The Aura (28 page)

Leaning back in my armchair, I thought about what she’d said. From the kitchen came the clatter of crockery and a low murmur of voices. When my cell phone buzzed, I noticed it was a London number. It was probably Inspector Clarke.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Kate, how are you?”

It took a minute to place the voice. It was Peter Montgomery.

“Fine,” I said, my automatic reply to the question, a typically British response. I’d once had a friend from Russia who took the question literally and would launch into a detailed description of her health and mental status in response. But a monosyllabic answer seemed appropriate under the circumstances.

“Can you give me a couple of minutes? I have some questions,” he said.

“Questions about what?” I couldn’t imagine any reason why he would want to talk to me. “If it’s about the project, I don’t know anything. I haven’t been at work for a week.”

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated.”

I stood up and stretched my legs, which were cramped from sitting down.

“I want to talk about Rebecca,” he said. There was something in the way he said her name that made me know indisputably that he had been her lover.

“You were the last one to see her,” he continued.

I paused, my skin prickling. I could be talking with a murderer. I probably shouldn’t be talking with him at all, but I was curious. “I wasn’t the last one to see her,” I said. “As far as I can tell, you were. You must have been there when she died.”

There was a pause so long that I thought we’d been cut off.

“I wasn’t there,” he said finally. “Why would you think I was?”

I hesitated. I shouldn’t say anything to tip him off.

“Listen, never mind,” I said. “I really can’t help you because I don’t know anything. I should go.”

“No, please. Give me a minute. I need to know what happened to her.”

“Ask the police. I’m sure they’ll be glad to talk to you about it.”

“The police? Why are they involved? It was an accident, from what I heard, wasn’t it?”

Damn. I really shouldn’t have said anything. “I don’t know. I should go.”

“Wait. There’s something else. It’s important. I need to know if she made up her own mind to break things off, or if you had anything to do with it. Did you encourage her to leave me?”

“Of course not. I didn’t even know who you were. She told me her boyfriend’s name was Edward.”

I thought I heard a sigh. “Just something we came up with to keep everything under the radar. It’s my middle name. She couldn’t go around telling anyone she was dating someone called Peter. They would have guessed it was me. That doesn’t matter now. I can’t believe she left me. It was on the Saturday morning before… before she died. She told me she was embarrassed that she was living off my money, tired of not being able to tell anyone about us. She told me she needed time to think things through, that she could see our relationship was going nowhere and it was time for her to start living her own life. And that she was going to Italy with you.”

“I didn’t tell her to do anything,” I said. “I’m hanging up now.” I ended the call, sank down on a chair, catching my breath. My heart pounded. I needed to call Clarke right away to let him know that Peter Montgomery had been Rebecca’s boyfriend. It seemed incredible. Irrationally, while I dialed Clarke’s number, I thought of how upset Alan would be when he found out his most important client was a killer.

The following morning, I sat in a meeting room in the Oxford police headquarters. Inspector Clarke was on his way from London, apparently; he wanted to hear first hand about my phone call with Montgomery even though I’d made a statement to a WPC the evening before. Through the glass walls of the room, I watched a group of about ten men and women writing up reports, peering at computer screens, or standing around drinking coffee. It was like watching television with the sound off.

I stifled a yawn and took a gulp of the coffee from a thick china cup bearing the logo of Oxford’s Division Two football team. An almost imperceptible tremor ran through the larger room; eyes lifted towards the door, then shifted back to computer screens. Clarke had arrived. I watched him shake hands with a detective wearing a crumpled blue suit before crossing the area to the meeting room. He looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes and a five o’clock shadow even though it was before noon.

He slid his arms from his raincoat as he pushed the door open and came in, carrying cold air with him.

“How are you, Kate? I’m surprised to see you up and about so soon. You have some coffee? Good.”

He took the chair on the opposite side of the table, put his briefcase on one corner and settled back into his seat.

“Did you arrest Montgomery?” I asked.

“No. He’s out of the country. In Switzerland, in fact.”

“Did he run away?” I was shocked.

Clarke smiled. “Not exactly. His secretary said this was a planned business trip. He must have called you from Zurich. I have your statement here. Can you take a look?”

