Remix (2010) (14 page)

Being raped, then finding the dead body of your boyfriend. Ric’s doing. I couldn’t find any words. The room felt colder. Emma went on.

“Lots of police and paramedics arrived, swarming all over the place. About six police cars outside, lights flashing. A woman police officer took me in the kitchen and made me a cup of tea and I couldn’t drink it. I told her about the rape, then I decided I couldn’t face pressing charges. They were understanding about that, they knew why I didn’t want to. They said Ric would go into custody, and I had time to reconsider if I wanted to. They were nice. Everyone was very kind to me.”

We sat quietly side by side at the table, both wrapped in our own thoughts, the recorder recording our silence. A key grated in the front door lock, then I heard the door closing. Feet approached the kitchen. Emma looked up with a smile.

“Phil, I didn’t know you were in London today. How nice.”

Bloody hell. Phil Sharott. He glanced at me, and focused on Emma.

“Emma, are you all right? You look upset.”

“I’m fine, it’s just I’ve been telling Vikki about the day Bryan died. Thinking about it always makes me cry. Vikki, this is Phil Sharott, my manager. Phil, this is Vikki Wilson, we’ve been doing an interview. She’s writing a book about The Voices.”

Phil walked towards us. In his hand was a plastic-wrapped Hackney parking ticket, which he put on the table.

“Miss Wilson. Delighted to meet you.”

“Er…hi. I’m just off.” I turned to Emma. “Thank you very much for being so frank. I appreciate it. Best of luck with the album launch.”

“Thank you.” Emma got up and smiled. Her tears had dried. “If there’s anything else you think of, just ring me. You’ve got my number. Anything at all I can help with, don’t hesitate.”

I slung my handbag over my shoulder and picked up the recorder. “Goodbye, Emma.” I made for the door.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” said Phil pleasantly.

“I came by tube.”

“Then I’ll walk you to the station.”

“There’s no need, truly. I know the way.”

“I insist. Emma, I won’t be long, I wouldn’t want Miss Wilson getting lost.”

Emma looked surprised, as well she might. I followed Phil into the mews. He started on me as soon as we were out of sight of the house.

“Really, Miss Tallis, you’ve upset Emma and made her cry. That’s not kind.”

“She wanted to tell me—”

“Tell you what?”

“About the day Bryan Orr died.”

“Only because you lied to her and told her you were writing a book.”

I didn’t answer. I wanted him to go away. I wanted to be on my own. I walked briskly, though I didn’t feel brisk, Phil tagging along beside me.

“What
are
you playing at? You said you were seeing a customer about a horse. Coming here, pretending to be someone you are not, deceiving Emma, distressing her and wasting her time for reasons which I frankly cannot fathom… Did Ric put you up to this? What on earth did you hope to achieve?”

“I should have thought that was obvious,” I muttered sulkily. He was talking to me as though I was a badly-behaved schoolchild.

“What are you trying to prove? That Ric’s innocent? Because that’s what you want to believe? Did she tell you what Ric did to her?” He scrutinized my face, and nodded. “I see she did. I hope you like what you discovered today.”

I hadn’t liked it. I increased my pace. I didn’t want to spend any longer in his company than I had to. When I was alone I would think about Emma’s revelation, and what to do about it. Phil accelerated to keep up with me.

“As for the murder, you really should give me some credit. I’m a lawyer. I’ve seen the evidence. The police don’t have any doubts. You don’t know how hard it was to persuade the judge to let him out on bail. You going around impersonating people, telling lies, playing private detectives, isn’t going to help anyone, least of all Ric. This was his idea, wasn’t it?”

I said nothing. I marched rapidly past the rich people’s houses towards Marble Arch, eyes facing front, as if he was a stranger hassling me.

“He needs to get back abroad and keep his head down. I’m sorting out the money as fast as I can. I’m going to ask you to wipe that interview you’ve just done with Emma. Give me the recorder.”

I was still holding it. I jumped away and put it in my bag, and did up the zip, not slackening my pace.

“Hand it over, Miss Tallis.”

