The Red Room (20 page)

* 335
I was driven back in a police car through the
early morning. The roads were already full of
traffic. The wet pavements gleamed in the low
sunlight. The metal shutters outside
newsagents were being scrolled up. Asian
grocers were arranging oranges and baskets of
plums in pyramids outside their shops. A
refuse van moved slowly along, picking up
sacks that had been left by the side of the road.
I lay back and watched London move past
me. I thought about Will, his frowning face in the
candlelight, and about Bryony Teale with her
apricot hair and her smile and trembling hands.
I pictured Bryony alongside Lianne, and
Philippa. I touched my scar. Welcome to the
club, I thought to myself. Then I tried not to think
at all.

27

Julie was still in bed. I could hear her turning
over on her divan in the room that a long time
ago had been my study. I boiled the kettle
and heaped several tablespoons of coffee beans
into the grinder. I covered it with a tea-towel before
turning it on, but still I heard Julie groan
through the walls. I put my nose close to the
coffee and inhaled deeply. In the fridge I
found a nectarine, which I quartered and put on a
plate, and a small pot of Greek yogurt.
I drank the strong, rich coffee slowly, between
small bites of sweet juicy nectarine and
creamy spoonfuls of yogurt. It was seven
o'clock.
I had to arrange to see Doll and maybe the
other witness. I had to visit Bryony Teale.
And I wanted to see W. I lifted my hand and
put it against my neck, my cheek. My skin
felt soft and tender. I closed my eyes and
let his face come into my mind. Maybe he
didn't want to see me again, though--maybe that was
it, a few hours in the middle of one sleepless
night.
Julie staggered in, wearing a man's shirt that
looked suspiciously like one of Albie's. Where
had she found that? "Hi," she said vaguely, and
padded over to the fridge. She poured herself a mug
of milk and drank it in one go. Then she turned
to me, with a white mustache on her upper lip.
"Everything OK?" 337
"Yes. I guess."
"Emergency over?"
"For the time being."
"Good. Want a slice of toast?"
"No thanks."
I went and stood by the window, looking out on to the
street, as if he'd be walking there.
"I wish ..." I stopped.
"Yes? Tell me?"
I had his home number. Why not? I rang
him. There were several rings before he answered. The
receiver was picked up and there was a muffled greeting.
It sounded something like: "Unngh."
"It's me," I said. "Kit."
There was another unintelligible sound followed
by a pause. Gathering his faculties perhaps.
"Did you just wake up?" he said.
"I've just got in," I said.
"What do you mean?"
"I was called out."
"Oh." There was a pause. "Do you want to have
breakfast?"
"Now?"
"What's the time?" I heard some fumbling and a
groan. "At about eight?"
"At your place?"
"I don't really eat much at my place."
I was disappointed. I wanted to see his home.
People say that you're strongest on your own
territory. It's not true. Your own territory
is where you're vulnerable. You can play at being a
tourist everywhere else, but the place where you sleep
will give things away about you. Somehow I found it
hard to imagine Will Pavic living anywhere. He
gave me directions to what he described as a
pretty basic caf@e that he went to on his way
to work. I put the phone down. How many hours'
sleep had I had? One. Maybe two. I
felt as if there was somebody small inside my
head jabbing the back of my eyeballs with
slightly warmed needle points. I went to the
bathroom, filled the basin with cold water,
dipped my face in it and held it under for as long
as I could manage. I looked at it in the
mirror, water running off it. Had last night
really happened? It felt confused in my mind
now, different bits running together, like in a dream.
That face, my face, was the best evidence that
something had occurred. Pale, 339
hollow-eyed--whichat a sight.

