Fog Heart (22 page)

Somehow Carrie was not surprised to learn that Oona was still a virgin. Sex could be difficult enough at times, without the unique complicating factors that Oona would have to consider. The prospect of suddenly being seized by a psychic episode in the middle of making love must terrify her.

‘It can be awful or great,' Carrie replied. ‘If the man is concerned about giving you pleasure and not just getting his own, it can be wonderful. And if he knows what he's doing,' she added, with a laugh. ‘Otherwise, it can be a drag.'

‘Does it hurt?'

‘It can, if he's rough or in a hurry. The main thing is to be with someone who cares about you as much as you do about him. Then the rest of it usually works out.'

‘I don't know,' Oona said doubtfully. ‘I can't imagine it. I'm
invaded
enough as it is, if you know what I mean.'

*   *   *

Oona fell asleep first, some time around midnight. She dozed off with her head against Carrie's arm. Carrie managed to switch off the table lamp without waking her. She watched TV for a few more minutes, then clicked it off with the remote.

The house was silent. They hadn't seen any more of Roz, and Carrie didn't even know if she was home. But everything had gone well. Oona seemed to have enjoyed herself, and Carrie was happy enough to believe that her being there had done some good. Oona deserved more than just scattered moments of respite.

It did feel a little strange to go to sleep in an unfamiliar house, in someone else's bed – and with that someone also in it. But Carrie didn't mind, and the vodka had left her drowsy enough. Oona clung to her, and Carrie soon drifted off.

She was dimly aware of Oona tossing and turning a lot during the night. Part of Carrie's brain remained alert to the possible occurrence of a psychic episode. But it was never enough to wake her, as Oona always settled again quickly, hugging her.

When Carrie finally woke up and opened her eyes, she could see a hint of grey in the light outside. It took her a couple of moments to realize where she was.

Oona was crying. In her sleep. Softly, whimpering. Carrie realized that the front of her nightgown was quite damp. She sat up, trying to think. She was supposed to be there for Oona, but not to try to force her out of it. Let her come out of it on her own, that was what Roz had told Carrie. Anyhow, it might only be another dream, not a serious episode. She held Oona, she brushed the hair from Oona's face and lightly rubbed her back.

‘Franny … Franny…'

Oona's voice was tiny, between sobs. Carrie's eyes widened in the dark. Her skin felt charged, as if a dry static wind had just swept across it.

‘Franny…'

God, how many years ago had it been? Seventeen? Eighteen? Something like that. Franny Hagstrom, blonde, sunny, bright and precocious, had been Carrie's best friend. Like her, Franny was a daughter of the diplomatic corps. Carrie had spent a summer at the Hagstrom cottage on Big Moose Lake in the Adirondacks. She would later wish she'd paid more attention to the place because it was at Big Moose Lake, one summer day in 1906, that Chester Gillette had taken Grace Brown out in a rowboat and, in a secluded cove, clubbed her with a tennis racket and drowned her. It was the murder case on which Theodore Dreiser had based his novel
An American Tragedy,
a huge clumsy masterpiece of which Carrie later grew rather fond, if only for the association with Big Moose Lake.

Where, one summer night, Franny slipped into Carrie's bed or Carrie slipped into Franny's – to this very day she was not sure which way it had been, not that it mattered. And there had been some nervous, tentative kisses, some delicate, thrilling touches, exploration, and flashes of pleasure that had more to do with the
new
and the
forbidden
than with actual physical sex, since neither of them knew exactly what to do.

Dear God, to be that innocent.

It was the first time since puberty that Carrie had been in bed, naked, with another naked person, and the delight, the shock of it was still the most vivid part of her recollection. There had been no repeat encounter, just the one experiment. They were able to smile and giggle about it later, perhaps because they had learned that they were really more interested in male bodies than in each other's. Something like that. Who knows? For Carrie it was still a sweet memory of lost innocence, alive and safe in her heart. Another time, another life.

The following year, the Hagstroms were posted to some other corner of the globe. Carrie and Franny wrote letters for a while but eventually they tapered off and then stopped. It was sad but not unusual. Everyone has youthful friendships that fall away in the course of time. Carrie had no idea where Franny might be now or what kind of life she had made for herself.

