A Room Swept White (43 page)

Laurie must think I’m enjoying this. I’m hating every second of it.

‘What message did you leave for him, exactly? Was it a bit like the one you sent me?’ I pull my phone out of my bag and hold it up in front of his face. ‘Was it “Planetarium 2 p.m.,
LN.”? “Dear Mr Chappell, Meet me outside the Planetarium – there’s two thousand quid in it for you”?’

‘You think I gave him the two grand to
lie
? You really think I’d do that – pay a man to pretend he didn’t witness a murder when he did?’

‘I really think you’d do that,’ I tell him. ‘I think you did what you had to, to make it look as if Joanne Bew was yet another innocent woman in prison thanks to Judith Duffy.’

‘Cheers for the vote of confidence,’ says Laurie. ‘The truth, if you’re interested, is that Carl Chappell witnessed nothing whatsoever the night Brandon died. He was a mate of Warren Gruff’s, Brandon’s dad. Gruff put him up to lying at Joanne Bew’s first trial. He’d made it clear he expected Chappell to lie again at the retrial, which was what Chappell, who can’t think for himself, was planning to do. I paid him to tell the truth.’

I try to remember what exactly Carl Chappell told me.
He gave me two big ones to say I hadn’t seen nothing
. Have I misjudged Laurie? Have I just done to him what I’m accusing him of doing to Judith Duffy: invented whatever story I needed to in order to condemn him?

‘The two grand took care of Chappell’s gambling needs, but it did nothing to alleviate his fear of Gruff, who’s a thug,’ says Laurie. ‘You ought to track him down, ask him how much I paid him, out of my own pocket, for a promise not to beat Chappell to death if he gave a new statement.’

‘How much?’ I ask.

Laurie beckons me to come closer. I take a step towards him. He reaches for my hand, closes his fingers around my phone. I try to hang on to it. I fail.

‘What good’s that going to do you?’ I ask. He can delete
the text he sent me, but not my memory of it. I can tell anyone I want to that Laurie told me to meet him at the Planetarium, just as he told Carl Chappell, and probably Warren Gruff too.

‘No good,’ he says. ‘No good at all.’ Running towards the lake like a fast-bowler, he bowls my phone into the water.

18

12/10/09

‘Olivia was holding the book up, spread open.’ Charlie demonstrated for Proust’s benefit. Simon and Sam watched too, though they’d already heard the quicker version of the story. ‘I was sitting across the table from her – my eyes must have been on the back cover. I wasn’t aware of looking at it – one minute I was daydreaming, the next I was thinking, “Hang on a minute, those look familiar.” ’

‘Every published book has a thirteen-digit ISBN number printed on its back cover and title page,’ Simon took over. ‘The ISBN for Helen Yardley’s
Nothing But Love
is 9780340980620, the last thirteen numbers of our number square. As well as a card, the book was in the photograph emailed to Fliss Benson, to help her make the connection.’

‘The first three numbers on the cards – 2, 1 and 4 – we think that’s a page number,’ Sam told Proust.

‘It has to be,’ Charlie agreed. ‘What else can it mean?’ She placed
Nothing But Love
on the desk, open at
page 214
.

The Snowman jerked his head back, as if someone had put a plate of slugs in front of him. ‘It’s a poem,’ he said.

‘Read it,’ said Simon. ‘And the paragraphs above and below it. Read the whole page.’ How much time did they waste, on each case, getting Proust up to speed? His rigidity was the problem: he liked to be told things in a certain way –
formally and in stages, with each logical progression clearly highlighted. No wonder Charlie hadn’t wanted to be part of the delivery committee on this one. ‘Can’t you tell him?’ she’d groaned. ‘Whenever I try to explain something to him, I feel like I’m auditioning to present
Jackanory
.’

Simon watched the Snowman as he read: a study of forehead compression in slow motion, with the frown lines becoming more and more pronounced. Within seconds, the inspector’s face had lost several centimetres in length. ‘ “What flutters still is a bird: blown in/by accident, or wild design/of grace, a taste of something sweet – The emptied self a room swept white.” Would someone like to tell me what it means?’

‘I’m not sure the meaning matters, from our point of view,’ said Charlie. ‘On the same page, there’s a reference to a journalist from the
Daily Telegraph
who went to Geddham Hall to interview Helen Yardley. We think that’s the significant—’

‘Track him or her down,’ said Proust.

