The Red Room

by Nicci French

  I tried to keep the conversation to Julie and her life and times, I really did, but it was no good. I was like an unstable smoking volcano and while we were still picking at our salads the volcano erupted and started giving her an animated account of the last couple of days.

  “Yes. Oban did listen,” I said, our glasses full once more, “I mean, he heard what I was saying. That’s the expression, isn’t it? He heard me out. Then it was just, the case is closed, don’t waste our time, don’t make us think that life is more complicated than we thought, don’t make us do our job properly.”

  I stopped and laughed. I had caught myself actually jabbing my finger fiercely at Julie. She had moved away slightly to avoid being stabbed by it.

  “It’s not me,” she said, laughing as well. “You don’t have to convince me. Well, you do. I must admit I don’t understand what you’re on about. Are you saying that nice photographer woman was helping that weirdo Doll murder people?”

  “No, no, Doll had nothing to do with it. She was helping her husband, Gabriel.”

  Julie took another sip of red wine. “I dunno,” she said. “I should have been asking you about this three drinks ago at least. I mean, these are nice people. He works for a theater. Why would they kill those women?”

  “And Doll as well.”

  “What do you mean? That was done by those vigilantes, wasn’t it?”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “But you told me that they even left a message.”

  “Yeah, I know. ‘Murderous Bastard’ with those ridiculous misspellings. That was so pathetic, but I was shocked by the scene and I didn’t think about it. Is someone who can’t even spell ‘bastard’ going to use a word like ‘murderous’? Remember what I thought about the bodies of Lianne and Philippa? The wounds were like someone pretending to be a psychopath but without the real conviction. You should see what a real sexual psychopath does to a woman’s body.”

  “I don’t think so,” Julie said. “So these are nice murderers, right?”

  “They weren’t doing it for fun. It was because they felt they had to.”

  “What the fuck for?”

  “I haven’t a clue. But it doesn’t matter. That’s the good bit. Before, none of it fitted together. Now it all does. This poor girl, Daisy, it turns out that she had a connection to Gabe Teale. I saw a friend of hers yesterday who told me she’d been working at the Sugarhouse. Lianne was concerned about Daisy, and she gets killed. I’ve discovered that Philippa Burton was after Lianne.”

  “Why?”

  “No idea. The note I found in her room showed that she had made the connection between Lianne and Bryony. Anyway, she gets killed. I’ve now shown that Bryony was involved in abducting Philippa.”

  “Have you?” said Julie doubtfully.

  “Absolutely. So, now where was I?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Michael Doll. That so-called attack on Bryony never made any sense. All that coverage of Michael Doll made almost everybody think he had murdered Lianne. But for Gabriel and Bryony, it placed Doll at the scene. Maybe he had seen something. Maybe he even got in touch with them and threatened Gabriel. They made a half-arsed attempt to attack him, knock him on the head, dump him in the canal, whatever, make it look like vigilantes, but then that Terence Mack man pops up, Bryony is grabbed, Gabe legs it, Doll hasn’t got a fucking clue what’s going on, and it looks to everybody like an attack on Bryony. No wonder she was in such a traumatized state.”

  “Well…”

  “And so they—or probably just Gabe, since by now Bryony is assumed to be in danger and is under police protection—go to Michael Doll’s flat to do the job properly. Bryony had got Emily’s cup from when they tricked Philippa into going off with Gabe for a chat in their car. Gabe murders Doll, leaves the cup. Doll is dead, well and truly framed, the case is closed.”

  Julie tipped the last drops of wine into our two glasses. “More?” she said.

  “No,” I said. “I’m sobering up.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it. Now, wait a minute,” she said, “it wasn’t just the drinking cup, was it? There was also that leather pouch. Do you really think he would leave that deliberately? That was a bit of a risk.”

  “I thought about that,” I said. “I don’t think it was deliberate. You should have been there. The room was just blood. Gabe must have been covered.”

  “If he was there,” Julie added.

  “He was there. He’s covered in blood, strips down to wash in the bathroom, leaves the pouch. It’s found, but it turns out not to matter because it’s seen as another of Doll’s trophies.”