He handed it to me. I scanned the text, thinking it was strange to see my own words in print like that, right down to the ‘er’s and ‘um’s that I didn’t realize I used so much. I nodded. “That’s what he said, yes. But, I’m confused. If Montgomery was Rebecca’s lover, then who is the man who attacked me?”

Clarke steepled his fingers under his chin and looked at me. “That’s the big question and the main reason I’m here. Did Montgomery say anything at all that would hint at an accomplice?”

“He didn’t, but it’s possible that he would have someone do his dirty work for him, isn’t it? He has plenty of money.”

“Maybe.”

“But I don’t think this man, whoever he is, was the one who killed Rebecca,” I said. I’d wrestled with this all night, lying on the sofa bed in Leo’s study, unable to sleep.

Clarke raised his eyebrows. “Why not?”

“Why would Rebecca let a stranger into her apartment? There was no sign of forced entry or of a struggle, no damage except to the coffee table. Whereas, in my flat, the man left plenty of evidence of a fight. I’m sure Montgomery killed her himself, but he hired the other man to go after me and Nick.”

“The problem with that theory is that Montgomery was at a wedding in Hastings with his wife and kids from Saturday evening until late Sunday. Then he drove straight to Heathrow for the flight to Zurich.”

“He was there for the whole time? He could have slipped out to see Rebecca. It’s only an hour and a half from Hastings to London.”

Clarke shook his head. “Even with priority security and boarding, he’d have had to be at the airport at about the time that Rebecca was killed.”

In the long silence that fell between us, I was aware of a low buzzing noise from the fluorescent light fixture overhead, and the gentle hum of traffic on the road below. If not the man in the black coat or Montgomery, then who?

“Gary?” I asked.

Clarke shook his head. “Rebecca died some time between five and seven on that Sunday evening, maybe eight at the latest. Gary showed me validated tickets proving he and Nick were on the fast train from Brussels that got into St. Pancras at 8.25pm. No way Gary could have done it.”

I propped my chin in my hands, elbows on the table, fighting the urge to sleep. I wanted Montgomery to be guilty. I despised him for having an affair with Rebecca. I’d thought a lot about what he’d said about Rebecca changing since she met me. I remembered when she’d make a joke about loving money and had then fallen silent as though wondering if money was really enough. Was she really planning to change her lifestyle and leave Montgomery? I wished she’d had a chance to do that. I wished she’d told me what she was planning.

A young man in a leather jacket knocked on the glass door and poked his head in.

“Sorry to interrupt, Matthew, but we just got the message about that ID you’ve been waiting for.”

He came in to hand a slip of paper to Clarke, closed the door quietly behind him, leaving the two of us in a soft shell of silence. Clarke read the message. “Good, good,” he murmured.

“Something to do with the case?”

“Yes, Gary, Nick’s partner, told me that he saw a man going up to Rebecca’s apartment about a month ago. An older man, not the boyfriend. He’s still very cut up about Nick, of course, and it’s taken him a few days to come forward with this. But, as there appears to be a link between Rebecca’s death and Nick’s, he said he’ll do whatever he can to help. He’s coming into the London station tomorrow to work on the composite facial image.”

“Do you trust Gary?” I asked. “Doesn’t it seem convenient that he’s coming up with this picture now?”

“He’s motivated to find Nick’s killer,” Clarke said. “It makes sense to me. More often than not, witnesses don’t come forward unless they have a personal interest in a case. There’s an understandable reluctance to get involved. Some are nervous around police officers, others worry about how much time it might take. But when the victim is a family member, a lover or a good friend, then people open up. They want to talk about the person they knew, to make sure the police understand why it’s important to find the killer.”

Standing up, Clarke stared out of the window. I thought about Peter Montgomery and Rebecca. According to Montgomery, she’d broken things off between them on Saturday morning, yet I’d seen on her Sunday and she hadn’t said a word about it. In fact, she’d told me she was seeing her boyfriend on Sunday evening. That was why she’d canceled our movie outing. Why would she lie?