‘We already have, sir,’ said Sam. ‘Geddham Hall keep a record of—’

‘You have? Then why not tell me so, Sergeant? What’s the point of a perishing update if you fail to update me?’

‘The journalist was a Rahila Yunis, sir. She still works for the
Telegraph
. I spoke to her on the phone, read her
page 214
of
Nothing But Love
. At first she was very reluctant to comment. When I pressed her, she said Helen Yardley’s recollection of their interview at Geddham Hall wasn’t correct. Helen did have a favourite poem written in her notebook, or journal, or whatever it was, but Rahila Yunis said it wasn’t that “room swept white” poem. She’s going to check her old files, but she
thinks the poem Helen Yardley copied into her notebook and claimed to be fond of was called “The Microbe”.’

‘We could only find one poem with that title,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s by Hilaire Belloc.’

‘Hilaire spelled h-i-l-a-i-r-e,’ said Simon. ‘As in
[email protected]
.’

‘Are you going to make me read another poem?’ Proust asked.

‘I’ll read it to you,’ said Charlie.

‘“The Microbe is so very small
You cannot make him out at all,
But many sanguine people hope
To see him through a microscope.
His jointed tongue that lies beneath
A hundred curious rows of teeth;
His seven tufted tails with lots
Of lovely pink and purple spots,
On each of which a pattern stands,
Composed of forty separate bands;
His eyebrows of a tender green;
All these have never yet been seen –
But scientists, who ought to know,
Assure us that they must be so . . .
Oh! Let us never, never doubt
What nobody is sure about!” ’

Simon was trying hard not to laugh. Charlie had read the poem as one might to a five-year-old. The Snowman looked startled. ‘Give me that,’ he said.

Charlie handed him the sheet of paper. As he stared at it, his lips silently formed the words, ‘never, never doubt’. Eventually he said, ‘I like it.’ He sounded surprised.

‘So did Helen Yardley, according to Rahila Yunis,’ said Sam. ‘It’s not hard to see why. For “scientists”, read “doctors”. She must have had Judith Duffy in mind. Duffy can’t have been sure Morgan and Rowan were murdered, because they weren’t. And yet she never, never doubted.’

‘I like it.’ Proust nodded and handed the poem back to Charlie. ‘It’s a proper poem. The other one isn’t.’

‘I disagree,’ said Simon. ‘But that’s not the point. The point is, why was Rahila Yunis so unwilling to talk at first? Why not say, as soon as Sam had read her the extract, that Helen Yardley had lied? And why
did
Yardley lie, in the book? Why did she pretend that it was “Anchorage” by Fiona Sampson that meant so much to her, and that she’d talked to Rahila Yunis about, when it was Hilaire Belloc’s “The Microbe”?’

No reply from Proust. He was mouthing silently again:
never, never doubt
.

‘Why aren’t we in there?’ Colin Sellers had been trying to lip-read what Simon, Sam, Charlie and Proust were saying.

‘Because we’re out here,’ said Chris Gibbs.

‘Only Waterhouse’d get away with bringing his girlfriend.’

Gibbs snorted. ‘Why, do you want to take all your girlfriends to visit the Snowman? His office isn’t big enough to squeeze them all in.’

‘How’s it going on the name-that-Baldy front?’ Sellers asked, not expecting to get away with changing the subject quite so soon.

‘Not bad,’ said Gibbs. ‘Of all the names that have come in so far, only two have come up more than twenty times each.’ He stood up. ‘I’m off to 131 Valingers Road in Bethnal Green
to interview one of them: Warren Gruff, ex-army. I said all along, didn’t I? British military.’

‘What about the other one?’

‘Other one?’

‘The other name that’s come up more than twenty times,’ said Sellers impatiently.

‘Oh, that one.’ Gibbs grinned. ‘Matter of fact, the second one’s come up more often than Warren Gruff’s – thirty-six mentions, next to Gruff’s twenty-three.’

‘Then why . . .?’

‘Why aren’t I going after the second name first? Because it’s got no surname or address attached to it. It’s just a first name: Billy. Thirty-six people rang in to say they know Baldy as Billy, but don’t know anything else about him.’

‘Does the sarge know? We need to—’

‘Track Billy down?’ Gibbs cut Sellers off again. ‘I will be doing – at 131 Valingers Road, Bethnal Green.’ He laughed at Sellers’ confusion. ‘Warren Gruff; Billy. You really can’t see it? Think along the lines of nicknames. You’re supposed to be a detective, for fuck’s sake.’

