The Carrier (51 page)

‘For Kerry, yeah,’ Simon agreed. ‘Could well have been. If you think you’re too good and fair to ever hurt anyone deliberately, you’ve got to find a way of doing it that you can hide – even from yourself. Especially from yourself. I think that’s what the letters were, for Kerry. Dan . . . I don’t know. Best-case scenario, he was trying to support his friend and his wife, and Francine was a means to that end. If he didn’t want to make her suffer, then he treated her like an object. Like a . . . muse for bile and hate. It might not be the same straightforward emotional torture Tim Breary was serving up, but it’s still pretty depraved.’

‘So Lauren knew what they were all doing?’ Sam asked. ‘She must have done.’

‘Must have,’ Simon echoed. ‘Course, part of the motivation behind Kerry’s rule about her and Dan never reading their letters aloud was that: she couldn’t risk Lauren hearing. She must have known Lauren had overheard Tim a fair bit – in Francine’s room, persecuting her with his stories about Gaby. Kerry didn’t want Lauren to realise Francine was being assaulted from all sides – not by one person but by three. Three clever, articulate attackers who saw nothing wrong with making a woman who couldn’t move or speak lie there day after day, soaking up all their venom.’

‘Do you think that’s what Kerry meant when she wrote that someone would kill Francine soon, but she didn’t know who?’ Sam asked. ‘Was she thinking of Lauren?’

‘Lauren or Tim,’ Simon answered without hesitation. ‘Kerry was terrified one of them’d do it, but she didn’t know which. Lauren, to get Francine the fuck out of that house where she was being abused and mistreated, or Tim because once he wasn’t scared of Francine any more and he’d said everything he wanted to say to her, once she served no function for him—’

‘But – sorry, I’m interrupting – in one of the letters Kerry begs Francine to stop breathing.’

‘Yeah, but not because she wants her dead and gone.’ Simon shuddered. ‘That’s Kerry being fair again: “Spare yourself the ordeal of getting murdered, Francine – and don’t forget to be grateful to me for the tip-off.” And don’t forget . . .’ – Simon jabbed his finger in the air to make it clear that he meant Sam this time – ‘. . . all these letters are performance pieces. Everyone’s editing themselves, thinking the others are going to be reading the results at some point. They all know where the letters are hidden – why wouldn’t they read each others’? Dan’s hoping Kerry’ll be pulled up short by what he wrote about her being in love with Tim Breary. If she brings it up and tells him there’s not a single grain of truth in his suspicion, he’ll feel better. If she doesn’t mention it, he’ll feel worse.’

‘So . . .’ Sam struggled to keep up. ‘Kerry
didn’t
want Francine to die?’

‘Did she fuck! Oh, she probably kidded herself sometimes that it was what she wanted, and maybe part of her did. Or wanted Tim to think she did, when he read her letters to Francine. Mainly, though, she didn’t want there to be nothing stopping Tim and Gaby Struthers shacking up together. She wanted Tim living with her and Dan, at the Dower House. His addiction to the wife he hated and tormented suited her down to the ground – she still got to be the good woman in his life, the one he relied on. Once he was blissfully happy with Gaby, she’d have been relegated to second place. She’d have hated it.’

‘Why kill Francine?’ Sam asked. ‘If Lauren cared about her and wanted to protect her from . . .’ He stopped, reluctant to use the word ‘attack’. Though Simon was right: there was no word that better described what Francine Breary had been subjected to. A sustained attack, albeit written and verbal rather than physical. ‘Why didn’t Lauren . . . I don’t know, report Tim’s mistreatment of Francine to Social Services?’

‘What could she have said? It’s just talking, isn’t it? Not even shouting, not aggressive. Calm, quiet. She’s overheard a man chatting to his invalid wife, that’s all. And she’s read some letters that people have tried to hide, and, yes, she knows they’re bad news. Very bad.’ Simon hauled himself to his feet and started to walk round the room. He was limping; pins and needles.

‘Instinctively, she knows exactly what the letters mean,’ he said. ‘They mean deliberate cruelty, but someone like Lauren, not the brightest in the world, how’s she going to put that into words and make sure she’s believed over the likes of Tim Breary with his collection of poetry books and exclusive library membership, and Dan Jose with his economic theory research and his old-fart tweedy suits? Educated millionaires who write touchy-feely letters full of anecdotes and insights and therapeutic airing of everything that’s been bothering them that they’ve never had the guts to express until now. Poor fucking them! Who do you think Social Services are going to prioritise in that situation? The husband and best friends, or the chippy hired help? Lady-of-the-Manor Kerry, with her original art on the walls of her listed building, or tattooed, anorexic Lauren who can’t open her mouth without a stream of foul language spilling out?’

