‘That’s Proust’s problem, not ours. Proust agreed to Hey coming in; he can explain it to Barrow.’
‘We should have gone to Cambridge. Why didn’t we go to Cambridge?’ Sam, using another of his wife Kate’s techniques, answered his own question. ‘Because you’d already invited Hey here, without checking with me or Proust or-’
‘Sam?’
‘What?’
‘Can you hear something?’
The raised voices grew louder as they ran. One raised voice: Harbard’s. Simon and Sam crashed through the double doors to reception.
‘Professions… Professors,’ said Sam, red-faced. Simon understood his nervousness. Personally, he felt oddly detached from the proceedings. He smiled at Jonathan Hey, who looked relieved to see him. Hey was eyeing Harbard anxiously. ‘Is there a mistake?’ he asked Simon. ‘Keith said you didn’t need me after all.’
‘Keith’s wrong.’
Harbard turned on Sam. ‘What’s going on? Aren’t I good enough any more? You send me on my way and call in my close friend and colleague without even telling me?’
‘Keith, I had no idea you hadn’t been told,’ said Hey, looking as uncomfortable as a schoolboy about to be caned by the headmaster. ‘Look, I really feel awkward about this.’ He looked at Simon, clearly hoping to be let off the hook. ‘As Keith says, we’re friends, and-’
Sam had recovered. ‘This way, Professor Hey,’ he said, leading Jonathan Hey out of reception, steering him by the shoulders so that he couldn’t decide to leave with Harbard as a gesture of solidarity. The doors banged shut behind them.
‘Six-six-three-eight-seven-zero,’ Simon told Harbard. ‘That’s the taxi number. If it doesn’t turn up in the next five minutes, give them a ring. Tell them to put it on our account.’
He turned his back on the irate professor and hurried after Sam and Jonathan Hey. He caught up with them halfway to meeting room one. ‘What did you say to him?’ Sam asked.
‘Oh, just smoothed his ruffled feathers and poured oil on troubled waters.’
‘Yeah, I bet.’
‘I hope you did, Simon.’ Hey sounded alarmed. ‘Poor Keith. I’d like to phone him as soon as possible, if that’s okay. I’m not happy about… the way this has happened. Couldn’t you have warned me, or…?’
‘Jonathan.’ Simon put a steadying hand on his arm. ‘I know Keith’s your mate and you don’t want to offend him, but this is more important. Four people are dead.’
Hey nodded. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘You know I’m happy to help if I can.’
‘You’ve been a big help to me already,’ Simon told him. ‘That’s why our DI’s looking forward to meeting you. Sergeant Kombothekra’ll tell you that Proust rarely looks forward to meeting anyone. Right, Sam?’
‘Well… um…’ Sam coughed to avoid having to reply. Bad form to take the piss out of your inspector in front of an outsider. Jonathan Hey looked back at Simon for reassurance. So did Sam. Simon considered how rare it was that people looked to him for comfort. Usually he unsettled those around him with an inner turbulence he found impossible to hide. Now, for once, there was no churning in his head. He hadn’t had a chance to tell Sam, hadn’t stuck around long enough to tell Norman Grace, but the last piece of the puzzle had fallen into place in Norman’s office a few minutes ago. Now he knew everything. Charlie would have to marry him. If I really want her to…
They arrived at meeting room one where Proust was waiting for them. The inspector sounded unnaturally courteous as he shook Jonathan Hey’s hand and said how pleased he was to meet him. He looked incongruous, standing beside a tray laden with tea, coffee, sugar, milk, cups and saucers and an impressive range of biscuits-probably an entire selection box. The tray was lined with one of those lacy-doily things that Simon had never known the proper name for. Had Proust asked for that? Had Sam? Simon had told them both that Hey was well-spoken, used to the luxuries provided by Whewell College, Cambridge.
‘Tea, Professor?’ said Proust. ‘Coffee?’
‘I don’t normally… oh, what the hell. I’ll have a coffee. Thanks. White, one sugar.’ Hey blushed. ‘Sorry to sound like a wuss. If I drink too much caffeine I have stomach problems, but one cup won’t hurt. Endless peppermint tea depresses you after a while.’
‘I’m a green tea man myself,’ said Proust. ‘But since there’s none here, I might risk a cup of builders’ finest. Sergeant? Waterhouse?’
Both nodded. Was Proust actually going to pour drinks for all four of them? Incredibly, it seemed he was. Simon watched as he put the milk in the cups first, then tea in three of them, sugar in one, coffee and sugar in the fourth. He knows Sam doesn’t take sugar and I do-he must have noticed, stored the information away. Simon felt a pang of affection for the Snowman.
Having made the drinks, Proust left them sitting in a row on the tray and stood back to admire them, pleased with his little line-up. Hey was talking to Sam about his drive to Spilling, how long it had taken from Cambridge. Had Sam asked him? Simon hadn’t heard if he had.
‘It’s the A14 that can be a real killer,’ Hey was saying. ‘Bumper to bumper, crawling forward. There’s always an accident.’
‘But you managed to avoid the A14 tonight,’ Simon chipped in. Hey looked confused. ‘No, I…’ When he saw Proust walking towards him, he put out his hands and smiled, ready to take his cup of coffee. Then he saw what the inspector was holding and took a step back.
It was a pair of handcuffs.
‘Jonathan Hey, I’m arresting you for the murders of Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick,’ said Proust, ‘and for the murders of Encarnación and Amy Oliva-your wife and daughter.’
19
Friday, 10 August 2007
I walk and walk, head down, looking at none of the people I pass, speaking to nobody. An endless network of suburban streets. It’s only when I get to the main road and see the Picture House and the Centre for Alternative Medicine in the distance that I realise I’m in Spilling.
In front of the Picture House, there’s a lamppost with a dustbin attached to it. It’s almost full, a lager can and the remains of a kebab at the top of the pile. I place the plastic bag on top of these and press the whole lot down. The syringe, the blood-soaked lilac dressing gown-I will never see them again.
I’m walking away when I remember the third item in the bag: the book with the black cover. Spanish. I stop. I ought to leave it where it is, I know I ought to, but I can’t. Looking round to check no one’s watching me, I go back to the bin. Someone is watching me: an old man sitting on a bench across the street. Staring. He isn’t going to move, or look away. I hesitate for a few seconds, then decide it doesn’t matter. Each small decision is a struggle. I pull the carrier bag out and rescue the book. Open it. There’s a letter inside that’s been written on a small lined sheet of paper, but it’s nothing interesting, only a note somebody has written to Encarnación Oliva, giving lots of details about when they plan to go away and when they’re getting back, dates and times, followed by something about Amy’s school that is too complicated for my brain at the moment. It’s addressed to ‘Dear Encarna’, but I don’t know who it’s from because it hasn’t been signed. Odd.
I tuck the letter inside the book, put the plastic bag back in the dustbin and start to walk home. It will take me half an hour. Longer, unless I walk faster. It’s hard-the soles of my feet are stinging so badly from standing on broken glass. I’ve got money in my purse, I could get a taxi. Why aren’t I desperate to get home as soon as I can? What’s wrong with me?
I stop walking. For a moment, I’m convinced I can’t do it. Nick. Home. I will have to say something. I cannot envisage speaking to anybody ever again. All I want is to disappear.