A Murder of Magpies (24 page)

“Have you mistrusted him from the beginning?” I demanded. Jake shrugged. “But you let me stay with him—you left me there to sleep in his flat.” I sounded like a child abandoned at boarding school for the first time.

Jake was patient. “He knew that both the police and Helena knew you were there. You weren't going to come to any harm, and you had to sleep somewhere. But that doesn't give him a past. We're not saying anything against him. Just that he's an unknown, and it's important not to dismiss people we know nothing about simply because they have an attractive manner.”

I felt as I had at the very beginning, when Kit told me about his burglary. I was walking in the dark. If I couldn't trust my own impressions, what was there to trust?

Jake had learned all he could from us, and as usual he wasn't giving anything away. “Thanks. That's useful. If you need me, I'll be at the office all day. We should have a flood of information to go through by now.” And with that he was gone. Helena tidied away her papers and followed shortly, leaving me to stare at the walls. They had jobs to do, things to follow up. What about me?

I sat at the table for a while, and eventually got up to do my usual Saturday chores: laundry, tidying, the weekly shop. By lunchtime I admitted to myself that the big children had left me behind. They weren't going to let poor Rudolph join in the other reindeers' games. I got out some manuscripts—I was desperately behind in my reading—and settled down for the afternoon.

I'd spent a couple of hours catching up on work when I heard someone thundering down the stairs and a barrage of knocks at the door. I knew before I opened it that it was Kay. Kay is tall and thin—she's a head taller than me, and probably weighs half of what I do, and even so she makes more noise than all the rest of the inhabitants of the house put together. She thuds up and down the stairs; she can't see a table without knocking it over; or lift a bag of groceries without dropping it. When I opened the door she bounded in, long blonde hair flying, glitter sparkle on her cheeks, bright-pink flip-flops with yet more sparkles, this time flowers, on her feet, matching her bright-pink toenails.

“Hi! I thought I'd better warn and invite you!” Shorthand is one of her specialities. “We're having one of those parties—I think everyone's arriving this afternoon, but I'm not sure.” She sat down, knocking over a pile of manuscripts that I could have sworn was at least five feet off her course between the door and the chair. Her swirly, 1950s retro skirt belled out as she sat down and caught the lamp. It was touch and go, but the fabric was, luckily for me, thin, and only a pad and pencil went flying.

Anthony and Kay have a party about once a year. They usually start by inviting a few friends around for lunch, and then they both get carried away and invite everyone they know, and lots of people they don't. Showing up at the Lewises' annual bash without clutching a stranger by the hand is almost as rude as showing up at a normal dinner party without clutching a bottle of wine. Somehow everyone is sandwiched into their flat—friends, strangers, friends' and strangers' children, children who appear to have no adult in tow at all—and the party goes on until all the food and drink are gone, usually well into the next day. I tend to go for an hour or so—their friends are a lot younger than me, and very quickly a lot drunker. It isn't really my sort of thing, but it feels un-neighborly not to appear for a while. So I thanked her and promised to come up later.

“Do you want some wine?” I asked.

“That would be fantastic, thanks.”

We went into the kitchen, and I put a couple of bottles into a supermarket carrier bag. At the door the handle snapped and the bottles rolled down the hall. I didn't even flinch. I'd known it would happen, but you can't tell a grown woman that she's not capable of carrying a bag up a flight of stairs. The corridor was carpeted, and nothing had broken. I walked down toward the front door to pick up the second bottle where it had rolled, and I noticed that the letter box was open, as though someone had put a letter through and forgotten to put the flap down. But there was no letter, nor the usual tidal wave of pizza delivery fliers. I opened the door, but there was no one there. Kay was looking at me oddly, so I took the bottles up for her, to get them safely to her front door. Anthony could take over from there, I figured.

By three o'clock the reverberations through the ceiling, and the shrill of voices, indicated the party was in full swing. If I went up now, I could chat for a bit and then escape before it got too loud. By the time I left no one would remember who was where, or for how long. I went up and edged into a room that was only fractionally less crowded than the Tokyo subway at rush hour. All that was missing were the men with white gloves at the door, pushing everyone in. Maybe I'd suggest it for next year.

