A Traitor to Memory (133 page)

Authors: Elizabeth George

BOOK: A Traitor to Memory

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Gideon had no idea what the time was when he finally arrived in Chalcot Square. He was soaked to the skin and drained of energy from the long walk. But at last, secure in the knowledge of the plan he would follow, he felt possessed by a modicum of peace. Still, the last yards to his house seemed endless. When he finally arrived, he had to pull himself up the front steps by the handrail, and he sagged against the door and fumbled in his trouser pockets for his keys.

He didn't have them. He frowned at this. He relived the day. He'd started out with the keys. He'd started out with the car. He'd driven to see Bertram Cresswell-White and after that he'd gone to his father's flat, where—

Libby, he recalled. She'd done the driving. She'd been with him. He'd asked her to leave him all those hours ago and she had obliged. She'd taken his car on his own instructions. She would have the keys.

He was turning to go down the stairs to her flat, when the front door swung open, however.

Libby cried out, “Gideon! What the
hell
? Jeez, you're totally drenched! Couldn't you get a taxi? Why didn't you call me? I would've come … Hey, that cop rang, the one who was here the other day to talk to you, remember? I didn't pick up, but he left a message for you to call him. Is everything …? Jeez, why didn't you
call
me?”

She held the door wide as she was speaking, and she drew him inside and slammed it behind him. Gideon said nothing. She continued as if he'd made a reply.

“Here, Gid. Put your arm around me. There. Where've you been? Did you talk to your dad? Is everything okay?”

They climbed to the first floor. Gideon headed towards the music room. Libby guided him towards the kitchen instead.

“You need tea,” she insisted. “Or soup. Or something. Sit. Let me get it …”

He obliged.

She chatted on. Her voice was quick. Her colour was high. She said, “I figured I should wait up here since I had the keys. I could've waited in my own place, I guess. I did go down a while ago. But Rock called, and I made the mistake of answering because I thought it was you. God, he is
so
not who I thought he was when I hooked up with him. He actually wanted to come over. Let's talk things out, was how he put it. Unbelievable.”

Gideon heard her and did not hear her. At the kitchen table, he was restless and wet.

Libby said, even more rapidly now as he stirred on his seat, “Rock wants us to get back together. 'Course, it's all totally dog-in-the-haystack stuff, or whatever you call it, but he actually said ‘I'm good for you, Lib,’ if you can believe that. Like he never spent our whole frigging marriage screwing everything with the right body parts that he ran into. He said, ‘You know we're good for each other,’ and I said back, ‘Gid's good for me, Rocco. You are, like, so totally bad.’ And that's what I believe, you know. You're good for me, Gideon. And I'm good for you.”

She was moving about the kitchen. She'd settled on soup, evidently, because she rooted through the fridge, found a carton of tomato and basil, and produced it triumphantly, saying, “Not even past its sell-by date. I'll heat it in a flash.” She rustled out a pan and dumped the soup inside it. She set it on the cooker and took a bowl from the cupboard. She continued to talk. “How I figured it is this. We could blow London off for a while. You need a rest. And I need a vacation. So we could travel. We could go over to Spain for some decent weather. Or we could go to Italy. We could go to California, even, and you could meet my family. I told them about you. They know I know you. I mean, I told them we live together and everything. I mean, well, sort of. Not I sort of told them but we sort of live … you know.”

She put the bowl on the table along with a spoon. She folded a paper napkin into a triangle. She said, “There,” and reached for one of the straps of her dungarees, which was held together by a safety pin. She clutched at this as he looked at her. She used her thumb against it, opening and closing the pin spasmodically.

This display of nerves wasn't like her. It gave Gideon pause. He studied her, puzzled.

She said, “What?”

He rose. “I need to change my clothes.”

She said, “I'll get them,” and headed towards the music room and his bedroom which lay beyond it. “What d'you want? Levi's? A sweater? You're right. You need to get out of those clothes.” And as he moved, “I'll get them. I mean, wait. Gideon. We need to talk first. I mean, I need to explain …” She stopped. She swallowed, and he heard the sound of it from five feet away. It was the noise a fish makes when it flops on the deck of a boat, breathing its last.

Gideon looked beyond her then and saw that the lights in the music room were off, which served to warn him although he could not have said what the warning was. He took in the fact that Libby was blocking his way to the room, though. He took a step towards it.

Libby said quickly, “Here's what you've got to understand, Gideon. You are number one with me. And here's what I thought: I thought, How can I help him—how can I help us to really be a real us? Because it's not normal that we'd be together but not really
be
together, is it. And it would be totally good for both of us if we … you know … look, it's what you need. It's what I need. Each other, being who we really are. And who we are is who we
are
. It's not what we do. And the only way I knew to make you, like, see that and understand it—because talking myself blue in the face sure as hell wasn't doing it and you know that—was to—”

“Oh God. No.” Gideon pushed past her, shoving her to one side with an inarticulate cry.