Andy Caf@e was full of smoke and people in
donkey-jackets and steel-capped boots. Will
waved me over from the far corner. I sat
opposite him and we didn't touch.
"I'm having a basic fry-up," he said.
"What about you?"
"I'll just have coffee."
"I wouldn't recommend their coffee."
"Tea, then."
"What about food?"
"I ate something when I got in."
Will's food arrived, stacked on a large
oval plate, with two uncompromisingly dark
brown cups of tea. He loaded some fried
egg, bacon and tomato onto his fork.
"I'm sorry," he said, before filling his mouth.
"What about?"
He had to chew and swallow for a long time before he
was able to speak. He took a gulp of tea. I
took a gulp of tea. "Leaving like that," he said.
"I don't sleep. I get restless. It's
better to go."
I didn't speak and Will carried on eating.
He wasn't looking at me.
"You don't need to make excuses," I said.
"I suppose I'd like you to be honest with me.
I'm tired of playing games with people. Or maybe
just tired."
Will was mopping up egg yolk from his plate with a
piece of fried bread. It was almost more than I
could bear at this time of the morning. He put it
into his mouth and chewed it vigorously. He wiped
his mouth with a paper napkin. He raised his eyes
and looked at me. As he did so I realized
how rare that was. He was always looking to one
side, over my shoulder. I had seen him naked,
I had been to bed with him, yet I had hardly
looked in his eyes. He was some years older than
me, about forty, but looked older with graying hair
and a face that wasn't so much wrinkled as creased
over his ferocious high cheekbones. But his eyes
were gray and very clear, like a child's eyes.
"It wasn't just that," he said, his face
coloring slightly. "I looked at you when you'd
fallen asleep. I brushed the hair off your
face. You're a heavy sleeper." He smiled
slightly. "You looked lovely."
"Look, you don't have to ... I 341
know I'm not ..."
"Shut up and listen. What I was trying to say
is that you looked different. It was the first time I
had ever seen you when you didn't look sad or
anxious or ..." He hesitated and then said,
"Or too hopeful."
"Oh, well, hopeful," I said. It made
me sound pathetic, like a spaniel that was going to be
kicked.
"You'd even looked a bit sad when you'd
walked across your room and kissed me. But then,
when you were asleep and didn't know anyone was there,
you looked young and peaceful."
I took a sip of the last of my tea. It was
even browner and more bitter than the rest had been.
"And," continued Will, "I just had the sudden
feeling that the best favor I could do you was not to be
around."
"I don't need to be protected," I said.
"I can make up my own mind about what's best for
me. And, anyway, I think you're maybe quite a
happy person, in your own grim sort of way.
Especially considering the number of people who hate
you. It's amazing, I would have thought that a part of your
job was to get on with the police and the social
services."
"I don't have a job," Will said, frowning.
"A lot of these kids I'm trying to keep clear
of the police and social services."
"You talk as if they're out to get you."
"They are out to get me."
"I've heard people talk about drug-dealing on
your premises. They said they'll charge you with
conspiracy. You could go down for ten years."
"Fuck them," he said dismissively.
"Well, do you allow it?"
He gave a noncommittal grunt.
"I'm not wired, you know."
He shrugged. "You've seen the place.
Obviously we keep dealers out, or try to.
But it's the culture. We're trying to help these
people. It's complicated and messy. It's not like
reading out a paper at a seminar."
"Do you know what I think?"
Now he did allow his features to relax into a
sort of good humor. "No, Kit. I don't
know what you think."
"I think there's a bit of you that would like to be
arrested and sent to prison, just to confirm your view
of what the world is like." 343
"I'm not interested in gestures."
"That depends if you count martyrdom as a
gesture."
I looked at him, unsure whether he would
flare up or give his sarcastic laugh. He
seemed unsure himself. "Maybe it's flattering
to be hated," he said finally.
"I think that might be one of the definitions of
paranoia," I responded. "Maybe the idea
that everybody's out to get you is preferable to the fear
of just being ignored."
"But you just said that everybody .was out to get me."
"Yeah, I forgot. Are you ever going to ask me
back to your place?"
"What do you mean?"
"You talked about not being able to sleep in
unfamiliar surroundings. I'm curious to see
how you manage it in your own bed."
He looked at his watch. "I'd invite you
back now but it's about twenty to nine. I've got
people to meet."
"I didn't mean that."
He looked the closest to embarrassed that I'd
ever seen. "Sure," he said. "Anytime."
"What about tonight?"
"That's a possibility," he said. "I'd just
have to warn you, among various warnings, that it's quite
austere. I mean, it lacks a woman's touch."
"I'm glad to hear that."
Suddenly he looked more somber. "Don't
expect too much from me, Kit," he said, in a
return to his usual starker tone.
I gave a sigh. "I don't think I
expect very much at all," I said, and I gave
a huge yawn.
"Tired?"
"I think today's going to be a bit of a
struggle."
"What happened last night?"
I sat back in my chair and looked at him.
"Do you really want to know?" I said. "It's
nothing interesting."
"Yes, I want to know."
So I ordered two more teas for us and I gave
him a pr@ecis of my night at the hospital.
"So what are you going to do now?" he said, when
I'd finished.
"She was deeply shocked when I saw her.
I'll talk to her over the next few days and
see if I can find out anything."
"Walking along the canal after 345
midnight," Will said scornfully. "Honestly!"
"You mean she was asking for it?"
"I mean she was a fucking idiot." He
took a sip of tea. "What was her husband
called?"
I thought for a moment, trying to get the pea-soup
fog in my brain to disperse. "Gabriel," I
said. That sarcastic smile again. "Do you know him?"
"I know who he is."
"Who is he?"
"Haven't you heard of that theater building that's
opened in one of the warehouses by the railway? The
Sugarhouse or something. You know, Hungarian
mime artists on stilts, that sort of thing. That's
him."
"I think I've heard of it."
"Lottery grants. Revitalizing the
community. He should just fuck off back over the
hill to Islington and then his wife wouldn't get
attacked."
"Revitalizing the community is your job, is
it?"
Will didn't reply but ran his finger around the
rim of his cup. Then he looked up at me.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what are you doing? Are you trying
to make them better or do you think you'll catch the
murderer all on your own?"
"I'm an adviser, that's all," I said
uncomfortably.
"You don't need to convince me," he said.
"What do I know? As far as I can see, there's
someone driving around attacking women. They are
dangerous, they need to be caught. All that's
clear. I don't understand what you're doing. Or
why. Why you're so involved. I don't understand
what you're after." With his finger he gently traced
the scar on my face. It made me shiver.
"You've already been attacked once. Isn't that
enough?"
I took his hand in mine. "Stop that," I said.
"I should introduce you to some detectives. You
all seem to feel the same about what I'm up
to. Meanwhile I've got to do some of this useless
work."
"I didn't say it was useless. I said I
didn't understand it."
I leaned down and kissed him. "The problem,"
I said, "with everything, really, is that you 347
only know at the end, when it's too late, if it
was worthwhile. I'll see you."
"Tonight?"
"You want me to?"
"You want me to get down on one knee?"
I looked around the caf@e. "Not here," I
said. "Look, here I am, all hopeful, as you
put it. I'm saying I want to see you again,
tonight, at your place. Now, what about you?"
"Yes," he said, in a voice so low it was
almost a whisper. "Yes." We stared at each
other.
When I left he was still sitting there, with his
greasy plate and cold tea and stern face. In
twelve hours, I would hold him again.