“No, why should I?”

“Because it was procured under false pretences. You’ve no right to keep it.”

“Tough. Try and stop me.” I was practically running now.

Phil made a grab for the handbag. He got hold of the strap. I jerked it away, but he held on. I stopped and spun round, nearly bumping into him. The mixed emotions of the last hour condensed into rage and rushed through me. I was so furious, I was tempted to take a swipe at him. That would wipe the superior expression off his face. I glowered.

“Let go or I’ll scream.”

He didn’t move. A young woman pushing a buggy passed us; she stared, then averted her gaze. I drew a big lungful of air, opened my mouth, and he took his hand off the bag. We stood, a foot apart, staring angrily at each other, breathing hard. Phil’s eyes dropped first. He made to walk away, then paused, turned, and said,

“Clearly I am wasting my breath trying to reason with you. You’d better go back to Ric and see what he wants you to do next. Fortunate for him that he’s found someone so credulous. You’re the only person who believes his fairy tales, and are likely to remain so.”

I watched his tall figure stalk away down Connaught Street. My whole frame was shaken by my breathing and my frantically-pumping heart. I decided I’d get rid of the adrenaline sloshing round my system by walking home.

It would give me time to work out what to do.

Chapter

17

*

Desperate to keep moving, I hovered at the red lights amid the confusion of cars, street signs and people that is Edgware Road. A gap in the traffic - I dashed across, a driver blasting me with his horn and yelling. Bastard. The grey sky had darkened to match my mood. A gritty wind blew in my face.

I wanted to get home…but Ric was there. Ric…I’d liked him, trusted him - been a little in love with him, I could see that now. And he’d been lying to me all the time. He was a rapist and a murderer. Right, so I would go to a police station, the one at Shepherdess Walk, and tell them. They’d think I was mad at first, but I’d make them believe me. They could have my keys, go and arrest Ric, take him away, and then I could go home. I wouldn’t have to see him. End of story. I’d get back to the life I had before. Dog - I would keep him, Ric couldn’t have a dog in jail.

Misery swept over me and I wanted to cry. I sniffed, and fished in my bag for a tissue. I’d given them all to Emma. A search of my pockets came up with one, disintegrating and rolled in a ball.

Upper Berkeley Street, Portman Square, Manchester Square. Why had Ric made me go and see Emma, knowing what she could tell me? Had he counted on the fact that she’d kept quiet about the rape all these years? Then what did he hope she’d tell me that might help him? If he was guilty of rape, did it follow that he was also guilty of murder? My head ached and I couldn’t think straight.

It wasn’t credible Emma had made it up. No one could be that convincing, the way she’d cried. Surely. And why would she make it up? To get publicity for her album, a boost to her career, and a lot of money from a tabloid - would that be incentive enough to invent such a story? Was she that manipulative? I didn’t know her. I only met her that afternoon. I had liked her, thought her natural and friendly, sensible and good-humoured. I might have been wrong.

Wigmore Street, Regent Street, Oxford Circus; packed with people hurrying, dawdling, talking on their mobiles, laden with carrier bags, the street solid with nose-to-tail red buses. I remembered the day I bought the clothes at Topshop, on the way to collect Ric’s money. Phil Sharott - where did he fit in? He wasn’t averse to breaking the law, however fond he was of adopting a high moral tone. He’d faked Ric’s death, set up dodgy accounts, and provided illegal drugs. Perhaps he supplied drugs to The Voices. I must ask Ric. Except I wouldn’t see Ric again, and I wouldn’t be doing any more investigating either. I pressed on down Oxford Street, the crowd thinning. Light rain prickled on my face.

Emma and Phil Sharott. She’d taken up with him after his wife died - very soon after. Who was her boyfriend for two and a half years, between Bryan and Phil? No one the paparazzi had been interested in, or it would have been on Google. Unless it had been someone who wanted to keep it quiet, and had succeeded. Or maybe Ric had put her off men for a while. I could understand that.