  Julie didn’t speak for a moment. She looked as if she was doing long division in her head. “You said all that to Oban in five minutes?” she said finally.

  “I gave him the shortened version.”

  “No wonder he kicked you out.”

  “You’re not convinced?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to let it settle in my brain for a bit. I don’t care what you say, I’m going to have another drink.”

  She ordered two brandies, took a gulp of hers and winced. “So what’re you going to do? Are you going to have another go at Oban?”

  I flicked my finger against my glass, making it ring.

  “No,” I said reflectively. “I think I’ve used up my store of goodwill with him. I don’t know. I’ve been going over and over it in my mind. You know when Paul McCartney thought of ‘Yesterday,’ he spent days trying to work out where he had heard it before. He couldn’t believe he’d really thought it up. I’ve been wondering whether I’m imagining patterns that aren’t really there.” I picked up the glass and drank a burning gulp. “Maybe I should go and talk to them,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Bryony and Gabe.”

  “You mean, tell them you think they’re mass murderers?”

  “Give them a little prod, make them worried. Maybe they’ll do something.”

  Julie drained her glass. “Like nothing, if they’re innocent,” she said. “And kill you, if they’re guilty.”

  “I can’t think of what else to do.”

  Now it was Julie’s turn to point her finger at me. It was a little unsteady. “How much have you had to drink?” she said.

  “Two margaritas. About a bottle of wine. And this brandy.” I finished it off.

  “Exactly,” said Julie. “What I hope is that it’s the drink talking. It’s probably all been the drink talking. But the last bit. I’m absolutely sure that tomorrow morning neither of us is going to remember anything about this evening. Especially me. But I want you to promise me that you won’t do anything really, really stupid. Do you promise that?”

  “Of course I promise,” I said, with a smile.

  “I don’t know if I believe you.” She put a hand on my shoulder and shook me, as if she wanted to wake me up. “Look, Kit, don’t you see that what you’re doing here is completely crazy? And I mean completely.”

  “No, I—”

  “It’s one thing to put yourself at risk for a reason—I still wouldn’t advise it.” She paused to hiccup violently, then continued, “But you’re talking about putting yourself at risk for no reason at all. As if the lives of two dead women were somehow more important than your own living life, if you see what I mean.”

  “Yes. But that’s not the way I’m looking at it.”

  “Sure, you’re looking at it from back-to-front and inside out. You’re trying to save dead people. You can’t.”

  “I know that.”

  She brought her face closer to mine and repeated, louder, “You can’t save dead people, Kit. You can’t bring anyone dead back to life. Let it go.”

  45

  When I was a teenager, my father used to make me drink a big glass of milk before going out to a party. He said it lined the stomach. I should have drunk a glass of milk last night, I thought, when I woke the next morning. The light shining in through my half-open curtains hurt my eyes even before I opened
them, and my mouth felt dry. I squinted at my clock. It was half past six. I’d give myself five more minutes. Just five, no more. Never had my pillow felt so soft or my limbs so heavy or my eyelids so glued together.

  I peered groggily at the clock again, and the digits clicked round to six thirty-five. Just a few more minutes. I remembered a time as a child when I’d been ill, and my aunt had come to stay with us so my father could still go to work. For those few days, I pretended to myself that my aunt was my mother—that this was what it would have been like if she hadn’t gone and died. I’d lain in bed with my comics and a drink of lemon barley water on the table beside me, and the curtains half open just as they were now, dust drifting in the sunbeams. And each time I surfaced from my feverish dreams, I could hear her downstairs: cupboards being opened and closed, a vacuum-cleaner purring, the washing-machine humming, glasses chinking, shoes clicking across the hallway, murmuring voices at the front door. I’d felt so safe, under my covers, knowing she was just a few yards away. I wished I could give myself a day like that now. I could lie here until tomorrow morning, slipping in and out of sleep, drifting between insubstantial dreams and dozy wakefulness; occasionally padding out to the kitchen in my dress-ing-gown to make a cup of tea. Waiting for a cool hand on my brow.

