Cold Pressed (22 page)

"She came to mine. She delivered a letter around the
same time Joyce was attacked in Doreen's room. The first thing you should know
is Doreen's maiden name was Hall. She is firmly convinced that Maureen Hall's
death was a case of mistaken identity and that she was the intended victim. She
thinks the Hirondelles are cursed because of something which happened almost
fifty years ago."

"Cursed? Come on."

Beatrice took a sip of coffee. "It might not be as
far-fetched as it sounds. They're called the Hirondelles..."

"Because of the school. I know. Swallows Hall."

"Yes, a girls' boarding school. An underage pupil fell
pregnant in 1965. Obviously a scandal in those days. Not just for her but also
for the school. The teachers, under the direction of Headmistress Joyce
Milligan, hushed it up. They hid the girl away until she reached full term and
gave the child away for adoption. Doreen believes they're now being
punished."

Nikos snorted, blowing foam off his cappuccino. "By
whom? The mother would be in her sixties now."

"Yes, and unlikely to be a serial killer. Doreen's
conscience led her to keep an eye on the girl after she left school, but she
hasn't seen her for several years. It seems the woman suffered from depression
and became an alcoholic. I have the last known address, which I intend to check
while I’m in London. I’ll also visit the adoption agency which took the
baby."

“What about the father?”

“They don’t know who the father was. The girl wouldn’t say.
The only men the girls had contact with worked at the school. All the teachers
were female, so that left only a caretaker, a priest and two gardeners. Doreen
thinks it could have been a local boy she met while in town. Why would he
suddenly pop up after fifty years?”

"Hmm. How about the child they gave away? Who would be
forty-eight, forty-nine? The HR department must be able to give me a list of
employees of that age."

"Definitely worth checking, because we have a birth
date. 1st July 1965. You'll also need to check where our suspects were at the
time of the attack."

Nikos made a note on his phone. "I will. I made
progress with Kostas, but still need more information on Toni Dean and Oscar
Martins."

"I can help you with the latter. Oscar was having a
drink with me last night."

Nikos's head snapped up. "Where?"

"In my cabin." She tried not to sound defensive.

"You had Oscar Martins
and
Doreen Cashmore in
your cabin?"

"Oscar first, who left when Doreen arrived." She
picked up her coffee cup to hide her discomfort.

Nikos tapped his phone against his chin. "So he knew
Doreen was with you and Joyce was alone. He could easily have gone to their
cabin and attacked Joyce Milligan."

"It’s not their cabin, only Doreen’s. He didn't know
Joyce was there. I only knew because I went to talk to her after dinner and
Joyce opened the door. So the person who attacked Joyce was looking for
Doreen."

"You sound very convinced," Nikos frowned. "I
don't understand why you would invite a murder suspect to your room."

Beatrice finished her coffee. "I wanted to find out a
little more about the man, that's all. Anyway, he's ten years too old to be
that adopted child."

"You didn't know about that then."

"No, I didn't. Fair enough. Go ahead and interview him
again. Should we get back to the bridge? I have a batch of calls to make then
I'd like to grab forty wings before we leave for the airport."

“You’re hungry?”

“What? No, I just need a short nap, you know, rest my eyes.”

Nikos sat back and appraised her. "If there's anything
going on, it might be better to tell me now, for the sake of this case."

"There's nothing going on. Yet I get the feeling that
is not true of you and Inspector Xanthou of the South Aegean Force. Is this
something more than local rivalry?"

"Nice deflection. Yes, there's history, but it has no
bearing on this case. If it did, I'd tell you."

His chin lifted, dark with stubble. Beatrice held his eyes
and heard a faint echo of James's voice. 'So would you say that when you are
emotionally pressured, you tend to look for a scapegoat?' A pang as familiar as
thirst plucked at her and she had a thought.

"Nikos, I apologise. It's none of my business and
you're right. Only when the personal affects the professional is it worth
discussing. We have a job to do, so let's get on with it. I plan to spend about
twenty-four hours in Britain, so with a following wind, I’ll be back tomorrow
afternoon. Meanwhile, this end of the investigation is in your hands."

