The Carrier (46 page)

Not funny.

‘You didn’t come back to the Culver Valley for me,’ I say. ‘You could have felt the way you felt about me from anywhere. Francine was the irresistible pull, wasn’t she? New, damaged Francine. How desperate were you to see it first-hand?’

‘Honestly?’ Tim’s voice cracks on the word. As if too much truth could break him. ‘Pretty desperate. Not for the reason you think. It wasn’t about gloating or revenge, not at first. I wanted to see if I was still scared of her. God.’ He closes his eyes. ‘You have no idea how much I needed the answer to that question. It was like a scientific experiment. I was told before I saw her that her mind was still functioning. Her personality too, presumably. But she couldn’t speak at all, could hardly move. So how could she have the power Francine used to have over me?’ He shrugs. ‘It could have gone either way.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I might have been as cowed by her as I’d always been. She was still her, still there, alive. Or . . .’ Tim takes a deep breath. ‘I might have looked at her lying there and thought, “Fuck you. You have no hold over me now.”’

‘And? Which did it turn out to be?’

‘Neither.’ Tim smiles. ‘Life’s never as simple as you hope it’ll be. I knew straight away that I wouldn’t be able to answer my question unless I spent more time with her. As much time as I could. I needed to get used to the new Francine if I wanted to shake off the old feelings. I suspected that if I did, if I really immersed myself, the time would come when I wouldn’t fear her at all. When I’d be able to say, “You know what, Francine? I’m in love with a woman called Gaby Struthers. You probably don’t remember the name – I mentioned her a couple of times, years ago. She used to be a client. Anyway, I want to ask her to marry me, so . . . any ideas about how we sort out a divorce? Obviously you’re laid up, so I’ll take care of all the admin.”’ Tim covers his face with his hands and rubs. Trying to rub himself out. ‘Sorry,’ he says through his fingers.

‘Did you still want to kill her?’

He stares at me, unblinking. ‘You missed the point,’ he says eventually. ‘I’m asking you to marry me.’

And if I say yes straight away, I’ll lose what little bargaining power I have.

‘I love you, Gaby. My wife is dead. Thanks to me. I’m going to be spending the next five to ten years in prison, at a minimum. If that doesn’t kill your love for me, then, please, marry me.’

My heart pole-vaults in my chest. I repeat my question. ‘Did you still want to kill Francine, when you saw her after she’d had the stroke?’

‘I did kill her,’ Tim says. ‘That’s all you need to know.’

‘I operate on a want-to-know basis.’

He sighs. ‘Yes, I still wanted to kill her. It wasn’t the same, though. I also wanted to know whether I was right to want to kill her. Whether the “her” I’d be killing was the same woman I’d been unhappily married to. The more time that passed with her in that state, I just . . . I found it harder to be certain I’d be killing the Francine I wanted to kill. I don’t expect it to make sense to you.’

‘It makes perfect sense,’ I tell him. ‘So, what, you watched her for signs? Clues? What could she have done to prove she was the same old Francine? Or to prove she wasn’t?’

Tim’s staring at the floor. He doesn’t like where I’m heading: too close to the truth.

‘That’s why you didn’t kill her,’ I say. ‘She could have been changed by what she’d been through, or not. You had no way of knowing. All you could do was sit by her bedside and . . . what? Watch for the sign that you knew would never come? Try to interpret the look in her eyes, gauge the emotional atmosphere around her? Meanwhile, the Francine who’d made you suffer was receding further and further into distant memory, where no one could touch her. Getting away with it. I’d have hated her more at that point, I think. Though, like you, I wouldn’t have been able to murder the body, not without knowing if the woman I hated was still in it.’

‘Please stop,’ Tim whispers.

I stand up, pull my hand away from his.

‘Do you think I’m perfect, Tim? I’m not. Whatever it is that you’re so scared to tell me, whatever you’re trying to atone for and think is
worse
than killing Francine, maybe I’ve done something as bad.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘And if I had? Would you stop loving me?’

‘I’d love you whatever you did.’

I hold up my hands. Why can’t he see it? I can’t bring myself to tell him what he should know by heart.

‘Do you know why I left you alone for so long?’ I say. ‘It had nothing to do with you telling me it was over. I’d have put up a fight, but . . . I
felt unworthy. Of you. All the time we were together, or whatever you want to call it, you never took anything from me.’