‘Franny…'

Or if she was even alive.

Oona rolled over, moaning like a child in distress. Carrie felt the warm soft smoothness of Oona's belly beneath her hand as the pyjama top had either come unbuttoned or ridden up across her chest while she was tossing about. She could feel the firm bone at the bottom of Oona's ribcage.

Carrie's mind flashed back again to Big Moose Lake. A brief glimpse of Franny in the early-morning light. The two of them so slender and self-conscious, teenagers awkward in their bodies but by then daring enough to be able to look at each other to satisfy their curiosity.

She had no idea why, but the recollection of those moments brought tears to her eyes. I'm too young to feel old, she tried to tell herself, too young still to look back on my youth and cry with joy and sadness. Not yet. And yet …

Carrie noticed that the shoulder straps on the nightgown she wore had slipped down when she felt Oona's face on her bare skin. Oona settled her head in Carrie's cleavage, her mouth pressed to the curving side of one breast, her hand resting lightly on the other. Carrie felt confused, and her throat had gone dry. Her own hand stroked the small of Oona's back.

‘Mammmmm…' Oona purred happily in her sleep.

17

‘Her name isn't Rosalind Rodgers.'

‘What a surprise,' Oliver deadpanned, although he then allowed a brief smile at the corners of his mouth.

They were in Kelleher's on Third Avenue. It was starting to fill with the after-work crowd, mostly middle-aged business types who preferred an older bar that hadn't been tarted up the way so many other joints on the street had.

Oliver and Joe Barone had already secured a booth towards the rear of the bar. Joe was an old acquaintance from the times when they were both actively involved with rock groups. A roadie with a New York punk band the first time he went to London, Joe later became a much-sought-after security expert for arena and stadium gigs. He had his own crew and he dealt only with headliners. He had also developed a sideline business in personnel fact-checking and corporate intelligence-gathering. Oliver had called on Joe's services in the past and had avoided one unsound business deal.

‘Well, she's Rosalind Rodgers now,' Joe amended. ‘She went to civil court and had her name legally changed.'

‘Where?'

‘Right here in New York. Queens, two years ago.' Joe had a slim folder on the table in front of him, but he didn't bother to check it. He stroked the carefully cultivated two-day stubble on his chin as if it gave him real pleasure. He had steel-grey hair that clung to his head in tight curls, longer at the back. ‘Her real name is Mary Rosalind Brodie.'

‘Aha.'

‘She's twenty-three years old.' Joe sipped his beer. ‘She was born in Glasgow, Scotland, and her last known address on your side was Newcastle. Nobody says upon-Tyne, do they?'

‘No,' Oliver replied, with a laugh.

‘Didn't think so. Newcastle. By the way, wasn't that where the Animals came from?'

‘Yes.'

‘Thought so. Anyhow, Newcastle was only three years ago, so she's been a busy lady. Her point of entry was Niagara Falls, so she came through Canada. I'm not sure about the exact dates, but she wasn't in Canada for very long.'

‘Lovely. Please go on.'

‘She has a visitor's visa, and it's been regularly renewed. She has her own money, so the visa is no problem. Shortly after she changed her name, she bought the house in New Haven and paid in full, one hundred and ninety-five thousand dollars.'

‘Christ.'

‘No fear of the IRS, but I'll get to that in a minute.' Joe lit a thin miniature cigar. ‘To go back a step, when you want to change your name here you have to give a reason. You can't just do it to hide a criminal record or escape debt, obviously. Okay. The reason she gave was business purposes.'

‘Business purposes?'

Joe nodded. ‘Which is funny, because she's not in business. But it's a commonly given, and accepted, reason. The interesting part of this is, she didn't change her name back in your dear old England. You have a different system there, apparently.'

‘Deed poll.'

‘I guess. It may only mean that she intends to stay on here and eventually become an American citizen. That she doesn't care about England and just couldn't be bothered.'

‘She's still Mary Brodie there.'

