‘Why?’
‘To see if he has anything to add.’
‘The one who took the pictures?’
‘Be nice to him, Frank. He isn’t the one who jumped. He could be useful.’
They crossed the dismal waiting room, where another posse of people waited their turn with the Coroner, shuffling to one side to let them through. It reminded Thomas of the ruthless efficiency of a crematorium. Thomas had read the Coroner’s daily list. Short cases and adjournments first, full hearings next. The man had a long day.
Paul Bain, equally bemused by his role in the day’s procedure, stood outside, smoking, along with other waifs and strays who were wondering what to do next. The suppressed anxiety of the courtroom spread into the street, despite the brusque kindliness of officials who marshalled them in and marshalled them out. There was an air about Bain which said, ‘Is this it?’ He looked like someone who expected to be punched.
‘Good of you to come, Mr Bain,’ Thomas said to him with his frightening bonhomie.
‘I didn’t have any choice, did I? Are you the lawyer? Will I have to come next time?’
‘’Fraid so, Mr Bain. Next time, you’ll have to give evidence, verbally. I wondered if we could talk to you about that.’
‘I’ve given a statement to the police. That’s all I’m doing.’
You gave your statement to the newspapers, you little swine, Thomas wanted to say. You’ve had your lucky moment and you don’t look as if it’s made you happy, yet. Tough luck.
‘I’m looking after Ms Shearer’s affairs.’ He almost added ‘in her absence’, and thought at the same time that the choice of the word ‘affairs’ was unfortunate. Marianne must have had Affairs, in the improper use of the word, and he might have to find out about those, too. Distasteful, but she was leaving him with no choice. There was some elegant man to whom she had alluded but never described.
‘And I simply wanted to ask you, as the only observer of her untimely death, if there’s anything else you noticed. It must have been a terrible shock.’
He managed to make the sympathy sound genuine. Bain had a face like a weasel and the stature of a small, disappointed man to whom life had not been fair. He was defensive, belligerent and apologetic at the same time, trying not to admit he was out of his depth and still suffering something he did not deserve. Being paid well for the evidence of his own trauma was not a palliative. He was still owed some sort of compensation for feeling bad. Frank Shearer stood to one side, saying nothing, but hemming him in. Paul stubbed out his cigarette. Frank took out a packet and offered him another. It came across rather like a command to stay still. He took the cigarette. Frank lit it for him, solicitously, holding the lighter far too close.
‘What else could I have noticed? I noticed her, that was all. You couldn’t really notice anything else.’
‘Yes, I understand that, but now you’ve had a few days to consider, do any other details come to mind?’
‘I don’t know what you mean. I saw a woman jumping off a fucking balcony, that’s what I saw.’
‘Could you see inside the room?’
‘Not beyond the curtains, no. I remember them blowing outwards, there was a bit of a breeze, I had my coat on, oh shit.’
The cigarette trembled in his fingers and he took a deep drag on it. It seemed to calm him.
‘You didn’t by any chance see anyone else on the balcony?’
‘Would have been in the pictures, wouldn’t it? There was someone on the next balcony.’
‘Yes, I know that. I mean, could you have seen someone else behind Ms Shearer? You know, in the room itself.’
‘I couldn’t see…’
‘Not even a shadow? A teeny, weeny shadow? A movement? Perhaps you’d like to think about it,’ Thomas said, smoothly proffering his business card. ‘And then, when you have, come and see me and discuss it? I’ll pay your hourly rate, of course, whatever that might be. Thanks so much for your time.’
He shook Paul Bain’s hand, warmly, watched his face turn from puzzlement to shrewdness, and ushered Frank away.
‘What the hell was all that about?’ Frank said as they sank into a taxi. ‘What exactly are you up to? Christ, Tom old boy, you were practically offering the guy money up front for something. Whose money and why?’
‘Don’t ever think I don’t work hard for you, Frank. I’m always devoted to the interests of my clients. I was just acting strategically, that’s all, taking an opportunity, just in case. I told you we don’t want a verdict of suicide. I’ve looked at the policies. The damn policies are about all I’ve got. If it’s suicide, the estate could be short of rather a lot of money. Mr Bain has already shown that he’s absolutely corruptible, so it occurred to me that he might be willing to muddy the waters a little. The mere suggestion that there might have been someone else in the room behind Marianne does exactly that.’
‘But you don’t think there was? The police would have found that out, wouldn’t they?’
‘I don’t think there was anyone else there. I think she deliberately chose to be alone. The room was booked for a single occupant. But there could have been someone else there, and as for the police going through the place with a fine-tooth comb to see if there was any evidence of a visitor, well I know the police and I doubt if they did. Suicide isn’t a crime, and it wasn’t a crime scene. All pretty cut and dried as far as they were concerned. No one got into her room until about twenty minutes after she jumped. They would have taken away her stuff and responded to pressure from the hotel to get the room back in service as soon as possible. Apparently she left it very tidy. They wouldn’t have dusted it for fingerprints. So there’s room for suggestion.’
Frank laughed in admiration.
‘My God, Tom, you’re a cold fish.’
‘No, merely devoted.’
Thomas looked out of the window of the cab and watched the rain begin. Bloody January. Cold and dark and a good time to die. He wanted to be back in his homely office in Lincoln’s Inn, where he could watch the rain from the window. It occurred to him as he watched a girl running for shelter, teetering on high heels and hopelessly dressed for the weather, that Marianne Shearer had also been inappropriately dressed for her death. That ridiculous skirt. He felt utterly depressed, covered it with words.
‘I’m only doing what you told me to do, Frank. What I suppose she would have wished me to do. Which is to look inconvenient facts in the eye and twist them if possible, especially if there’s anything to be gained, no matter how small. That’s what she would have done.’
‘Good, Tom, good. Keep at it. You can drop me off here.’
Disgusting man. Disgusting servitude. A bloody mess, but at least the rain had stopped. Thomas Noble took a turn round Lincoln’s Inn Fields to calm down. He could not yet admit to Frank Shearer what a legacy his sister had left, not just a mess, but also a deliberate mystery. Somewhere there was a record of what she really wanted; there was a sense of threat if he did not find it. He must explore the looming possibilities of the affair, the existence of some secret, trusted person holding her papers and unwilling to come forward. It would have to be a man, a lover of sorts since she neither trusted nor liked women. Maybe someone who did not even know she was dead. He could see Marianne jeering. He had the policies, the deeds to the flat, and the minimal mementos sent on from her chambers, the bulk of it being the transcript of that damn trial and that was all. As if the transcript was everything. Nothing personal, she was saying, talking through a mist in which her ugly face became blurred.
It was grey and misty in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. He hesitated at the door of the John Soane museum, wanting to go inside for the solace of beauty and its celebration of the collector’s constructive greed, but he saw the queue and walked on. Marianne loved it in there: the use of space was as crafty as she was. Thomas walked round the rim, watching the people walking their dogs, or rather, the dogs walking the people, and noticing, not for the first time, how animals and owners resembled each other.