He fumbled to the nearest lamp in the music room. He grabbed it. He switched it on.

He saw.

The Guarneri—what was left of it—lay next to the radiator. Its neck was fractured, its top was shattered, its sides were broken into pieces. Its bridge was snapped in half and its strings were wrapped round what remained of its tailpiece. The only part of the violin that wasn't destroyed was its perfect scroll, elegantly curving as if it still could bend forward to reach towards the player's fingers.

Libby was speaking behind him. High and rapid. Gideon heard the words but not their meaning. “You'll thank me,” she said. “Maybe not now. But you will. I swear it. I did it for you And now that it's finally gone from your life, you can—”

“Never,” he said to himself. “Never.”

“Never what?” she said, and as he approached the violin, as he knelt before it, as he touched the chin rest and felt the cool of it mix with the heat that was coming into his hands, “Gideon?” Her voice was insistent, ringing. “Listen to me. It's going to be okay. I know you're upset, but you've got to see it was the only way. You're free of it now. Free to be who you are, which is more than just a guy who plays the fiddle. You were always more than that guy, Gideon. And now you can know it, just like I do.”

The words beat against him, but he registered only the sound of her voice. And past that sound was the roar of the future as it rushed upon him, rising like a tidal wave, black and profound. He was rendered powerless as it overcame him. He was caught within it and all he knew was reduced in that instant to a single thought: what he wanted and what he planned to do had been denied him. Again.
Again
.

He cried out, “No!” And “No!” And “No!” He surged to his feet.

He did not hear Libby cry out in turn as he leapt towards her. His weight fell against her, fell hard upon her. Both of them toppled to the floor.

She screamed, “Gideon! Gideon! No! Stop!”

But the words were nothing, less than sound and fury. His hands went for her shoulders as they'd done in the past.

And he held her down.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I couldn't have completed a project of this size in the time I allowed myself without the contributions and assistance of various individuals both in the United States and in England.

In England, I would like to express my appreciation to Louise Davis, Principal of Norland College, for allowing me to watch nannies in training and for giving me background information on the professional lives of child care givers; to Godfrey Carey, Q.C., Joanna Korner, Q.C., and Charlotte Bircher of the Inner Temple, all of whom were instrumental in assisting me in my understanding of British jurisprudence; to Sister Mary O'Gorman of the Convent of the Assumption in Kensington Square for giving me access to the convent and the chapel and for providing me with two decades of information about the square itself; to Chief Superintendent Paul Scotney of the Metropolitan Police (Belgravia Police Station) for assisting me with police procedures and for proving once again that the most forgiving audience among my readers exists within the ranks of the British police; to Chief Inspector Pip Lane, who always and generously acts as liaison between the local police and me; to John Oliver and Maggie Newton of HM Prison Holloway for information about the penal system in England; to Swati Gamble for everything from bus schedules to the locations of hospitals with casualty wards; to Jo-Ann Goodwin of the
Daily Mail
for assistance with the laws that deal with press coverage of murder investigations and trials; to Sue Fletcher for generously lending me the services of the resourceful Swati Gamble; and to my agent, Stephanie Cabot of William Morris Agency, to whom no obstacle is too much of a challenge.

In the United States, I'm deeply grateful to Amy Sims of the Orange County Philharmonic, who took the time to make certain I was able to write about the violin with a fair degree of accuracy; to Cynthia Faisst, who allowed me to sit in on some violin instruction; to Dr. Gordon Globus, who added to my understanding of psychogenic amnesia and therapeutic protocols; to Dr. Tom Ruben and Dr. Robert Greenburg, who weighed in with medical information whenever I needed it; and to my writing students, who listened to early sections of the novel and gave helpful feedback.

I am particularly indebted to my wonderful assistant, Dannielle Azoulay, without whom I could not possibly have written the rough draft of this rather lengthy novel in ten months. Dannielle's assistance in every area—from doing necessary research to running errands—was absolutely crucial to my well-being and my sanity, and I extend to her my deepest thanks.

Finally, I'm grateful, as always, to my longtime editor at Bantam—Kate Miciak—who always asked the best questions about the most convoluted turns of plot; to my literary agent in the U.S.—Robert Gottlieb of Trident Media—who represents me with energy and creativity; to my fellow writer Don McQuinn, who gallantly stood on the receiving end of my doubts and fears; and to Tom McCabe, who graciously stepped out of the way of the creative locomotive whenever it was necessary.

About the Author

ELIZABETH GEORGE is the author of award-winning and internationally bestselling novels, including
In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner, Deception on His Mind
, and
A Place of Hiding
. Her novels have been filmed for television by the BBC and broadcast in the United States on PBS's
Mystery!