He rested his cheek on his fist, all the defiance gone out
of him.

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry for being suspicious. I
guess we both need some sleep. Why can't serial killers keep to civilised hours
like the rest of us?"

"Civilised hours?" She thought about it.
"Yes. He works late and sleeps late. Bear that in mind when you're
checking alibis. You know what, that bastard is probably tucked up in bed right
now."

“Wish I was.”

“Me too. But first I need to make sure Joyce is all right.
Can we trust him to look after her, do you think?”

“Who?”

“Danny Zuko. Sorry, I meant Xanthou. He seems to be pursuing
another agenda.”

“He’s got ego issues. But I think he’ll make a point of
protecting Joyce Milligan. Who’s Danny Zuko?”

Rarely had Beatrice been so relieved to hit the
tarmac. Fretful and querulous without the steadying presence of Joyce Milligan,
the five Hirondelles in her charge behaved like a flock of giddy geese,
vacillating between alarm and absent-mindedness, with Beatrice as the hapless
gooseherd trying to guide them safely home. Even the stewardesses' patience had
frayed.

By the time the little beeping airport trucks deposited them
at the conference centre after a protracted toilet break, Beatrice was ready to
snap. However, seeing the emotional reactions of the families and the efficient
organisation of the briefing, she managed to remain professional and helpful
throughout. She kept to the vaguest of terms regarding the investigation. The
Wiltshire detective, on the other hand, went into fine detail of how the
relatives and carers should keep their charges safe. At first, his pedantry
irritated Beatrice, but the effect on the families was a panacea. She answered
several questions, ranging from naive to aggressive, then at a signal from the
detective, called a halt. She made a hurried general farewell, thanked the
representatives of the Wiltshire force and rushed out across the terminal to
the taxi rank.

"Can you take me to Islington? I have an appointment in
Upper Street. Just across from the Hope and Anchor."

The driver folded his paper. "Course I can, darling.
What time's your appointment?"

Beatrice clambered through the rear door, amused and
reassured by the casual endearment. "Four o'clock."

"Plenty of time! Sit back and relax."

She did as she was told. Her head fell back against the seat
and she took three deep breaths, intending to open her worry box in a moment.
Within minutes, she was fast asleep.

When she awoke, it took her a few moments to orient
herself. The taxi was parked but the driver was absent. Islington flowed past
the window and James's practice was across the street. She checked her watch.
15.43. Despite a stiff neck and dry mouth, she actually felt better. She sat up
straight, checked her purse and mobile - both present - and found a packet of
wet wipes to refresh her face. She was smoothing her hair in the wing mirror
when a mechanical click announced the unlocking of the doors.

"She's awake! All right, sweetheart? Didn't mean to
scare you, just thought I'd let you sleep for a bit. Your appointment's in a
quarter of an hour, so I fetched us both a coffee." He handed her a
cardboard cup and placed his own on the roof.

Beatrice blinked in disbelief. "That's very kind of
you. How long have I..."

"We got here about half an hour ago. I'm not in a hurry
so I thought I'd have a break and let you get some kip. You'd only been asleep
an hour, see. Bad time to wake someone. My daughter, she's cabin crew with BA,
told me how it works on long-haul trips. Forty-five minute cycles, innit? Have
a nap for minimum three-quarters of an hour. Or if you got time, an hour and a
half. The old 'grab an hour's shut-eye' is the worst. You wake up even tireder,
see? How you feeling?"

The milky coffee, cheerful chatter and kindness from a
stranger comforted Beatrice so easily, she wondered if her appointment with
James was as urgent as it had felt several hours and another country ago.

"I feel vastly restored. It really is very decent of
you to let me rest, not to mention bringing me a coffee."

He grinned. "As my missus always says, do as you would
done by or dooby-dooby something or other." He raised a hand as another
cabbie tooted.

"Well, I'd like to pay you for your time." She
glanced at the meter, which was switched off.

"Let's call it forty quid. Cheers my darling. You have
a good afternoon, now, all right?"

