For the rest of that day I set about fabricating Charles’s trail. It struck me as fortuitous that we had opened a bank account in Barcelona for Martin Kraus. I transferred money into it, as I described to you, as a kind of insurance in case TQS and Martin Kraus came to light, as of course they eventually did, hoping to make it appear that they were Charles’s invention. That afternoon I took a bag with Charles’s clothes, his bloodied handkerchief and a suicide note I had written for him, and drove down to the south coast in his car, leaving it on a meter which would, I hoped, guarantee its discovery on the Monday. I then caught a train back to London. I knew that the supposed suicide would probably not be believed, but that didn’t matter so long as the hunt was for him, rather than for me.
In a way, that was the easy part, driven along by adrenaline. The difficult bit, as I soon discovered, was living with the knowledge of what I had done, and watching the investigation going on around me, waiting for some dreadful flaw to reveal itself. For instance, I found that I had mislaid one of my driving gloves, and was terrified that I might have left it in Charles’s car. When the designer of a building makes a mistake he can always say to his client, as Frank Lloyd Wright famously did to one of his who complained that the roof was leaking, “Move your chair”. When the designer of a murder makes a mistake, the result is deadly serious, as I have learned.
It became a terrible irony that I had been the one who had planned to break free of the Verge Practice, yet now I was the sole surviving partner, obliged to stay with the plummeting balloon for fear of betraying my part in events. After a couple of months of the investigation, I began to feel that I might indeed escape. Then they brought in the new team under DCI Brock, and the whole nightmare began again, from the beginning. And this time things began to unravel. After the interview last Friday, I realised that the game was up. Nothing could save me.
I’ve gone on too long. There is no point in delaying further.
Sandy Clarke
18
In her hotel room, Kathy read the fax for the third time. She felt cheated, and not only by Sandy Clarke. The McNeils, Dr Lizancos, Carlos with the black spiky writing, had all in their various, innocent ways embellished Clarke’s false trail, even though Alvarez and Jeez had warned her against it. She’d cheated herself, that was the really annoying thing, because her idea had seemed more interesting.
And, just to compound her frustration, she discovered one further twist in the false trail before she turned in for the night. Sorting through her bag she found the slim file on Luz Diaz she had borrowed from the CGP. Reminding herself to return it before she left, she flicked through the pages. Though mostly in Spanish, it included the summary in English which had been sent to London following the interview that the Barcelona police had conducted with Luz on the twentieth of July. Two officers had visited her at the small studio apartment she rented. She had been cooperative and, they felt, credible. Afterwards they had spoken to her landlord, an elderly man living on the ground floor of the same block. He confirmed that she had lived there for six years, had paid her rent regularly and been a model tenant, quiet and extremely private. If she had any male visitors, he wasn’t aware of it.
The only supporting documents that Kathy could understand were some copies of Luz’s recent telephone bills. They were remarkable for their brevity. The artist had
hardly used the phone at all. Some of the listed calls had been annotated with pencilled notes identifying the number-a taxi company, an art gallery, the airport. One was marked ‘Sitges’. It began with the digits 93 894, just like Dr Lizancos’s second number, and when Kathy checked her notebook she found it was the same. A year ago, Luz Diaz had made a call to the Apollo-Sitges Fitness Club. What did that mean?
Needing someone to talk it over with before she spoke to Brock, she phoned home, but got only the answering machine. When she tried Leon’s mobile there was no response. She had a shower and went to bed.
The following morning she had her last big breakfast in the hotel cellar, then checked out and caught a cab across town to the car-hire office, where she picked up a little red Seat Cordo. Despite Clarke’s revelations, she had decided to go ahead with her trip along the coast. There was nothing she could do to help Tony and Linda, and she was intrigued by the two references to the Apollo-Sitges Fitness Club.
She drove carefully through the city traffic, adjusting to driving on the other side of the road and trying to follow the route, drawn for her with a ballpoint line on a city map, towards the airport autovia. When she reached the A-16 she switched on the radio and picked up speed, opening the little car up to one hundred kilometres per hour, the sun shimmering off the roofs of industrial buildings and low-flying aircraft, and occasionally, in the distance, the glittering sheet of the sea.
Before long she reached the exit for Sitges Centro and turned off the highway towards the town, crossing under the railway line and continuing on through residential streets until she came to the seafront. After the density and bustle of Barcelona, the town had a pleasantly relaxed scale. Cream and pink hotels lined the front, overlooking colonnades of palm trees and the beaches beyond. Girls walked arm in arm along the boulevard, boys played beach volleyball or danced on windsurfers in the light breeze.
Kathy parked her car and strolled along the front. She thought she sensed an end-of-season mood, as if the bars and restaurants that lined the footpath had an air of fatigue after a long, hot summer. After a while she turned off into one of the narrow streets that ran up into the old town, passing shops selling sandals, straw hats and souvenirs, and climbing finally to the cluster of little museums and monuments on the point overlooking the Mediterranean. As she tried to take an interest in the odd collections of artworks and artefacts, she felt like a fraud, a tourist by default, extemporising until it was time to return to reality. She bought the most brightly coloured postcard she could find, ordered a short black at the next cafe she came to, and wrote a little message to Leon: ‘One day we’ll come here together.’
There was a payphone in the corner of the cafe, Kathy noticed, and on a shelf beneath it a well-thumbed directory. She went over and turned the pages to the As, jotting down the address for the Apollo-Sitges Fitness Club. The name was in English, she saw, presumably aiming at the tourist market. Perhaps Dr Lizancos was the owner, coming each week to check on his investment. The cafe owner gave her a stamp for the postcard, and unfolded a street map to show her where the Apollo-Sitges was located, in the newer area of the town to the west, and a couple of blocks back from the waterfront.
What with the big breakfasts, Kathy felt like some exercise. Why not? she thought. The worst that could happen was that she’d bump into Lizancos and he’d complain to Alvarez that she was harassing him. She walked back to her car, dug a T-shirt, track pants and trainers from her suitcase, and put them into a carrier bag.
The receptionist, a very muscular young man with hair as blonde as Kathy’s and a name tag identifying him as ‘Sigfried’, eyed her navy suit trousers and white blouse, clearly wondering where she’d come from. ‘Here on business?’ he asked, in a strong German accent.
‘Just passing through. A friend recommended you. Luz Diaz, from Barcelona. She’s a member, I think. You know her?’
‘I don’t recognise the name. Are you interested in membership?’
‘No, I don’t think I’ll be back for some time.’
‘Okay. Just one session then, huh?’
‘Thanks. I haven’t brought a towel, though.’
‘No problem.’ He fetched one from a cupboard at his back, and led Kathy through to the gym. He pointed out the machines, the spa and the changing rooms in a bored voice, then left her to it. The place didn’t seem very large, or very busy, with just a couple of men there labouring with weights. There was no sign of Dr Creepy, Kathy was pleased to see. Probably in a back office doing the books.