‘What do you mean?’ Tim asks.

‘You never asked for anything. It was as if you existed solely for my benefit. You didn’t drain me in the way Sean did: expecting things, requiring me to behave in a certain way, making me feel as if I was a resource, put on earth for his convenience – a malfunctioning resource that stopped doing its job properly years ago. You were the opposite: you helped me with my business, you talked to me about poetry. Every single effect you had on my life was a good one, without exception.’

‘How does that make you unworthy?’ Tim asks.

‘My feelings for you were too strong. They felt . . . unnatural. I thought, maybe I’m a selfish bitch who can only love someone who gives constantly and asks for nothing in return.’

Tim’s shaking his head. ‘I don’t know how you can think that. I might have asked for nothing, but nothing wasn’t what I got. The opposite.’

‘Sean had money,’ I say quickly, wanting to get the confession out there before I can change my mind. ‘Inherited money, like Dan’s. Not as much. Fifty grand. He didn’t want to invest any of it. I didn’t ask him, obviously . . .’

‘Why’s it obvious?’ Tim sits forward in his chair. ‘He was your partner, and it was a brilliant investment opportunity. Put those two things together—’

‘The company was nothing to do with Sean. If he’d wanted any part of it, he’d have offered. He knew I was looking for investors.’ Why does this still hurt, when I don’t love Sean and haven’t for a long time? ‘I could see his point of view. What I assumed was his point of view, I mean. I never asked him, we never talked about it. He had fifty grand and that was it, the extent of his savings. If my company had nose-dived . . .’

‘I knew it wouldn’t,’ says Tim. ‘Sean would have known too, if he’d taken an interest.’

‘If he’d thought I could turn his money into ten times as much, he’d have invested,’ I say. ‘When he didn’t offer, I knew he had no faith in me. I let it kill our relationship, and I never said a word, never gave him a chance to explain.’ It’s a relief to be telling someone. ‘Doesn’t that make me the lowest of the low? And if you add in the fact that I fell in love with you as well, round about the same time you were hatching brilliant plans to bring in the millions for me . . . And Dan and Kerry, whose money made Sean’s seem like small change, were suddenly my second and third favourite people in the world, after you. I liked them so much more because of something that had nothing to do with them, because they’d demonstrated so clearly that they were the opposite of Sean: willing to back me when he wasn’t, even though they hardly knew me.’

Tim smiles. ‘Are you saying you fell in love with me because I was a talented fundraiser?’

I want to keep that smile forever. I fell in love with him, among other reasons, because he has always known how to make me laugh. ‘I don’t think I did, but how do I know? It’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? Sean doesn’t offer me so much as a tenner and I fall out of love with him; you solve all my problems and I fall for you head over heels.’

‘This one’s easily sorted out,’ Tim says. ‘Do you still love me? I haven’t been an accountant for years. I’ve lost all my contacts. You’re unlikely to get any more money out of me.’

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘Then you must want me for me.’

‘I want you out of prison,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t care what you’ve done, Tim. I care that you don’t trust me enough to tell me.’

He looks up at me. ‘Other people are involved, Gaby. It’s not only me.’

‘Aren’t I one of those other people? The one you want to marry?’

‘Yes, of course. I just meant—’

‘Then tell me the truth,’ I talk over his doubts. ‘And don’t propose to me again until you have.’

Don’t take one. Don’t.

Sam stared at the neatly stacked leaflets in the display rack while he waited for the librarian to return. Leaflet, rather, since the rack was stuffed with multiple copies of only one: stiff and expensive-looking, glossy white with black print and a black and white photograph on the front. ‘Join the Proscenium Library today’, it urged. Sam thought about taking a break between leaving the police and finding a new job. A year spent whiling away the weekdays, doing nothing but reading – it was an appealing prospect, but he doubted Kate would share his enthusiasm.

Sam hadn’t read poetry since school. It wasn’t the book collection that attracted him so much as the beauty and coolness of the building. The Proscenium was like a church that belonged to the religion of literature. A church with a top-notch restaurant. And totally silent. How was that possible, when Rawndesley city centre was outside? Sam wondered how Gaby Struthers and Tim Breary had managed to start a relationship in a place where raising your voice above half a decibel was forbidden. Did whispering make it more romantic? Did people join the Proscenium in order to hide from the world? Block out reality?