‘When you put it like that . . .’ Sam muttered.

‘Lauren can
feel
exactly what’s wrong, but she can’t think it through,’ said Simon. ‘And she’s married to Jason, which is confusing for her.
That’s
what abuse is, she probably thinks. Psychological torture’s what Jason does, so how can this be the same and as bad when it’s so different? She can’t answer her own questions, she’s getting more and more desperate. Then, I’m guessing, one day she overhears Dan Jose read a letter aloud to Francine for the first time. The cruelty’s escalating, she thinks – though not in those precise words. How bad could it get? Answer: very. She has to get Francine out of the Dower House. So she does it the only way she knows how – she takes a pillow and puts an end to an unremittingly miserable life.’

‘A mercy killing,’ Sam said quietly.

‘In the truest sense, yes.’

‘What about Tim Breary’s confession?’

‘I can’t say for sure, but I think there’s a good chance Francine’s death broke the spell,’ Simon said. ‘The addiction, whatever you want to call it. Think about it: Lauren tells Tim what she’s done and she tells him why. She’s distraught. He sees his behaviour through her eyes. Feels guilty, maybe. Hard to see how he could feel good about turning a basically decent young woman into a killer. Hopefully it brought him to his senses.’

‘He confessed to protect Lauren,’ said Sam. ‘Or Jason strong-armed him: “You caused all this trouble for my wife and therefore me; you’re taking the blame.”’

‘Partly, maybe,’ said Simon, staring out of the window. ‘Could have been a bit of both, but neither was the main force driving him.’

‘Gaby,’ said Sam, not knowing quite what he meant.

‘Gaby,’ Simon repeated expressionlessly. ‘Breary still wanted her, and with Francine dead, there was nothing to stop him, except his conviction that he didn’t deserve her.’

‘Even more so now, presumably,’ Sam said.

‘Right. Soon as Gaby found out the truth about how he, Kerry and Dan had been treating Francine, she’d want nothing to do with him – that’s what he thought.’

‘So he pretended he’d killed Francine,’ said Sam. Finally, he felt as if he was getting somewhere. ‘It’s still bad – it’s murder, it’s worse – but in a different way. In a way that seems less grim and repellent, somehow. More . . . honest.’

‘More male,’ said Simon. ‘Less humiliating. Straightforward evil of the masculine variety: brutal, yes, but over quickly – not endlessly sick and spiteful, not pathetic. You murder the person you hate. It’s a show of force. There’s something effeminate about subtly torturing your helpless wife with carefully chosen words. If Lauren had admitted to killing Francine, the truth would have come out – Breary would have been certain that’d scupper his chance with Gaby. At the same time, he didn’t want Gaby to be under any illusions about his moral character – he wouldn’t have seen that as being fair to her.’

‘So he tells Lauren he’ll take the blame,’ Sam took over the story. ‘In doing so, he protects her, which, given the circumstances, feels like the right thing to do, and he can finally be honest with Gaby, he thinks, even though he’s being anything but. Still, he feels as if his . . . badness is out in the open. So many of Kerry and Dan’s letters mention his lack of self-esteem.’

‘Exactly,’ said Simon. ‘He’s going to be labelled a murderer and punished, and it’ll wipe his slate clean. He can say to Gaby, “Look, this is how bad I am. I’ve done the worst thing a person can do. Can you forgive me?” Whereas he wouldn’t have dared ask her the same question in relation to what he’d
really
done.’

‘Yes. That makes sense, doesn’t it?’ Sam asked. He still wasn’t sure.

‘Perfect sense,’ he heard a woman’s voice say. He turned.

Gaby Struthers stood in the doorway. ‘Correct in every detail,’ she told Simon.

‘How do you know?’ Sam asked her.

‘How do you think?’

‘Tim told you?’

Gaby nodded. ‘And Lauren. She so desperately wanted to tell the truth and be told she’d done nothing wrong. Tim deprived her of that chance by insisting on protecting her. He begged her to let him take the blame. Jason backed him up. So did Kerry and Dan, once they saw how desperate he was to bury the truth. He convinced them that the only thing he had to live for now was me, that I’d want nothing to do with him if I found out he’d mistreated his bedridden wife until her care assistant had been driven to kill her out of pity.’

