Martin shook his head again. ‘Nope, all squared with O’Neill. Remember, if something comes of this, there will be an opportunity to sell on the exclusive. This could be a big deal for him.’
My lips thinned. ‘Charming.’
If he heard my own air of reproach, he shrugged it off. ‘If we find Bethan and can get her to help with the search for Katie, it’s going to be a win-win for everybody, including her.’
I sighed, only slightly mollified. I don’t know why I was surprised, or even disappointed. Of course there were engines of self-interest and opportunism at work here. That’s just the way the world is. But it was a consideration that made Cambridge a little greyer, a little flatter. ‘I suppose.’
He raised an eyebrow at me, but didn’t reply.
Around us London honked and hissed and hammered. It had begun to rain – a faint sodden drizzle, and smart umbrellas were beginning to snap open on the pavements, hoods were drawn up, heels struck a little faster as they passed by. After the long drive, suddenly a wealth of secret energy seemed to surround me and buoy me up. There is something about London that always makes me feel more sharply alive. Every time I come here, I wonder why I don’t live here any more.
And then, just as suddenly, I remember why not, and a little puff of coldness blows across my heart.
We pulled into the underground car park beneath a squat grey block of offices, after a sceptical guard opened the barrier to let Martin drive through. Then there was a steel-grey staircase, then a steel-grey lift, and finally a steel-grey reception area with two bored middle-aged women in police uniforms. Their eyes flicked up and down Martin, and then up and down me.
‘I’ll tell her you’re here,’ said one; a lifetime of heavy smoking growled deep within her voice, like a lifting portcullis.
We were left to mill in the lobby together.
After what seemed like an age but was probably merely two minutes, while I fiddled with my bag and Martin stood, muscular arms crossed, a side door opened and a tiny woman with a tightly styled short red bob emerged, her heels making sharp little taps as she crossed the marble. She was dressed in a cool blue dress and pink cardigan, her identity pass dangling from a lanyard around her neck. Her face was smooth and youthful, her eyes hazel and twinkly behind ironically chunky horn-rimmed glasses.
‘Martin!’ she said, as though his presence was a delightful surprise, despite the fact that she must have been expecting us.
‘Greta,’ he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek decorously. ‘Good to see you.’
‘And you,’ she said. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked, turning to me.
I don’t know why, but there was something disingenuous about both the question and the lilt in her voice as she asked it, and it rattled me. Of course she must have known who I was, and this was merely a simple way to guide Martin into introducing us. Even though I was little more than a messenger, I felt the subject of intense but cloaked interest, and I didn’t like it.
‘Margot,’ I said briskly, shaking the proffered hand. ‘Margot Lewis.’
‘Margot,’ she said, as though sounding my name out for falsehoods. ‘Of course. Follow me.’
We were led up a dingy stairwell and through a series of corridors lined with offices, glass windows offering views inside them. Within the offices, towering piles of manila files balanced everywhere on desks and filing cabinets, and every so often I caught a glimpse of something intriguing – a map covered in pins, or an anatomically correct cloth doll.
‘Just in here,’ said Greta, pushing an already open door wider and letting us into a fusty-smelling room. Her office (it must be hers as there was a photo on the desk of her younger self with two small girls) was a little larger than the others I’d seen, and much tidier – though she still had to clear a chair free of books before Martin could sit in it. She wheeled her own chair out from behind the dark obstacle of her desk to face us, and I recognized a practical strategy meant to put me at my ease.
Unaccountably, it seemed to have the opposite effect. I have had many dealings with people who work in mental health, and I’d wager I can recognize all of their strategies, at a pinch.
‘So,’ she said, and she had the bright chirruping accent of someone from the Home Counties, who had doubtless played a sport like lacrosse at some discreetly expensive private school. ‘I understand you’ve been receiving some distressing letters, Margot.’ She laced her plump little hands on her lap, and I realized that the thing I’d been dreading was this – that I was once more going to be given the third degree.
I nodded.
‘How upsetting for you.’
‘It was a shock initially, but it doesn’t upset me,’ I answered, quickly and possibly somewhat impatiently. ‘Or at least it doesn’t upset me as much as it appears to upset the person sending them.’
She peered at me, as though I had just said something very interesting. ‘I see.’
The silence gathered, and I fought the urge to babble out something to fill it. Next to me, Martin shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat.
‘I suppose I’m wondering,’ she said, after a minute or so, ‘why you’re the one receiving these letters.’
I shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve no idea.’ I gestured over at Martin. ‘I’ve gone over my notes from the Examiner-’
‘The Examiner?’ she asked sharply.
‘Yes,’ I said, aware that she must already know this, but deciding to make it easy on myself by volunteering everything up front. I explained about receiving the first letter, the steps I’d already taken to find the author, while Martin sat with his arms crossed, refusing to meet anybody’s gaze. Something was bothering him.
As for Greta, she leaned forward, regarding me with bright, brittle attention as I finished. She wore a slight smile, as though she was waiting for me to inadvertently blurt out that I was the one holding Bethan Avery captive.
‘You checked in with the local psychiatric units, then?’ she asked. ‘Do you have contacts there?’
I eyed her. ‘Yes, I do. They’ve been very forthcoming with advice and materials for the column.’
‘And how did you meet them?’
I paused at this, a thin squirmy stirring moving across the tiny hairs at the back of my neck. Martin was frowning at Greta, deep lines framing the corner of his mouth. ‘I think most of the staff would help someone out with information on request,’ I say carefully, evading her more obvious question. ‘Educating people about mental health issues is part of what they do there.’
‘But do you know them socially?’
‘No, not socially,’ I said, keen to get this show on the road and myself out of this dingy office and away from her scrutiny. ‘Anyway, my understanding of the plan is that I am to publish something in my section of the paper that might make this woman reveal more about herself, or possibly come forward. I think the officer in charge of the case spoke to my boss at the paper about this yesterday and squared everything away with him.’ I crossed my legs, which felt chilled in the unfamiliar short skirt. ‘So I suppose all that remains to do is find out what I put in the paper and how you want me to handle any response.’
She watched me for another uncomfortable ten seconds and finally let out a little sigh. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ She opened a drawer, getting out a pen and paper. I was annoyed to see that the paper was blank. Martin had seemed very sure that the appeal I was to publish had already been written. I also realized that I had been expecting the supervising officer in charge of the case – O’Neill – to be here as well.