I trudged past Tottenham Court Road tube station, the litter-strewn nothingness of Centre Point’s ground level, New Oxford Street, Bloomsbury Way. No wonder Ric had been touchy on the subject of Bryan’s death. He’d always shut up or left the room, though what he had said tallied with Emma’s account. But what he
hadn’t
said was the crucial part, it now appeared.

Theobald’s Road, the tall trees of Grey’s Inn Field on my right, expensive and fashionable Clerkenwell Road. I’d been very convenient for Ric, right from the start. I’d given him a place to live, a taxi service; I’d let him come up to the flat, even when I wasn’t there, and use my computer. He’d got me running around talking to people. James thought I was crazy. Ric would have been in my bed if I’d let him, too… But I’d said no, and he’d been okay about that, he’d backed off. He hadn’t raped me; he hadn’t been pushy or put pressure on me, then or since; we’d been alone in the building, and Fox Hollow Yard is deserted outside working hours. No one lives there except me, and a studio photographer who’s away most of the time.

I felt muddled, the way you do when you’re about to make the wrong decision. I hadn’t known Ric for long, but I knew him better than Emma. My opinion, tentatively formed on my rooftop weeks ago, was that he was all right; until today nothing had happened to change that. Maybe Emma
was
making it up. It’s safe to allege rape three years on - impossible to prove or disprove the story. Even safer if she believed Ric was dead. The dead can’t argue, and you can’t slander the dead. Clearly, Phil had not told her Ric was alive.

Along Old Street, left into Bath Street, wait for ages to cross the broad expanse of City Road, into Shepherdess Walk. I wasn’t ready, I hadn’t decided. Supposing I shopped Ric to the police, then found out he was telling the truth? He’d have less chance than last time, after jumping bail and playing dead. Particularly once Emma had dropped her bombshell.

Still uncertain, I walked past police vans, up steps smelling of urine and disinfectant to the bright blue automatic door. Inside, the duty sergeant stood at a counter behind thick glass in a short-sleeved shirt, explaining to a sad Chinese girl.

“That’s your crime reference number. You’ll get a phone call, can’t tell you when, I’m afraid, but they’ll take more details. Sorry about the wait. You could be lucky, there’s a chance of getting it back, but sometimes they break them up for parts…”

There were three chairs, occupied by a black man, a white man, and a child. The child stared curiously at me, the men were slumped, practically asleep. An Asian family and a short stout peroxide-blonde woman waited in line. I leaned against the wall by a public phone.

The girl left, and the family asked about a police report they were waiting for, regarding a fight, that they needed to apply for housing in Hackney. None of them looked like people who’d get involved in a fight. They were told it would take six to eight weeks. The space was so small, it was impossible not to eavesdrop.

I tried to imagine telling the helpful policeman behind the glass, with half a dozen people idly listening to our conversation, that I’d got the late Ric Kealey in my flat round the corner, and was here to turn him in. He’d be polite, I could tell that. I’d just have to sound sane and be persistent.

The minutes dragged by. The family’s problems appeared intractable; poor things, struggling with bureaucracy in an alien tongue. I felt exhausted. I sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, as Bryan had. Emma had seemed more upset talking about the rape than about finding Bryan’s body. Was that significant? I couldn’t imagine being in either situation. Perhaps she’d got used to talking about the murder, but not the rape.

The Asian family left, the white man went to the counter, the fat woman sat with a sigh of relief and I glanced at my watch. I’d been there twenty-five minutes. Ric would be wondering what had happened to me, why I hadn’t rung. It was his turn to cook that evening, and he’d threatened me with a curry. I’d told him I only liked mild fruity curries. He assured me his curry, though admittedly there was a risk it might blow the top of my head off, would be so delicious it would change my mind. It was a legend among The Voices.

“None for you, Dog,” he’d said, burying his face in Dog’s fur. “I like the top of your head just the way it is.”

He’d planned to shop for ingredients while I was at Emma’s. I got to my feet, moved to the door, pressed the release, and walked through it. I was not going to hand Ric over to the police, not yet.

I would play him the recording, and watch his reaction.