28

At last, I thought, a witness who was
straightforward, a man who spoke his mind, dealt
in facts and nothing else, saw what there was to be
seen, never let fancies cloud his judgement.
He shook my hand firmly and cleared his throat
as a preliminary to speaking. My eyes felt
scorched in their sockets. All the coffee and the
dark brown tea I had drunk this morning was
toxic in my system.
"Dr. Quinn," I said.
"I'm Terence Mack. But people call me
Terry."
"Do you make a habit of walking along the
canal after midnight?" I asked.
He gave a sniff. "I don't think someone
like me needs to worry."
I couldn't help but agree. He was compact and
gingery, with hairy knuckles and wrists, and long
ear-lobes. His dark gray suit was rather too
tight round his waist, and he wore, over his white
shirt, a striped red and black tie that made my
head ache even more. He, too, must have been up
half the night, but he didn't look weary at
all. He sat upright and alert.
But he was a dead loss, for all that. Like most
witnesses, he had only realized after the event that
something was happening. I had his statement in front
of me. It was short and precise; he had even
noted the exact time of the attack immediately afterwards:
1:19 A.M. according to his watch, which was set at
the correct time, to be sure. He had, he said,
been walking along the canal because he had 349
been at a meeting with clients from Singapore at
the Pelham Hotel, just up the road, and afterwards
had been unable to find a taxi. The path was the
shortest route to the busy intersection of roads
near Kersey Town station, where he knew there was a
cab rank.
"I was coming out of the tunnel," he said to me now.
"There's a light there. So I stepped out into the
darkness andfora moment I couldn't see anything at
all. You know how it is." I nodded. "I just
heard a noise. I could make out some shapes,
scuffling, by the water's edge. Then the next thing
I knew there was this woman in my arms,
screaming."
"And she said ..." I looked back at the
statement his... "Help! Help, please
help.""
"Maybe she said help more times than that, I
can't be exact. She screamed from an inch away.
Her hair was in my eyes, so I couldn't see
much at all, but her voice was clear enough."
"And you saw nothing after that."
"Just this other fellow standing there."
"The other witness?"
He raised his bushy eyebrows.
"Weird-looking guy."
"What did he do?"
"Who?"
"The weird-looking guy."
"He helped."
"And there was definitely another man?"
"What do you mean? What do you think this is all
about?"
I looked at the statement once more. "There
isn't much of a description here."
He looked a little shamefaced. "It was over so
quickly. Just shapes in the darkness and the woman flying
at me. I didn't really know what was going on.
At least I noticed the time."
"That was good," I said. "How was Bryony, I
mean, the woman?"
"A bit shocked," said Terence. "A bit
hysterical. She was saying it was all right, there was
no need to do anything, even though she was in a
terrible state. Poor girl. Is she all
right?"
"She's traumatized. But she will be, I
think. What was Doll--the other guy--doing while
you were phoning?"
"Doing? Not very much. Holding on 351
to her, seeing if she was all right. Not the kind you
need around in an emergency. She was crying by then,
but softly. Holding on to my arm and whimpering and
saying would I stay with her. She was in shock, I
could see that. Her hands were trembling. She was
breathing in these short gasps. I hope they gave
her tea with lots of sugar, that's always best for
shock. Can I ask you something?"
"Yes."
"The fellow I gave my statements to, name
of Gil I think, he said the attacker was
probably the same man who murdered
Philippa Burton."
"He did?" I said drily.
"Is he?"
"I don't know."
"I should have got him. I could've. I didn't
know what was going on."
"You're sure there was nothing about the fourth shape
you remember--height, hair, clothing?"
He shook his head regretfully. "It was over
so quickly."
"Did you see where he went?"
"No. I presumed up the steps to the road,
but I didn't see him. I should have followed,
shouldn't I?"
"You phoned for help. That was the main thing.
It's for the police to run after people."
"She was shivering. I put my jacket over
her shoulders until the police and ambulance
arrived."
"Good. That was good."
"But Philippa Burton's murderer. That
would have been something. ..."