‘Correct.' Joe tapped his cigar on a flimsy ashtray. ‘Now, the money thing. I couldn't find any wire transfers from England or Canada, or anywhere else for that matter. So she's gained all her wealth since she came here. Not that it's an enormous amount of money. A hundred-odd thousand in bank accounts, and the house in New Haven. That's about it, but it's a lot for the short time-span involved, and when you're unemployed.'

‘Yes, it is.'

‘I can tell you that she pays her taxes. She's legal and in the clear with the IRS. I couldn't get to see the actual returns but she has no problems in that direction.'

‘She's legal,' Oliver repeated. ‘Does that cover England as well? Or did she leave a situation behind?'

‘Maybe, but it's definitely not a criminal matter. Both the court and the immigration people would check on that. She wouldn't be here and she wouldn't have been able to change her name if she had any criminal record. Anywhere.'

‘Okay.' Oliver was disappointed to hear that.

‘About the money, I really don't know yet. I found a lot of deposits, all for amounts ranging from a few hundred dollars to a couple of thousand. Lots and lots of them.'

‘People give it to her,' Oliver told him.

‘Oh, that's nice. Is she a whore?'

‘More like a pimp. Her sister's a psychic and people give them money for spiritual advice.'

‘That makes sense now. Must be a good act.'

‘Yes,' Oliver said. ‘It is.'

‘Her sister is the Oona you asked about?'

‘That's right. Tell me about her.'

‘Wish I could.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I drew a blank on that one.'

‘But what little did you find?' Oliver asked.

‘Nothing.
Nada.
Zip.'

‘How is that possible?'

‘Easy,' Joe said. ‘It means that she didn't come into this country under the name of Brodie, and she didn't later change her name to Rodgers. If you can give me her last name, whatever she goes by now, I can probably get a line on her in a day.'

‘Does this mean they're not sisters?'

‘It doesn't mean yes and it doesn't mean no. All it means is that she is and has been using another name. And I guess you don't happen to know what it is.'

‘No.'

Oliver absently tapped one end of a Senior Service on the table, then lit it. He had learned a little, but not nearly as much as he had hoped. Nothing at all about Oona. Nothing of a criminal nature. But what Joe had found was at least enough to suggest that further investigation was warranted. Their behaviour was unusual, and it hinted at something in the past. Oliver was eager to pursue the matter.

‘As far as Roz is concerned,' he said, ‘did you check back into her history in England or Scotland at all?'

Joe shook his head. ‘Not yet. If you want me to, I can do that. But it'll cost more and it'll take longer. What I did so far was fairly routine, the things I'd do to check out anybody on this side, and there's still more I can do here. But if you want me to work the other side, I'll have to get some help over there. It's no problem, it just takes a little more effort.'

Oliver nodded. He thought about it while Joe went to get a fresh round of drinks. His first instinct was to have him follow up on whatever else he could on the American end and also set things in motion in England. But no, Oliver immediately saw the potential downside in that course of action. It might be better to keep Joe out of it from now on. To this point it was a simple enquiry, nothing remarkable. But the more Joe was involved in it the less scope for potential action Oliver might have later. And the situation could turn drastic.

‘Psychic, huh?' Joe sat down with the drinks.

‘Yes, of a sort. Carrie's rather taken with her, but so far very little money has actually changed hands.'

‘Good.'

‘They don't ask for any. In fact, they give the impression that they really couldn't care less about it.'

‘The spiritual angle,' Joe said. ‘The more you tell people that money isn't important, the more they want to give it to you. That's basic. If your wife doesn't start donating, they'll begin to drop some hints. Count on it.'

‘I'm sure.' He wasn't at all sure, but that was the correct response. ‘I had hoped they might have a bit of a history, which I could use as a counter-balance, but what you've found is pretty slight. Unusual, but hardly damaging. Oh, well.'

Joe nodded. ‘They've been careful.'

‘I'm surprised that they've been able to make so much money in such a relatively short period of time.'

‘They probably got lucky as soon as they hit New York,' Joe said. ‘If they met the right kind of person, somebody with money and status, the word-of-mouth would do the rest. They can make a lot of money fast, if they're regarded as hot.'