Living Proof (26 page)

238 The solicitor who arrived was actually a solicitor's clerk. Heather Jardine; a forty-three-year-old Scot, divorced with two teenage children, who had abandoned a stuttering career as a playwright and enrolled in evening classes in law. She knew Lyiin Kellogg fairly well they had been through this and similar procedures before and the two women treated one another with more than grudging respect.

Jardine made sure her client was aware of his rights, had been fairly treated and asked if he might not have a cup of tea.

Lynn waited for Kevin Naylor to join her and set the tape rolling, identifying those present in the room and the time.

"All right, Marius, why don't we talk about the incident with the rabbit first off?"

After a less than ten minutes of prevarication, Marius asked if he could speak to Heather Jardine alone. This allowed, he admitted the incident with the breakfast trolley, said that he had got it ready the previous day and had intended to leave it outside Cathy Jordan's door; seeing the trolley there, waiting to be taken into the room, he had elaborated his plans accordingly.

"And what was the point?" Lynn asked.

"I mean, why go through all of this rigamorole?"

Marius didn't reply immediately. Instead, he swivelled his head and asked Heather Jardine if he had to answer, and she said, no, he did not. Another few moments and he answered anyway.

"It was a symbol,"

he said.

"Of what I think of her work."

"A symbol?" Lynn repeated carefully.

"Yes."

"Perhaps you'd best explain."

"Oh, if you'd read any, you'd know."

"In fact, I have," Lynn said.

"A little."

"Then you'll know the awful things she does; little children tortured, abused, defiled." His face was a mask of disgust.

"Do you have children, Mr Gooding? Yourself?" Lynn asked.

"I don't see what on earth..."

"I was interested, that's all."

Well, no, then. No, I don't. "

"But it's something you feel strongly about?"

"Yes. Yes, of course. I mean, it's only natural. At least, that's what you would think. And the fact that she's a woman. That it's a woman, perpetrating these things..."

"Not exactly, Mr Gooding."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Ms Jordan isn't actually doing any of these things. She isn't doing anything. Other than writing books. Isn't that so?"

"Yes, but..."

"Let me be clear here," Naylorsaid, leaning forward for the first time.

"The business with the rabbit, that was to teach Miss Jordan a lesson, frighten her into stopping writing, what?"

"Huh, she's never going to stop, is she? Not with a formula like that. Raking it in. God knows what she must have earned, the last few years. Though, of course, she hasn't got the respect. Not from the critics, nor the affection of her readers. True affection, like Dorothy."

"That was what you had for Ms Birdwell? Yourself, I mean. Affection and respect?"

"Of course, yes. Why I..."

"Then why this?" Lynn's finger hovered over the first of the photographs.

"Or this? Or this?"

Marius closed his eyes.

"I was upset. I..."

"You seem to get upset a lot," Lynn observed quietly.

"I thought... I know it was stupid and foolish and very, very wrong... but I thought she didn't... Dorothy didn't ... after everything that had happened between us, all the 240 time we had spent together..." His body was racked by a sudden sob.

"I thought she didn't love me any more. And I am deeply, deeply ashamed."

The faint whir of the tape machinery aside, the clipped clicking of the clock, the only sounds were the contortions of Marius's ragged breathing as he struggled to recover himself, regain some element of control. Heather Jardine looked at the notepad on her lap and wished she could light up a cigarette; Kevin Naylor simply looked embarrassed. It was Lynn whose eyes never wavered. If ever anyone was in need of therapy, she was thinking, it's this poor, pathetic bastard and not me.

"These feelings you had about Cathy Jordan," Lynn asked, 'about her work. Would you say that Ms Birdwell shared those? "

"Most strongly, yes."

"But she didn't approve of the methods you used to express what you felt?"

"Grand guignol was the term she used. Over-theatrical. Too close for Dorothy's liking to the kind of thing you can imagine Jordan doing herself. Though, of course, that was the point."

"She was happier with the letters, then, was she?" Lynn asked, making a leap of faith.

Marius's face was a picture.

Reaching down for the folder that was leaning against one leg of the table, Lynn extracted copies of the threatening letters Cathy Jordan had received and set them carefully down along the length of the table.

"The letters," Lynn said.

"Have a good look. Remind yourself."

Marius wobbled a little in his seat.

"I think," Heather Jardine said, rising to her feet, 'my client is in need of a break. "

"This interview," Lynn said, face angled towards the tape recorder, 'suspended at seventeen minutes past twelve. "

At four minutes to two, Alison and Shane Charlton rang the buzzer at the Enquiries desk below and asked if they could speak to somebody about the Peter Farleigh murder.

FR1;Forty-three "We had a message," Alison Charlton said, 'you wanted us to get in touch. We've been away, you see. The weekend. " She smiled at her husband, who smiled, a touch self- consciously, back.

"We came in as soon as we heard." The wedding rings, Resnick noticed, were shiny and new on their hands.

"The man who died," Shane Charlton said,

"Alison's mother had saved his picture from the paper. She knew we'd been staying there that night. The same hotel."

"It was Shane's firm's do," Alison explained.

"I recognised him, we recognised him right off," Shane said.

"Didn't we, All?"

"Oh, yes." Her face, bright already, brightened still further.

"We were right facing him, him and her. Going up in the lift. Must have been1 was saying to Shane, wasn't I, Shane? - after that that it happened."

"What time was this?" Resnick asked.

"Can you remember?"

"It would have been round eleven thirty," Shane said.

"Nearer quarter past," Alison said.

"You said, him and her," Resnick reminded her.

"The woman ..."

"The woman he was with ..."

"Nice looking, she was. Well, quite..."

"Considering."

"Like you say, considering. And I think she'd been drinking, don't you, Shane?"

"Didn't act drunk, though, did she? Not exactly."

"No, it was what she said."

Shane nodded, remembering.

"Come right out with it, didn't she? We might as well not've been there, might we? For all she cared. Well, I'd never've had the guts to have said it. Not the way she did. One hundred and fifty pounds, she said, just like she was talking about, oh, you know, the weather.

A hundred and fifty pounds, to spend the night. I said to Shane after, when we was in our room, would he, like, if he was off on business and on his own, without us being married, of course, would he ever spend that amount of money. And you said you might, d'you remember, but only if she looked like me. I thought that was really sweet. "

She giggled and Shane, embarrassed, fidgeted in his seat.

"Could you describe her?" Resnick asked.

"The woman."

They looked at one another before Alison answered. "She was, well, she wasn't young."

"She was never old," Shane said.

"Thirty-five, should you say, Shane?"

Shane shrugged.

"Something like that."

"And she was dressed, you know, not tarty. Smart, I suppose you'd say. She had this black, button-through dress. Satiny, sort of.

Sleeveless. A blouse underneath. "

"Colour?"

"Blue. It was, wasn't it, Shane? Quite a dark shade of blue."

"I don't know. I don't think I ever noticed."

"I'm sure it was. Midnight blue, I think that's what you'd call it.

Midnight blue. "

"How about her hair?" Resnick asked.

"What do you remember about that?"

"Well, it was dark. Definitely dark. And she wore it up like this..."

Alison demonstrated as best she could with her own hair, even though it was too short to give the proper effect.

'. pinned, at the back. "

"She had one of those things," Shane said.

What things? "

"I don't know, those things you put in your hair."

"A ribbon? She didn't have a ribbon."

"No, not that. One of those plastic thingununies..."

"A comb?" suggested Alison.

"She wasn't just standing there with a comb in her hair, don't be daft."

"That's what they're called, though. Combs."

"Don't you remember?" Shane said.

Alison shook her head.

"It was on the right-hand side," Shane said.

"Well, that was over towards you. Where you were standing."

"That's right."

"What colour was it?" Resnick asked, hanging on to his patience.

"This comb."

"White. Off-white." And, as though plucking the name from the air, smile on his face as if his answer had just won a prize.

"Ivory."

Alison smiled for him.

"I'd like you to look at some photographs," Resnick said.

"Down at Central Station. The Intelligence Bureau. I'll get someone to drive you down."

"Oh, great," Alison exclaimed.

"We'd like that, wouldn't we, Shane?"

The officer set out the photograph of Marlene Kinoulton along with eleven others of similar colouring and general age and appearance.

Neither Alison nor Shane picked her out immediately, but when they did, there was little or no uncertainty.

"It was the hair that threw me, wasn't it you, Shane?"

Alison said.

"She didn't have it down when we saw her. Like I told the other policeman..."

"Inspector Resnick," Shane said.

"Inspector Resnick, yes. Like I told him, her hair was up then. Made her look quite a bit different. Bit older, of course, but smarter.

I'd wear it like that all the time, if I were her. "

Heather Jardine and Lynn Kellogg were standing out at the rear of the station building, the ground around them dark and slick from the quick summer shower. Heather Jardine was having her second cigarette in succession, all the more necessary having given up smoking from New Year's Eve until a week ago last Friday. Now, it was as if she couldn't get the nicotine back into her bloodstream fast enough.

"So how's it been?" she asked and they both knew what she was referring to, Lynn standing there with a polystyrene cup of lukewarm coffee in her hand, not wanting to talk about the kidnapping and its aftermath, not at all, but understanding the other woman's need to ask, the concern.

"Not so bad," Lynn said.

"You know..." Letting it bang.

"I don't suppose," Heather said, 'it's the kind of thing you ever really forget. "

Lynn swallowed a mouthful more coffee; though the sun had come back out, the recent rain had left a nip in the air and she caught herself wishing she had worn a cardigan, some kind of a sweater.

"He's not come up for trial yet, either, has he?"

Lynn shook her head.

Heather drew smoke in heavily and held it in her mouth before exhaling.

"These letters, they're pretty nasty, I know. Threatening, it's true. But even if you could prove in court he actually did send them, there's never any real sense he was intending to carry any of those threats out' Lynn let her continue.

"I suppose if you took some of it literally, there might be a charge of threat to kill, but well... I don't think the GPS would be over the moon about that, do you? Without that, unless the woman wants to press charges herself, take out a civil action, where are you?"

Lynn smiled wearily.

"Public Order Act, section five."

"Ah, you'd not bother. Most your boss is likely to press for, bung him up before the magistrate and have him bound over."

Lynn had a mouthful more coffee and tipped the remainder out on to the wet ground.

"And what about all the rest?"

"Resisting arrest?"

"Assault."

Heather stubbed out the butt of her cigarette on the sole of her shoe.

"First offence, no record, previous good behaviour. I'd be surprised if it got anywhere near court, and if it did, any barrister worth half his fee would argue a hole through the prosecution a mile wide."

"Maybe."

"If I'm wrong," Heather laughed,

"I'll buy you a bottle of twenty-year Macallan."

Not really a drinker, Lynn took this to be an impressive offer.

"Shall we go back in? At least, we can make him wriggle and squirm a bit longer." She shuddered, not from the cold.

"It's not just his public-school accent or that pathetic little moustache, don't know what it is, but there's something about him, makes my skin crawl."

Involuntarily, Heather had begun scratching her thigh. "Mine, too."

Skelton was standing behind his desk, about as close to being at ease as he ever seemed to get.

"Pulled in all the extra bodes I can, Charlie. Go through the city tonight like a fine-tooth comb. If she's still here, we'll find her."

"If not?" Resnick asked.

"Then we'll release her picture in the morning."

'. Police today took the unusual step of releasing a photograph of a woman they wish to interview in connection with a number of attacks on men, including the murder of Peter Farleigh, whose body was found with fatal stab wounds. "

Susan Tyrell reached over and pushed one of several preset buttons, switching the radio to Classic-FM.

"Did you see the picture, David?"

"Mm? Sorry, which picture?" He was standing by the microwave, concentrating on the controls; one second too many and the croissants would be reduced to slime. Close by stood the matt black espresso machine he had talked Susan into buying him the Christmas before last and which he had never learned to use.