  A violent snore reached me from Julie’s room. I opened one eye. Six forty. Up, I told myself, and my legs slid round to the floor. My head pounded as I brought it upright, then steadied to a mild, manageable throb. Not too bad after all. I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water over my face. Then I dressed as quickly and quietly as I could. Before leaving, I drank three glasses of water. I longed for a strong black coffee but I didn’t dare in case I woke Julie. She’d probably lock the door and throw the key out the window if she knew where I was going. But I had it all worked out.

  It was a misty morning. The shapes of the houses at the end of the street were vague, and cars had their lights on. Later it would probably be bright and warm, but now it was chilly. I should have brought a jacket with me, put on a sweater instead of my thin cotton shirt. There was already a fair amount of traffic. London is never dark, never quiet. But I still got there by half past seven. That was fine; surely theater directors never got up earlier than eight.

  The curtains of the Teales’ house were all closed. No light seemed to be on. Good. I tried to make myself comfortable in the car seat. I had no idea how long I would have to sit here: I should have bought a cup of coffee on my way, at least. I should have bought something to read. All I had was the car manual and a ten-day-old newspaper. I read the paper, all the already forgotten stories about a fashion model here, and a war there, a dead boy here and an Internet millionaire there. I felt cold, stiff, sore. I brushed my hair and twisted it back. I peered at my face in the car mirror and winced at my morning-after pallor. I fidgeted. The Teales’ curtains remained closed. I could have slept longer after all.

  At a quarter to nine, a light went on upstairs. My mouth was dry. Questions pulsed behind my eyes: Why am I here? What on earth am I doing?

  At five to nine, the curtain was opened and for a brief moment I saw Gabriel’s shape in the window. I slid lower in my seat and peered at the house through my gritty eyes. I needed a pee.

  A few minutes later, the curtains were opened downstairs. There were two shapes; they were both up. I imagined them in their nice kitchen, making coffee, toasting bread, talking to each other about their day, kissing each other goodbye. The front door remained shut. I could go home, I thought. Drive home and climb back into bed. Julie was probably still asleep, lying wrapped in her covers with her arm over her eyes.

  At last the door opened and Gabriel appeared. He stood on the step for a few seconds, patting his pockets to make sure he had keys, calling something over his shoulder. He was dressed in black jeans and a gray woollen jacket, and he looked like the kind of person I know; like one of my friends.

  I had to wait a bit. I stared at the car clock. I counted ten minutes, then got out of the car. It still wasn’t too late to change my mind, even now. It wasn’t too late right up to the moment that I rapped louder than necessary on the front door and heard footsteps.

  “Yes?”

  Bryony was in her dressing-gown, holding it shut at the top in a gesture I recognized from myself. She was staring at me with dazed eyes, as if I had got her out of bed. I saw her swallow hard. “Bryony,” I said warmly. “I hope this is OK. I was passing by on my way to see a client. I literally saw your road ahead of me and since I was running ridiculously early, I popped in on the off-chance.”

  “Kit?” she murmured.

  “And to be honest, I could do with a lavatory and a cup of coffee before my meeting. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  “No, no, sorry.” She made a visible effort. “I just wasn’t expecting—but come in, of course. I’ll put the kettle on. The loo’s down the hall.” She gestured with a hand. Newly bitten nails, I noticed. Bitten like Lianne’s nails had been bitten.

  “Thanks.”

  When I came out she was spooning coffee beans into a grinder. “You look tired,” I said. She looked more than tired. Weight seemed to have dropped off her, so that her body was slack where it had been strong. Her collarbones were sharp. Her face was puffy; her glorious hair was greasy; she had a faint red rash on her left cheek. As she lifted the kettle to the coffeemaker, I saw she had a bracelet of eczema round one wrist. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ve been a bit under the weather,” she said.

  “Yes, Gabriel said. Did he tell you I went to the Sugarhouse the other evening?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Is it the worry that made you ill?” I asked.

  “Perhaps,” she said slowly. She poured two cups of coffee and set them down on the table. “Do you want something to eat—or maybe you’re in a bit of a hurry for your meeting?”