Bim was the first person I recognized, and he shrieked, “Come and see the fort we've built!” That's me, big with the five-year-old set. I went. Bim was in his element. He was a sturdy little blond boy in a pair of dungarees with a bright yellow shirt and yellow socks, one of which was coming off his foot and trailing behind him like a small rudder. He was directing children twice his age like a seasoned traffic cop, and they obeyed him happily. The kids had taken all the chairs Kay and Anthony had moved out of the sitting room, put them into a wagon-train circle and covered them with the guests' coats, a squashed tepee with dozens of giggling bodies stuffed inside. It looked cozy: back to the womb. I mentally shook myself. Really? A children's tent looks good because it's safe?
Time to get a grip,
I told myself sternly. Then I told Bim sincerely that it was the best fort I'd ever seen, and I'd be back in a bit, and headed down the hall for the grown-up end of things.

And there, squashed in a corner of the sofa, between four men having a furious argument about who should or should not have been chosen to play for England (I think), was the guy from the LSD: the Thin Boy who had walked me to Nick's office. He was no cleaner than he had been then. Still lank, still greasy, he looked very out of place among Anthony and Kay's actor friends, who were always pleased to have an opportunity to dress up and show off their party plumage.

He hadn't seen me yet, and I didn't think he could escape from the sofa quickly, so I grabbed Kay as she went past with a bottle, refilling glasses. “Who's that?” I said, pointing with my chin.

Kay dropped the bottle. We both bent down to pick it up and knocked our heads together. Really, being with Kay was like being in a Laurel and Hardy film. By the time we'd untangled ourselves, I'd been spotted.

“Quick,” I said, grabbing Kay by the arm. “I really want to talk to him.”

“Who? Him? I don't know him. Someone brought him. I think. I don't know.” Kay was disconcerted by my sudden anxiety. I herded her over toward the sofa. “Talk to him,” I said quietly. “Find out who he is.”

Kay looked at me like I'd sprouted horns, but headed off the Thin Boy before he could go further. She gestured with her rescued bottle. “Refill?”

He leaped back to avoid the spurt of wine, and was engulfed in the football group again. “No. No, thanks. I have to be going.…”

Kay wasn't going to do anything to stop him, so as he emerged from the football huddle I grabbed him by the arm and smiled. “Hi! Great to see you again. We met at the LSD, didn't we?” He tried to pull away without showing it, but I was terrier-like. “Do you know Kay? This is her party.” That would be harder to escape from.

“Hi,” he smiled weakly. “I came with…” He pointed back into the crowd vaguely.

“Let's go talk in the kitchen,” I said.

“I was just going.”

“Sure. But you've got time. It's early.” I held on with an iron grip, smiling all the while. Sam Clair: everybody's pal.

We pushed through. The kitchen was heaving, but not quite as bad as the rest of the flat. I found a quiet corner and pushed him into it. “So. What's your name?”

This appeared to be a harder question than it looked. He looked around for an escape route. I was standing in front of the only door, and I must have looked as peeved as I felt. He shrugged. “David.”

“Good to meet you, David. David what?”

A bit of fight returned. “Nathanson. Now, I really need to go. I don't know who you are or what you want. Yes, I remember you from the LSD. I showed the way. Where I come from, that doesn't make us friends for life.”

Not where I come from, either. But, “I've seen you since then, too.”

He wasn't going to crumple. “Have you? I haven't seen you.”

“How about in Les Deux?”

“How about what? I've eaten there, yes. It's a public place.”

I knew he'd been following me. He knew I knew. And we both knew there was nothing I could do about it. One last try. “Who are the people who brought you here? Maybe we have friends in common.”

He stared at me in contempt. “I don't think so. John Smith.” He crossed his arms and stared.

I wasn't going to get anything more from him, so I walked away.

John Smith didn't mean anything to me, but then, I didn't think it would mean anything to anyone. He had obviously made it up on the spot, and intended that I know it. But you couldn't arrest someone for being unpleasant at a party. I was quite sure of that, because if you could, I would have been jailed long ago.

