25
8/16/07
‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ said Charlie. What could the Snowman want? There was no vacancy in CID; Sam Kombothekra had Charlie’s job. That’s the way you wanted it, remember?
‘It’s always a pleasure to see you, Sergeant.’ Proust traced the rim of his ‘World’s Greatest Grandad’ mug with his index finger. ‘Even to discuss the unsavoury matter of Encarna Oliva’s diary. Am I right in thinking we’ve ended up with three versions of the perishing thing, not including the Spanish original?’
‘That’s correct, sir.’
‘And those three versions are…?’
‘Geraldine Bretherick’s first literal translation, Geraldine Bretherick’s tweaked translation, and a third translation by an ex-colleague of mine from Cambridge, Manolo Galan.’
‘Whose interpretation bears little resemblance to Geraldine’s second version.’ Proust frowned at his mug. ‘It’s a translation of the same text, yet it somehow manages to be completely different.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You agree?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Describe the difference, as you see it.’ Proust leaned back in his chair.
‘Geraldine’s tweaked translation-’
‘Will you stop using the word “tweaked”? Do you mean “edited”?’
‘Geraldine’s edited translation is… I don’t know, more energetic, more… I know it sounds sick, sir, but more entertaining.’
‘Professor Galan’s version is bland and toneless, and all the more bleak for that,’ Proust snapped. ‘Geraldine Bretherick’s is… in places it’s almost as if she wants to make us laugh.’
‘I know what you mean, sir.’
‘Why would she? What’s your take on it?’
‘What do Simon and Sam think?’ Charlie avoided the question.
‘That Mrs Bretherick was too good, kind and naïve a person to allow Encarna Oliva to come across as the monster she undoubtedly was,’ said Proust. ‘You disagree?’
‘I’m not sure-’
‘Out with it, Sergeant.’
Charlie thought about the Brethericks’ wedding anniversary cards, the messages inside that were so elaborately formal, so… courteous. It must be hard to be polite to your husband all the time, however much you love him. She thought about Lucy Bretherick, and how difficult Geraldine might have found it, trying to be the perfect mother at the same time as realising the daughter she adored wasn’t perfect, was capable of hurting other children.
Your mummy doesn’t love you, Amy.
‘I wondered if Geraldine sympathised with Encarna ever so slightly,’ Charlie said. ‘With her frustration. If you sympathise with someone and understand how they feel, maybe feel that way yourself sometimes… well, you’re bound to portray them more sympathetically.’ She sighed. She’d got this far: might as well let Proust hear the rest. Being a man, he would no doubt react dismissively. ‘Perhaps Geraldine was sick to death-sorry, bad choice of words-sick of being the perfect wife and mother. At the same time as wanting to help Jonathan Hey with his non-existent custody case, she used the opportunity of translating the diary to develop a bit of an alter-ego. She’d been given licence to speak in the voice of a bad girl, a convenient vehicle for expressing thoughts that would be utterly forbidden if she’d said them as herself…’ Charlie saw Proust’s eyes hardening against her words. She stopped.
‘You can’t be suggesting, surely, that Geraldine Bretherick felt the way Encarna Oliva did about motherhood?’
‘Not at all. But, I don’t know, maybe she’d felt a tiny amount of something similar once or twice, and…’
‘And what, Sergeant? Spit it out.’
Charlie decided to be brave. ‘Haven’t you ever allowed yourself to recognise feelings that you would never want to own? And there’s a certain pleasure in that recognition?’
‘No,’ said Proust impatiently. ‘Let’s not get bogged down in analysis, Sergeant. We got a result. That’s all that matters.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Charlie was at the door when Proust muttered. ‘Lizzie agrees with you. About the diary, Geraldine…’
‘She does?’
‘No wonder women are still lagging behind men in terms of achievement, if that’s the way your minds work. Lizzie also said I must congratulate you. Congratulations, Sergeant.’
Charlie nearly laughed; he’d never looked grumpier or less enthusiastic. ‘On what, sir?’
‘You and Waterhouse. Your impending nuptials.’ Proust tapped his mug. Evidently he wanted the conversation to be over, and he wasn’t the only one.
Charlie felt her mouth drop open. ‘Sir, I… it’s not quite as-’
The Snowman held up his hand. ‘I don’t need the process, Sergeant, only the outcome. No doubt you have your reasons-your emotional reasons-for hatching such a plan.’ He shook his head. ‘Since you haven’t asked for my opinion, I won’t give it to you.’
What could Charlie say? She mumbled her thanks and fled, red-faced and in a silent frenzy. Bloody Simon-that stupid, arrogant, misinformed… mental case. He’d told Proust they were getting married? What the hell was he playing at?
Acknowledgements
I am immensely grateful for the help I received from the following people: Mark and Cal Pannone, Kurt Haselwimmer, Caroline Fletcher, Guy Martland, Isabel Galan, Tom Palmer, James Nash, Ray French, Wendy Wootton, Narmal and David Sandhu, Dan, Phoebe and Guy Jones, Jenny, Adèle and Norman Geras, Susan Richardson, Suzie Crookes, Aimee Jacques, Katie Hill, and Joanne Golenya.
This is my third crime novel, and it’s high time I gushed in a most un-English way about the dedicated and inspiring people who have helped me from the start: the brilliant Peter Straus, Rowan Routh and Jenny Hewson at Rogers, Coleridge & White, and the fantastic team at Hodder: Tanya, Lucy, Laura, Liz, Richard, Ron, Aslan, Martin, Jamie, Lisa, Nick, Sue, Kelly, Pippa, Helen, Suzie, Alex, Alix, Auriol, Diana, Rebecca, Anneberth, Francesca, Jen, Toni, Kerry, Leni, Emma, Emma, Will, Peter, and Henry, all the reps: Ian, Julia, Phil, Jack, Bob, Andy, Bettina… when I say everybody I really mean everybody! Extra huge thanks to Carolyn Mays, Kate Howard, and Karen Geary-in the leisure industry, there’s a prize called ‘The Seven Stars and Stripes Award for World-level Perfection’, and you all deserve to win its publishing equivalent!
Thank you to John Gould for kindly allowing me to use the lyrics of his song Mon Ami François, and to David Wood for helping me to find John to ask his permission.
SOPHIE HANNAH
SOPHIE HANNAH is an award-winning poet who won first prize in the Daphne du Maurier Festival Short Story Competition. She is the author of Little Face, an international bestseller. Sophie lives in Yorkshire, England, with her husband and two children.