  “I’ve plenty of time,” I replied cheerfully. “But I don’t want anything to eat. This is what I need.” I sipped the scalding coffee. “Have you seen the doctor?”

  “What about?”

  “About how you feel.”

  “I’ll be fine. After all, everything’s all right now, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?”

  “I mean, it’s over. The worry.” I looked at her, and she fumbled with her cup. “That’s what the police said.”

  “I know. The police love things being over, you see. They love closing a case. Solved. Big tick. Celebration down the pub. Move on.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “But it’s different for you and me, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe it’s time I got dressed.” She stood up, clutching her dressing-gown once more. “It’s getting on. Things to do.”

  “You’re left with what you’ve suffered, what’s inside your head.” She looked at me with heavy-lidded eyes, as if just keeping awake was a supreme effort. “And for me there are questions that I can’t stop myself asking. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t stop myself. Why would one victim write down the name of another before she died? How could a killer snatch a woman from a park, in broad daylight, in front of her child? Why did a reliable witness think that Michael Doll was just an innocent bystander?”

  “I can’t help…” Bryony’s lips were bloodless. “I don’t know.”

  “Why would a woman let herself be snatched from the playground without screaming and shouting, and why didn’t the child make a fuss when her mother disappeared?” I made myself smile. “The police weren’t really interested in any of this. Especially once Michael Doll had died. I have a problem with cutting off from things. That’s what people always say about me. Anyway, with this, I’ve got all these bits of a story and I’ve been trying to fit them together. Do you mind if I tell it to you?” She didn’t react. “There was a girl called Daisy. Daisy Gill. Fourteen years old, though she may have looked older. I never met her. I just saw her photograph and talked to her friends. She was an unhappy child, I know that. Parents who
abandoned her, carers who deserted her, or worse. She badly needed friends. She needed adults she could trust, who would make the world a little bit safer for her. It’s hard for people like you and me to imagine what her life must have been like. Often angry and always lonely and always scared.”

  There was a scraping noise as Bryony pulled out her chair and sat down again. She cupped her chin in her hands and for the first time looked steadily at me out of her caramel eyes. The color stood out against her pale skin.

  “Daisy had one friend. Lianne. I don’t know Lianne’s real name, I don’t know where she came from. But I do know that she, too, was a broken child. Desperate, even. But at least Lianne and Daisy had each other. They had precious little else, but they had that. Perhaps it was their lifeline. When they were both old enough, they wanted to live together and run a restaurant, cooking macaroni cheese. That’s what their friends said.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Daisy killed herself. Hanged herself in her drab little room in the place she was supposed to call home. Then a few months later, Lianne was killed, down by the canal. And then, shortly after, Philippa Burton was killed by the same person. Philippa knew Lianne—we have no idea how or why. Lianne knew Daisy. And the funny thing is that Daisy worked at the Sugarhouse. So everything is connected.”

  “It’s not really connected,” Bryony said. “This is a small area. Anyway, I was a victim as well.”

  “Michael Doll.” For a brief instant, I remembered my last sights of him. Michael Doll alive. Michael Doll dead. “He just blundered into the story. That was all there was to it. He was just there, by the canal where no one could bother him, catching his wretched fish then throwing them back into the water.”

  “He killed those women.” She put her hands in front of her on the table and sat up straighter.

  “He was a terrible sight,” I said. “I saw his body, you know.”

  “I always wanted to take photographs,” Bryony said softly. “Ever since I was nine years old and my uncle gave me a cheap little Instamatic for my birthday. It’s a curious thing, how you know suddenly—but I always felt I could see the world more clearly when I saw it through a camera lens, like it made sense. Even ugly things can look beautiful through a lens. Meaningless things make sense.” She glanced up at the photograph of her little gypsy girl. “And I’m good at it, you know. Not just at taking the actual picture, but knowing what I’m looking for. I can go weeks and nothing happens, then one day I’ll see something. A face. Something happening. The way the light falls. Like a click in my mind. And it made me feel I was doing my bit, being a witness.” She licked her pale lips. “For society, or something, as well as for me. Like Gabe and his theater. He’s good at what he does too, you know.”