Chapter 24

James had changed receptionists. Another good sign. No
matter how sanguine these discreet, polite people were, Beatrice always managed
to rub them up the wrong way. She knew the endless reorganisation of
appointments and short-notice cancellations was a nuisance, but on top of that
the urgent requests for a last-minute slot meant she invariably became one of
their least favourite patients. This one, a young man with Joe 90 glasses and
too new to be jaded, gave her a pleasant smile and told her to go on in.

Not for the first time did Beatrice feel a surge of relief
and affection on seeing her counsellor. She quelled the urge to rush over and
give him a hug.

"Beatrice. Right on time. Did David offer you
coffee?" His gentle smile and cool blue eyes acted like a cold flannel on
her forehead. She couldn't wait to begin.

“I just had one, thank you." She settled into the
chair. "And I appreciate your making time for me, despite the fact it's
unscheduled."

"Yes, we do have our regular slot next Wednesday, but I
assumed you had something pressing you'd like to discuss."

In an instant, the weight of all the time she'd known James
seemed oppressive and suffocating. He knew everything about her relationship
with Matthew, always advised truth in emotion and set great value in trust. How
could he do anything but judge her? After all, she'd even judged herself. Once
again, she wondered if she should change counsellors. Maybe someone closer to
her own age. Silence dragged on and although there was no clock in the room,
Beatrice heard ticking.

James spoke. "If you don't feel ready to discuss what
brought you here, could we begin by dispensing with the formalities? How is the
medication working for you?"

"James, I am a horrible person. Selfish, immature,
greedy, unbalanced and just plain horrible. I can no longer bear to be in my
own skin. If only I were religious."

He watched her, attentive and concerned. "How would
religion help, do you think?"

"Because it's always so black and white. This is right,
that is wrong. Punishment on earth, rewards in heaven. Actions count, not
feelings. But if you have no system telling you how to behave, if you're
carving out your own code of conduct, you only have yourself to blame."

"Hmmm. That's an interesting choice of word. 'Blame'.
Something I tend to associate with judgement."

Beatrice studied him for a second. She really did wonder if
he could read her thoughts.

"Or responsibility. You do something wrong. You accept
the consequences. You take the blame."

"OK. Can we return to that in a moment? I ask because I
feel I've missed a stage in your reasoning. You said 'do something wrong'. If
we're not applying the rules of religion or law, who makes that call?"

"I do. According to my own principles, which happen to
tally with those of most civilised people, I have done something wrong. Therefore
I am culpable."

James tugged at his earlobe, a deceptive gesture Beatrice
knew well as signifying serious thought.

"I'm wondering where I fit in, Beatrice. As both
defendant and jury in the High Court of Stubbs, you have reached a decision and
accepted your own verdict. Would you like me to pass sentence? I'm happy to do
so, but feel the penance must fit the crime. As yet, I'm unaware of the deed,
the motivation behind it, any extenuating circumstances or other offences to be
taken into consideration."

It took her almost half an hour to tell him. Not least
because he constantly interrupted her statement of facts to enquire as to her
feelings. Unusually for one of James's sessions, she didn't cry. She squirmed
and winced and fidgeted, but would not allow herself the indulgence of tears.
She didn't deserve them.

Finally she stopped and James left a pause before speaking
again.

"Can you see any correlation between recent events in
Greece and what you think Matthew is planning?"

Beatrice stared out at the traffic on Upper Street.
"God, I am so tediously predictable. Kicking against the traces at my age.
It's pathetic."

"Pathetic, predictable, horrible, selfish. I think it's
time the tenor of the language changed. You may feel angry about your
behaviour, but I cannot allow you to be abusive to one of my clients. Even if
it is yourself."

"Don't you ever get bored, James? Is it not
bone-wearyingly dull listening to all these people, each of whom thinks they're
special, who make the same set of clichéd mistakes as everyone else?"

"That's almost the exact opposite of how I see my
profession. I also recognise your question for what it is – a classic Beatrice
wriggle of evasion to avoid taking the last step. You've told me what happened
and how you feel about it. You've acknowledged the thought processes which led
you to behave in a way you deem reprehensible. The unaddressed issue is how you
plan to deal with it."