I had a drink and thought about the conversation. It didn't get me anywhere. I assumed he'd been following me, or knew where I lived, and when he realized there was a party going on, he just walked in. It wouldn't have been difficult. In fact, nothing could have been easier. It was creepy, but what could I do? I had his name, maybe, if it was his, but nothing else was different. I'd been followed by an unknown man. Now I was being followed by someone whose name I knew. The only step forward was that he knew I was aware of him. If he had any malign intent, it would make him a bit warier, but that was it.

I waved good-bye to Anthony, who was ten or twelve layers of people away, and started off down the stairs. As I got to the first landing, the door above me opened. A voice floated out. “Ms. Clair. Sam.”

Mr. Rudiger.

“Hi, how are you?” I called up.

“Very well. Would you like to come in and have some coffee? If you're not too busy.”

What could I say? He knew that with that din going on, no one could be doing anything else in the house. “Thanks,” I called back. “I'd love to. I'm just going to—to change my sweater. The smoke in there,” I added, feebly. “I'll be up in ten minutes.” I couldn't refuse, but I could let Jake know where I was, and let him know about the Thin Boy—or David, as I suppose he probably was really called. Maybe.

I made the call, and when it went straight to voice mail I left a message. Then I headed back up the stairs. Mr. Rudiger was waiting by the door, and he looked so pleased to see me I felt like a shit for suspecting him. His daughter had just made her biweekly visit, and he had little Viennese pastries and fresh coffee all set out. I knew that the McManuses had a point. But it was almost repellent to distrust this courtly old man. Like kicking one of those white-whiskered, stately dogs that spend their days sunning themselves, but still feel obliged to creak to their feet to greet a newcomer.

His walls were shaking with the noise from downstairs. I nodded toward them. “Does it bother you?”

He smiled and spread his hands: “They're young, they're having a good time. What harm can it do?” He was so benevolent. “Have you been at the party? You're young, too—you should go out and enjoy yourself more.”

“I do enjoy myself.” Why was I defending my social life to a man who never left his flat? “I just don't like shouting. Also—” I broke off.

If Mr. Rudiger had pushed me, I would have probably shut up. As it was he busied himself with coffee, getting me a napkin, making sure the pastries were within easy reach.

“There was someone there who I'd seen at the London School of Design last week. It was just a coincidence.…” I trailed away. Mr. Rudiger looked pleasantly interested, but not curious, and that impelled me to go on. “I'm getting crazed now. I keep thinking he's following me.” I gave a short laugh, encouraging him to agree with me on how silly I'd been. He didn't, which made me determined to convince him, and me, that this had been nothing but a chance meeting. “I'd gone for a meeting with the rector. It had nothing to do with this boy, who I only met in the corridor for a minute. I'm spooked, but it's nothing.”

To change the subject, I filled him in on my trip to Ireland. It was a good neutral topic, and he didn't seem to mind my change of subject, which relieved my mind. He quizzed me on Breda's books, and I confessed to our sense of humor failure over her newest, which made him laugh delightedly. “That's the problem with professionals. They never see what's under their feet.”

I wasn't sure if that was a comment on publishers, or on architects. Or whether it was something else entirely. What were we supposed to be seeing, did he think? Was he seeing a bigger picture, and if so, how? More importantly, why? The comfortable mood that had overtaken me evaporated instantly. Mr. Rudiger looked concerned, like a worried uncle, and said, “I've seen the papers.”

I'd refused to look at them that morning, or put on the radio. I didn't want to know what they were saying about Kit. On Monday it would be all over the office, and that was soon enough. I didn't reply, and he went on hesitantly, in formal, old-fashioned phrases. “I know he was a good friend to you. You must feel his loss.”

The finality of his words washed over me, and I burst into tears. I managed to gulp, “Excuse me,” before I ran back down the stairs.

 

12

I closed the front door behind me and sank down on the floor and cried. After ten minutes I had to stop. No one can cry wholeheartedly for longer. It's just too tiring. I went into the bathroom and ran a basin of cold water. My face was swollen and pale, and my eyes and nose were red. I looked like the White Rabbit.