Finally, Sellers made the connection. ‘Billy Goat Gruff,’ he said.

19

Monday 12 October 2009

‘Ray?’ The problem with Marchington House is that it’s so big, there’s no point calling out anybody’s name. I’d be better off ringing her on her mobile, except that mine has been thrown into a boating lake, and without it, I don’t know her number.

I check the lounge, family room, kitchen, snug, utility room, both studies, the games room, the music room and the den, but there’s no sign of her. I head for the stairs. Distributed over the top three floors of the house are fourteen bedrooms and ten bathrooms. I start with Ray’s room on the first floor. She’s not in there, but Angus’s jacket is, the one he was wearing when he accosted me outside my flat. There’s also a bulging black canvas bag on the bed with
‘London on Sunday
’ printed on it in small white letters.

I wrestle with my conscience for about half a second, then unzip the bag. Oh, God, look at all this: pyjamas, toothbrush, electric razor, dental floss, at least four balled-up pairs of socks, boxer shorts . . . Quickly, I pull the zip closed. Words can’t express how much I do not want to look at Angus Hines’ boxer shorts.

Great
. My prisoner has come to stay – the man I yelled at for being decent enough not to smash my window. I’m going to have to see him again and die of shame. This must be
how the purveyors of apartheid felt when all that truth and reconciliation stuff started and they had to spend hours telling Nelson Mandela what rubbish human beings they were. I think that’s what happened, anyway. I’m considering giving up
heat
magazine and subscribing to something more serious instead, to boost my general knowledge:
The Economist
or
National Geographic
.

I unzip the side pocket of Angus’s suitcase, having decided it’s bound to be underwear-free: he wouldn’t divide his boxer shorts equally between the compartments. I’m surprised to find two DVDs in there, both of Binary Star programmes I produced:
Hate After Death
and
Cutting Myself
. So Angus’s investigation of my credentials is ongoing. Actually,
Hate After Death
is the best work I’ve ever done, so I hope he’s watched it. It was a six-parter about families in which a feud between one branch and another had spanned several generations. In some cases, parents on their deathbeds had extracted promises from their children not to let their enmities die with them, to hate on their behalf even after their deaths, to hate their enemies’ children, and the children of those children.

Sick. Sick to want to pass on your anger and resentment to others, sick to hang on to those feelings yourself
.

I’m not angry with Laurie any more. I don’t hate him, or wish him harm. What I wish is that . . . I don’t allow myself to think it. There’s no point.

As I’m putting the DVDs back in Angus’s bag, I hear footsteps. They seem to be coming from the landing above me, but when I go and investigate, I can’t find anyone. ‘Hello?’ I call out. I check all the bedrooms on the second and third floors, but there’s no sign of life. I must have imagined it. I decide to go to my room, get into bed and have the protracted
pillow-thumping cry I’ve been looking forward to since Regent’s Park.

I open the door and scream when I see a man standing next to my bed. He doesn’t seem at all startled. He smiles as if I ought to have known I’d find him there.

‘Who are you? What are you doing in my room?’ I know who he is: Ray’s brother, the dark one from the punting photo in the kitchen. He’s wearing a white V-necked cricket jumper and trousers that are more zips than material. I’ve never understood that: why would you want to shorten and extend your trousers at various points during the day? Who’s the target audience: people whose calves only work part-time?

‘You’ve got that the wrong way round,’ says Ray’s brother, still grinning. ‘You’re in my room.’

‘Ray said this was a guest room.’

‘It is. It’s my guest room. This is my house.’

‘Marchington House belongs to you?’ I remember what Laurie said about Ray’s parents living in Winchester. ‘But . . .’

‘You know different?’

‘Sorry, I just . . . You’re so young. You look about my age.’

‘Which is?’

‘Thirty-one.’

‘In that case I’m younger than you. I’m twenty-nine.’

I feel a fit of tactlessness coming on. ‘When did you fit in getting rich enough to buy a house like this? At school, between double Latin and croquet? Or did you make constructive use of a detention?’ I’m talking nonsense, still freaked out by having found him in my room. Why was he lying in wait for me? How dare he own Marchington House? Did he open my suitcase? Was he looking at my underwear, while I was looking at Angus Hines’?

‘Croquet and Latin?’ He laughs. ‘Is that what you learned at your school?’

‘No, we learned gang warfare and apathy,’ I snap. ‘I went to an inner city comprehensive.’