Sam pushed these thoughts from his mind as he saw the librarian approaching. May Geraghty was a tall, thin woman of around sixty with straight, heavy-fringed grey hair. She was mouthing words as she crossed the room, but Sam couldn’t make them out. She must have known he wouldn’t be able to. Sam recognised the type: awkward, easily flustered, incapable of walking towards somebody face to face without starting a conversation in transit. Feeling her unease, Sam crossed the room to meet her halfway.

‘This is a little awkward,’ she whispered. The very word that had been in Sam’s mind. ‘The sonnet you’re looking for is by a poet called Lachlan Mackinnon. It’s in his 2003 collection
The Jupiter Collisions
.’

Sam wondered if she was having him on. Or if it was some kind of strange test. ‘Yes, I know,’ he said. Lowering his voice further in response to May Geraghty’s pained expression, he whispered, ‘You told me that already.’
I thought you were going to find the book.
He’d been impressed when she’d taken one look at his photocopied sheet of paper and immediately recognised the poem.

‘Yes.’ May nodded, as if the decision to give him the same information twice had been a deliberate and sensible one. ‘The thing is, I’m afraid I can’t bring the book to you at the moment.’ She nodded again. A fan of repetition, evidently.

‘Right,’ said Sam. ‘That’s okay.’ It was the longest of long shots, in any case. ‘Perhaps I could—’

‘I can’t bring it out to the desk, because it’s rather popular today. Our newest proprietor is sitting in the drawing room reading it. If only all our books were as much in demand!’ she whispered emphatically.

Newest member.
Sam felt a prickle along the back of his neck.

‘However,’ May Geraghty beamed at him, ‘I’ve just spoken to the gentleman, and he’s assured me that he’d be delighted if you’d join him briefly. He’ll be more than happy to let you have a quick look. Shall I show you through? And while you’re talking to him, I’ll get you the film from the CCTV for Friday night.’

‘Yes, please,’ said Sam.

He followed May Geraghty across the room and along a roped-off corridor, trying not to think about the man he would find at the end of it.

Only one person it can be . . .

Behind the mustard-coloured rope on one side there was a large antique wooden writing desk. Newspapers and magazines covered its surface, laid out in four neat columns, collapsed-domino style. As he and May Geraghty moved further away from the Proscenium’s restaurant, the foody smell gave way to the more library-appropriate odours of chalk, dust, old paper. It was a pleasant combination, Sam thought. Comforting.

‘Sergeant Kombothekra.’ Dan Jose appeared in the doorway ahead. There was a book in his hand. ‘I’m not sure if this can accurately be called a coincidence, but it feels like one.’

‘Sssh!’ May Geraghty hissed, startling the elderly man and woman who were sitting at a table by one of the drawing room’s large sash windows.

In a corner to the left of the unlit fire, a red and grey canvas rucksack that Sam had seen at the Dower House leaned against a high-backed green leather armchair – one of a cluster of three arranged around a small circular occasional table.

‘Have a seat,’ Dan said. ‘I can order us some coffee if you’d like? Or tea?’

‘No, thanks,’ said Sam, who had never understood why he often refused drinks he would have liked to accept. He noticed a trainer protruding from the rucksack, a lace spilling over the side. ‘I walked here,’ Dan said, looking down at the polished brown leather shoes he was wearing. ‘Took me exactly an hour and a half. Another good reason for becoming a member. Or a “proprietor”, as May prefers to call us. Good for the body, good for the mind.’

‘Is that why you joined?’ Sam asked.

‘No. Not really. Pretty obvious why I joined, isn’t it?’

‘Because Tim’s a member?’

‘Well, not so much that he’s a member as . . .’ Dan looked down at his lap. ‘I don’t know. I know how much this place means to him. For as long as he can’t make use of it . . . And, if it’s all right . . .?’

‘What?’ Sam asked.

‘I didn’t tell Kerry I was coming here. I wasn’t planning to tell her I’d joined. Not that it’s a secret or anything. I’d just rather she didn’t know.’

Sam wondered about Dan Jose’s definition of the word ‘secret’. It was obviously different from his own.

‘She’d disapprove?’ Sam asked.

‘No. She’d say it was the best idea, and wonder why she hadn’t had it herself.’ Dan chewed the inside of his lip. ‘She’d want us to come here together. Which wouldn’t be so bad. It wouldn’t be bad at all.’ He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself.