Dying to Write (12 page)

‘Chris, I may have simply left a packet lying on my bedroom floor. But I thought I'd packed it. And it wasn't there when your colleagues checked.'

‘Could you go home and find out?'

‘No transport.'

‘Hell – and we're in the middle of a crisis. Some royal wants to commune with nature on the bloody Wrekin this afternoon, and all our mobiles –'

‘– are mobilised?' I asked sweetly. ‘Or are they cars?'

He grinned. ‘Bloody pedant!'

‘And Courtney?'

‘I've sent Tina to interrogate him. Very slowly.'

I touched his hand lightly. ‘You're a good man, Chris.'

He flushed again.

‘Has Shazia told you about her visitors?'

‘Visitors?'

I explained.

He sent Ian Dale off to talk to her.

It suddenly occurred to me that, tampons apart, it would be very convenient to spend a few minutes at home. I didn't buy the idea that intelligent Japanese tourists who'd made their way across God knows how many time zones should suddenly fall down on their map-reading to that extent. Kenji had always urged me to phone him for a natter one day. This could be the very day. But some weird moral code dictated that I phone from home, not at someone else's expense.

But transport? I had to be back at Eyre House and on duty in the kitchen by two thirty at the latest.

‘Are you too busy to run me to Harborne? It'd take hours by bus, and a taxi would be absurd. And extortionate.'

Poor Chris: he would have given much to have me on my own for the hour or so the errand would take. He wouldn't have grabbed me or embarrassed me in any way. He'd simply have luxuriated in my company. And I'd have enjoyed his.

At last he shook his head. Then he dug in his trouser pocket and thrust a bunch of keys at me.

‘Here: help yourself.'

‘Chris, I – your Peugeot!'

An executive Peugeot. A 605. It was still new, still smelled of leather. He'd bought it when he fancied himself in some absurd competition for my affections with an old friend of mine who'd just bought a classy Renault.

‘Go on. But I could do with it about four, if that fits your plans.'

We smiled at each other. He didn't want to make any fuss that would draw the transaction to the notice of his colleagues. So I just nodded, picked up the keys and turned. ‘Will you show me what's what?'

We walked to the car park together.

I live in Harborne, which is, according to the property pages of the Sundays, one of the more desirable of the Birmingham suburbs. Balden Road teeters on the edge of, and practically collapses into, Quinton, which is infinitely less desirable. I owe my presence there to the fact that one of my relatives omitted to make a will.

George's van sat patiently in the road outside, wishing its girth were small enough to let it get into my garage. I patted it gently, and then let myself into the house.

There wasn't much post – a couple of bills and a card from Carl just to say hello. At the moment it didn't seem important. I dropped them on the kitchen table and dialled Japan. Kenji answered on the fourth ring.

We greeted each other cautiously. I apologised for waking him. Kenji reminded me he was a light sleeper and admitted that he would not find it hard to fall asleep again. There was, however, a significant other in his life, who tended to lie awake if her slumber was broken, and –

‘God knows how much your moans are costing me, Kenji. I'm glad you've found someone else. I hope I haven't woken her. Hell, you're having me on, aren't you? It can't be much after ten over there, can it?' I shut up. Kenji went to bed before one only if he went with someone and not to sleep. ‘Having an early night,' had always been his euphemism for what usually turned out to be a protracted, inventive and often enjoyable bonk. Then curiosity got the better of me. ‘Who is she? What does she do?'

‘She's an American journalist. Works for CNN.'

‘Better and better. Now here's what I want you to do.'

‘I don't want to do anything.'

‘You always said I only had to ask. I'm asking.' I explained about unwonted oriental interest in a corner of the West Midlands, and about Nyree's defecting husband. If I stopped, Kenji prompted me with a little grunt.

‘You think there might be a connection between our government bribes scandal and this disreputable diplomat?'

‘Do I?'

‘I can't think of any other reason to ask me.'

Neither could I.

I asked after his rabbit. He asked after my marking. We bade each other a polite
au revoir
.

I watered the herbs on my kitchen window and fed them a little Phostrogen. George's thyme. George's rosemary. His coriander was long dead.

There was no packet of tampons on my bedroom floor.

I locked up and headed back to Eyre House.

The big Peugeot was such a delight to drive I didn't want to return it. I've always bought other people's mistakes, and cheap ones at that. But I love driving with a passion I find embarrassing. Now I had found a vehicle that behaved like a car, not a supermarket trolley. It went where and when I wanted it to. The radio tuned quickly to Three FM.

The temptation to whizz up the motorway was almost overwhelming. M6 or M5? Sophie, the choice is yours! But it wasn't. Chris needed his car. I had to get back. I was supposed to be writing a poem. More important, I had to tell Chris what I'd found. Or rather hadn't. Soberly I picked my way through West Bromwich, past the football ground where Andy and I had cheered the Albion as kids. I found myself going more and more reluctantly. It was as bad as driving to work.

Back at Eyre House, I reversed the Peugeot into a parking space and grinned at Chris, who emerged from the stables talking to Ian and Ade. Ade gave a thumbs-down gesture – I gathered there was no sign of Sidney. Chris walked across to me, looking ostentatiously for signs of damage to his baby.

As I locked up and passed him the keys, I told him about the tampson. As an afterthought I reported my conversation with Kenji. He laughed, and beckoned me to follow him to the stables. I was about to be patronised. I'd let him get away with it this time: a swap for the Peugeot.

An acned constable was tapping data horribly slowly into a computer. He made way for Chris, who sent him off to lunch. I peered over Chris's shoulder. Computer-literate I might now be, but I'm always fascinated by other people's expertise. And there we were. In the States, being welcomed to the files of NYPD. Then LA. I was about to make impressed noises when Matt appeared at Chris's other shoulder.

‘Wonderful!' he said. ‘You can fart about all over the bloody States but you can't fucking well locate one woman in sodding Birmingham. Damn it, we don't know whether she's still alive –'

Quite needlessly, Chris pressed my foot. As he did so, he said mildly: ‘We've actually been using this to check Kate's past –'

‘She was positively vetted.'

‘Yes. A very important woman. So it may well be that someone in her past bears her a grudge.'

‘Try Gimson for a start,' said Matt savagely. ‘She went quite white the moment the bastard came into the room.'

I looked up sharply. I'd heard Gimson threaten her with something. When? Something about every possible step? And he'd not been happy with Sidney's presence in the house. I'd been stupid to let my dislike of him show so much: he'd hardly cooperate with me if I started to question him, no matter how circumspectly. Consultant surgeons needn't be intellectuals, but they couldn't be utter fools.

The more I tried to recall their conversation, the less I was able to. Perhaps I had to creep up quietly on the memory and surprise it.

The way I suddenly surprised Matt's reference to paraquat. Why hadn't I told Chris about it? But I liked Matt enough to want to speak to him in private first.

‘We're questioning everyone,' said Chris, his voice even and calm. ‘If you've got time, I'd like to talk to you myself – after lunch, perhaps. Say two thirty? After a short meeting I'd like everyone to attend at two. Would you try and get people together in the lounge, Matt? You and Shazia. Nothing startling. Just to keep everyone briefed. What's the matter, Sophie?'

‘You promise it'll be short? I've got a lot of cooking to do.'

‘Very short.'

So we gathered, as requested, in the lounge. Courtney was there, sitting as if by choice with Tina. He ventured the tiniest grin in my direction. The only people missing were Toad and the sci-fi buff. Shazia sat beside Matt and Chris. The rest of us were in a rough semicircle. Ian Dale slipped in after Chris had started to speak. I don't think anyone else noticed him, but I picked up the smell of his aftershave, a surprisingly sexy one for such a bastion of respectability.

‘I suppose you people will insist on incarcerating us here till you've managed to establish –'

‘No,' said Chris.

I'm sure he enjoyed saying it. The monosyllable came out with great weight and gusto. He allowed himself to glance at me before addressing himself more fully to Gimson's question. ‘No, Mr Gimson, we'll be operating the standard police procedure for cases like this.'

‘I have the most important meeting scheduled for Monday,' Gimson said. ‘Trust status for St Jude's. It's imperative I attend.'

‘I'm quite sure you will, Mr Gimson. I'm trying to explain, sir, if you'll give me a chance. What we do these days is to ask you all to make detailed statements. Then we ask for your home address. Your local police will verify this for me. Thereafter you'll be free to go about your business. We'd like you to be available for further talks if necessary, so it might be a bit tricky if you wanted to leave the country.' He smiled, everyone's favourite nephew or cousin. ‘We have, after all, two quite difficult problems here. Nyree's sleeping tablets have not turned up; there is no sign of Kate. We need all the cooperation you can give us.'

‘What are you going to do about Nyree's tablets?' asked Shazia.

‘To be honest, it's so vital we find them I'm going to ask you to let my colleagues check your rooms. They're all professionals. They won't disturb or damage your possessions. But we do need to establish once and for all that they're nowhere in Eyre House.'

We all nodded – middle-aged, middle-class people clinging to the ethos of helping the police. But I thought of my tampons and discovered I wasn't as middle-aged or middle-class as I'd thought. ‘Would it be WPCs or policemen?' I asked.

‘Here we go. You women and your insistence on equality. I suppose I can't demand the equality of having my male belongings searched by a male officer!' Gimson said.

‘I don't see why not, sir,' said Chris equably. ‘If anyone prefers their room – and it is only their room, not their body – to be searched by someone of their own gender –'

‘
Sex
!' said Gimson.

‘– then I'll be happy to arrange it.'

‘Nyree's dead,' said Matt brutally. ‘OK, I'd like her killer found. If she didn't do herself in accidentally, which is my theory. But Kate – what are you doing to find Kate?'

‘Let me tell you what we've done so far,' said Chris. ‘There has been a thorough examination of her room by a team of forensic scientists. The search revealed no signs of violence at all. We can only assume that Kate left her room herself, perhaps to look for her rat, or that if she left with someone, she did so willingly.'

For a moment, his eyes flickered in my direction. He was holding something back, something he might share with me when we were alone. I blinked: message understood.

‘And –?' prompted Matt.

‘As you know, we've searched the grounds exhaustively. We'd like to check all your cars, by the way, in case one of them might have any clues.'

Chris was sending me another message; he only used the outmoded term to me. I smiled.

‘Is that OK by everyone?' he added.

There was muttered agreement.

‘Isn't there anything else you can do?' Matt's voice sounded both angry and despairing. ‘What about the media? Can't you get them involved?'

‘We'd rather not, at this stage, just in case – you see, there is just the remotest possibility that she's been abducted, and when that's the case we have to follow very strict guidelines laid down by the Home Office. We have no option.'

‘So what can you do?'

‘Just talk to you all, again and again. Just in case a chance word helps us. So bear with us, please, ladies and gentlemen, if we appear slow and irritating. We're doing our best. And if anything, no matter how trivial, comes to your mind, please, please talk to me or one of my colleagues. We shall treat everything as confidential.'

The meeting was over. But he'd be in my room waiting for me when I got back.

To be precise, he was waiting in the corridor. When he smiled at me, it was with as much relief as if he'd been waiting, vulnerable on a street corner, for his girl. And yet I hadn't delayed.

‘No blood, no seminal fluid, no nothing,' he said, closing my bedroom door. ‘I didn't want to spell it out back there, but I was actually telling the truth.'

‘But not the whole truth,' I said. I gestured him to the chair. I sat on the bed.

‘All right. Not quite. And I thought you'd want to know. That bulge in Kate's bed wasn't her nightdress. It was a bag of rat food.'

‘There was a ring of something around her room – no, a parabola, as if someone had thrown –'

‘Right. I thought you'd probably noticed that. Yes, it was rat food. Perhaps she just wanted to make sure that Sidney was kept well fed.'

‘Or perhaps she was trying to do what that little boy in the fairy tale did.'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘He was getting lost so he left a trail of breadcrumbs so he could find his way out of the woods. OK, not very apposite. But she was trying to tell us something, possibly.'