‘But he thought you’d forgive him for killing her,’ said Simon.

‘You don’t need me to explain the difference,’ Gaby told him. ‘You’ve said it all already: a sudden murderous impulse on the one hand, and on the other, constant passive-aggressive victimisation over a period of years, slow and insidious.’ She looked very serious suddenly. ‘You were right when you called it an addiction. Tim didn’t plan to torture anyone. He just got caught up in something stronger than he was. I’m not justifying what he did – it was wrong, but—’

‘There’s no “but”,’ Simon said.

‘If you were Tim, if you’d had his exact life experiences and been through exactly the same formative psychological process that he went through, can you honestly say you’d have behaved differently?’

Did that question make sense? Sam wondered. If Simon were Tim Breary, would he have behaved as Tim Breary behaved? Yes. Obviously.

‘What about Lauren?’ Gaby asked. ‘Is there a “but” for her? She also killed Jason.’

‘We know,’ Simon said.

‘He attacked her on Friday, after he attacked me. She decided enough was enough. Another life she felt she had no choice but to take.’

‘I’m sympathetic, but I’m not sure the law will be,’ said Simon. Sam had been thinking the same thing, but hadn’t wanted to say it.

‘I’m sure it wouldn’t be,’ said Gaby. ‘Still. The law will have to find her first.’ A smile played around the corners of her mouth. ‘I don’t know, obviously – I’m just guessing – but I’d imagine that Lauren might be out of reach by now. It could be that when you go to the Dower House to look for her, you’ll find it empty.’

‘If you know where she is, you’d better tell us,’ said Simon. It could have been intended as a threat, but Sam heard only weariness.

‘I don’t know anything,’ Gaby replied smoothly ‘I’m speculating.’

‘Are Kerry and Dan with her?’ Sam asked.

‘I don’t know where any of them are, but I doubt Lauren would be capable of getting far without support. Or of staying hidden indefinitely. Don’t you agree? You’ve met her.’

‘We’ll find her,’ Simon told Sam: a show of bravado, for Gaby’s benefit.

‘I’m sure you will, if you look long and hard enough,’ she said. ‘Or you could not look quite so hard, and catch bad guys instead. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to be for?’

Before Simon or Sam could answer, she’d gone.

‘Marjolaine,’ Tim says, staring at the door at the far end of the corridor. He’s stopped several feet away from it, white-faced. I know how hard it’s going to be for him to come any closer. I’m not going to try and persuade him. It has to be up to him. I tried to solve the mystery of his nightmare years ago, when he wasn’t ready, and I drove him away.

‘I’d forgotten that the rooms had names and that ours was called Marjolaine,’ he says, almost whispering. ‘They’re all named after flowers, or herbs. I remember Francine saying.’

‘You don’t have to come with me, but I’m going to go inside,’ I tell him. ‘Okay?’ I booked the room for one night in order to have the access I need this afternoon, even though Tim and I aren’t staying. We’re here for the day only. Tim would never have agreed to stay at Les Sources des Alpes in any case, even if I’d suggested it. If he’s wondering why I booked us outbound and inbound flights on the same day instead of suggesting we stay overnight at a different hotel, he hasn’t mentioned it.

Another thing he hasn’t mentioned since getting out of prison: that I’ve spent every night at the Combingham Best Western and he’s spent every night at the Dower House, both of us alone. I know and understand his reasons. He doesn’t want to rush me.

Damn his reasons to hell. They make no difference.

Be fair, Gaby. He’s the one who suggested this, coming here. That’s huge, for him.

Huge for Tim isn’t good enough for me any more. I need him to do things that are huge by my standards. Nothing less will do.

The key is gold, heavy, shaped like a bell. I unlock the door and walk in. To anyone but Tim, this would look like an ordinary hotel room. He calls my name from the corridor, anxious because he can’t see me.

I can’t stand this. What if I wait for him to decide to come in and he never does? ‘The walls aren’t even plain white,’ I shout back. They’re wallpapered: a pattern of pastel coloured squares against a cream background. ‘Tim, I promise you, you won’t be scared of this room the second you set foot inside it. It’s not the room from your nightmare. It’s enormous, for one thing.’

He’s moving. I feel the vibration in the floor. When he comes in, I expect him to stop in the doorway but he strides over so that he’s standing right next to me, our arms touching. He looks around. I listen to his jagged breathing.