Shut up!’ he said savagely, backing away from her. ‘Shut up.’
One hand groped behind him for a chair; the other was holding something which Loretta recognized with a shock as a hammer. A hammer – how much damage had he done? Her hand went to her head and hovered there, afraid of what she would find if she touched the wound. She saw Neil sit down abruptly and put the weapon on the floor by his foot. He seized a whisky bottle and a glass from the table beside him; the bottle was already open, and his hands were shaking so much that it clinked repeatedly against the rim of the glass, making a noise like chattering teeth.
‘What – I don’t –’ Tears were trickling down Loretta’s face but she was hardly aware of them.
‘Shut up!’
Neil drained the glass and even in her enfeebled state she could see that he would soon be senseless if he carried on at this rate. She leaned back against the sofa, the pain in her head now a dull ache, and became aware of the sour smell of bile. She touched the front of her coat and found a sticky mess of regurgitated food which she tried to brush away, giving up when she realized she was only spreading it over a wider area. The room was hot and she felt faint, but didn’t dare remove the coat – it might offer her some protection, she thought, glancing down at the hammer.
‘Oh!’ She let out a small cry, then her body sagged with relief as she recognized the weight against her calves as Bertie. Where had he appeared from? A new fear assailed her and she pulled him up on to her lap, running her hands over his fur.
‘I haven’t touched him,’ Neil said roughly, slurring his words: ‘touched’ came out as ‘tushed’. ‘What do you think I am?’
Loretta hugged the cat and said nothing, taking a little comfort from his presence. He sniffed her coat, turned round, and settled down on her lap.
‘You want some of this?’ Neil grabbed the bottle and held it up.
Loretta shook her head and immediately regretted it. She put up her hand and felt a trail of blood from the wound in her head to her left cheek. She located a crumpled paper handkerchief in the pocket of her coat and dabbed surreptitiously at the blood on her face. She was trying to remember the little she knew about head wounds, though the attempt at rational thought was like groping for dim shapes through fog. She thought she’d blacked out, which seemed a bad sign.
‘Sure you don’t want it?’ Neil was back at the bottle.
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll be all right,’ he said unexpectedly, tilting the bottle and drinking from it. This time he put it down on the floor, next to the hammer, and Loretta was afraid he’d knock it over, spoiling her hopes of waiting until he drank himself stupid. She didn’t dare speak, however.
‘Don’t look at me like that!’
She closed her eyes, wondering what he expected of her, and tried to make her features neutral; not an easy task, given the pain in her head.
‘This is all your fault – your fault.’ Neil was angry. ‘You know that?’
She shook her head very slowly.
‘Like her –’
Loretta didn’t catch the rest of the sentence. Neil was muttering to himself, and as she watched, his head sank on to his chest. She tensed; perhaps he was already lapsing into an alcoholic stupor. She sat very still, willing him to black out.
Time passed. The room was quiet, and unevenly lit by the light of the street lamps. Every now and then a bus rumbled by and Neil lifted his head, mumbling under his breath. Loretta heard car doors slam in the street outside, people shouting goodnight to one another, and the knowledge that help was so close, yet beyond her reach, was almost too much to bear. At some point she inched her arm forwards out of the sleeve of her coat, turning it so she could see the face of her watch. Twenty-five past one – over an hour since she got out of the taxi in Liverpool Road. The events of the evening – the film, the pleasant meal – had begun to seem unreal, part of a distant and unreachable past. Tears rolled down her face and dripped on to the cat; Loretta wiped his fur with her hand and he purred.
On the other side of the room Neil stirred, opened his eyes and looked straight at her, then closed them just as abruptly. Loretta put her hand to her head and felt crumbly, congealed blood in her hair. The wound seemed to have stopped bleeding, but she still didn’t dare touch it. She was gripped by a sudden fear of a haemorrhage, a secret welling of blood inside her skull which would lead inexorably to unconsciousness. There was no time, she
couldn’t just sit here. . .
She peered across the room. Neil hadn’t moved for five, maybe even ten minutes. Loretta held the cat tightly and edged forwards in her seat. She was getting stealthily to her feet when Neil started, said something unintelligible, and kicked the hammer in his sleep. Loretta froze, then relaxed as she detected no further movement from him. Should she try and get the hammer? Five or six paces across the room – it was too dangerous. The cat was already waking, starting to squirm in her arms. She moved sideways, heading for the slightly open door.
‘Don’t go.’
He had spoken in a relatively normal voice, and Loretta was so surprised that she stood rooted to the spot. Neil shifted in his seat, looked up at her, and added: ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ It came out before she had time to think.
He was getting to his feet and she shrank back. ‘Don’t –’
Neil put out a hand and said pleadingly: ‘Let me have a look at your head.’
‘No!’ She looked towards the door.
‘I’ve told you – I’m sorry. I want to help.’
Bertie struggled and jumped from her arms, trotting from the room. Loretta felt a slight sense of relief – at least he was out of the way of this maniac –
‘Have you got a first-aid kit? For God’s sake sit down, why don’t you?’
The hammer was still at Neil’s feet. Loretta sat down. He followed her gaze to the floor and with a sudden movement kicked the hammer towards her. It made a grating noise on the wooden boards, coming to a halt inches from her feet. She stared at it, recognizing it as her own, from the tool-box in the utility room.
‘You see. I’m not going to hurt you. It’s over.’ He sounded irritated. ‘You must have something – TCP, a cloth –’
‘There’s some TCP in the bathroom.’ Loretta could hardly believe the conversation was taking place.