Strictly speaking, I thought, she hadn’t told me she was seeing Edward on Sunday. I’d assumed that she was, and she hadn’t denied it. Which meant one of two things. One was that she’d decided she didn’t want to go to a movie with me. I dismissed that idea. All she had to do was say she didn’t want to go. The other was that she was seeing someone else that evening, someone she couldn’t tell me about. A new boyfriend? It was possible. Perhaps she’d found someone else; that was her motivation for dumping Montgomery. But then why wouldn’t she tell me about him? For some reason, she had kept the identity of her Sunday evening visitor a secret.

“Nice view,” Clarke said turning round and leaning on the windowsill. “But I never liked Oxford.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, it’s very clubby. Exclusive, as in excluding anyone who isn’t part of the university system.”

“That’s funny. I’m not sure my brother would agree with you.”

His cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. “Sorry, I forgot he’s a professor here. Well, if he’s like you, I’m sure he’s a good guy.”

It was my turn to blush, and I bent my head over an imaginary speck of dust on my jeans.

Clarke pushed himself away from the windowsill and came back to his seat.

“Montgomery will be back in London in two days. I’ll bring him in for questioning then, but I don’t think he’s our killer.”

“We’ll see,” I said. “So many secrets.” I was still thinking of the ambiguity about Rebecca’s Sunday evening commitment.

“Everyone has secrets,” he replied. “In my line of work, you come to think of it as normal.”

“Not everyone.”

“I think you do,” he said. I felt warmth flood my cheeks.

“I don’t believe that you killed Rebecca or Nick, but I am certain that you’re hiding something. If it’s something that could help the case, I’d appreciate your honesty.”

“It’s not. There’s nothing.”

“Okay. Will you come into the station tomorrow afternoon to look at Gary’s sketch?”

“Of course. How’s he doing? Gary?”

“Not so well. I can only imagine his pain,” said Clarke. “To find someone to love and to imagine spending your life with him, only to lose him like that. It’s devastating.”

My heart vibrated with the emotion in his voice. And I knew what his secret was.

“Does everyone know?” I asked. “About you?”

A momentary look of surprise crossed his face. And then he laughed. “Not everyone. Just those that need to know. My boss, my assistant, a few others. And now you.”

“Why do you need to keep it a secret?”

“I don’t,” he said. “But I don’t feel the need to go round informing everyone either.” He checked his watch. “I have to get back to London. Take it easy. And let me know if you think of anything at all that might help. I’ll be in touch, of course.”

I watched while he stood up and put his coat on, noted the way he did up the buttons, and pulled the collar up. Every movement was precise and efficient. I supposed that made him a good detective, organized, calm. He moved around from behind the desk, briefcase in hand, and paused to look at me for a second.

“Be careful. I’ll see you soon.” He smiled, but I couldn’t reciprocate. And then he was gone and I was alone in the glass-walled room.

I pulled on my coat and scarf and made my way through the busy police station to the front entrance. Under heavy, piercing rain, I strode quickly to the bus stop. I could have called Leo or Olivia to come to fetch me, but I was content to be out and about and by myself for a while. As I passed a fish and chip shop, the enticing smell of frying oil and vinegar made me realize I was hungry.

The warm, steamy interior was a welcome respite from the biting cold. An Indian woman, wearing a green and yellow sari underneath a blue anorak, waited for her order. She was listening to an iPod, the telltale white cables dangling from her ears. She smiled, but it wasn’t clear if the smile was meant for me or was in response to something she was listening to.

While I waited for a small order of chips, the door opened with the jangle of a bell, and a blast of cold air. A middle-aged man went straight to the counter, almost pushing me aside. He was talking to himself and banging his leg with a rolled-up umbrella. His jeans and lumberjack jacket were worn and dirty. He also had an aura. When he saw me staring at him, he bared his teeth at me. I envisaged him dying in an alley somewhere, hungry and freezing in the middle of the night.

I handed the shopkeeper some money. “Can you give him a double order of whatever he’d like, and a carton of milk?” I asked him.

“Whatever you say, miss.”

The man took the food and headed for the door. He turned his head very slightly and growled “thanks” before exiting and slamming the door behind him.