"I just needed someone to know, Gaby. Not do anything about it, just know. All the worst things that have happened to me in my life-no one knows about them! It was like, Id look at my mum and dad and Lisa and my mates and think, Why am I bothering talking to you when you havent got a clue?"
"Ive felt exactly the same," I tell her. "Not being able to tell Sean or any of our friends about Tim."
"Yeah, you get it," Lauren says approvingly. "So did Francine. I could feel it. She didnt judge me like anyone else would have. I could say stuff to her, I could say anything, things Id never dare say to anyone else. Shes the only one who knows . . . knew . . . the whole story about me and Jason. The things he used to do." Lauren wipes her eyes. "I dont see why Tim couldnt just leave me alone. He had to stick his f.u.c.king nose in."
"What did he do?" I ask.
"Hes like you, Tim." Lauren frowns. "I never understand half of what he says, all that saying bits of poems, like talking in riddles. I knew what he was trying to do, though: turn me against her."
"Against Francine?"
"He didnt like us being close. Said I wouldnt have wanted to tell her anything if Id known her before. She wasnt kind or understanding, she wouldnt have been my friend. Horrible things I didnt want to hear. Francine was my friend, my best friend." Lauren scratches at her tears with her fingernails, as if theyre insects on her face. "So what if she couldnt talk? If you spend that much time with someone, you know them. You know whats in their heart. You pick it up. They dont need to say anything. There was a bond between Francine and me. She knew how hard it was for me, like I knew it was hard for her. But I . . . for a long time, I thought . . . I mean, like, the worst had already happened to her, you know? I never thought that one day she might not be there and Id be back to having no one. Never prepared myself for it. Stupid, isnt it: thinking nothing s.h.i.t can happen to someone if something really s.h.i.t already has?"
"Its natural," I say automatically. Im not sure if I understand or mean any of the things Im saying anymore. Part of me has shut down.
"I couldnt stop them, Gaby. There was nothing I could do. Im just a care a.s.sistant, and those three . . . no one would have believed me! No one cared about Francine but me!"
"Stop what? Lauren, calm down. Tell me. Im on your side."
She shakes her head violently. "I wish I could tell her about Jason," she says.
About killing Jason: thats what she means.
"Tell me," I say. "I wont say anything. Ill just listen."
"You?" She laughs. "Thats a joke. Only person you want to listen tos yourself."
"No. I want to listen to you."
"What do you want to know?" she asks sullenly. "I took him down the pub, got him p.i.s.sed up, took him round my dads. He pa.s.sed out. I sat with Dad and Lisa, watched telly for a bit. I didnt tell them what I was going to do. They had no idea. I told them I was off to make a brew, got a knife out of the kitchen drawer, went upstairs and just . . ." She holds her hands together above her head and mimes stabbing. "Like that. I didnt feel anything when I did it, just, "How the f.u.c.k am I going to tell Dad and Lisa what Ive done? In their house. I couldnt have done it at home, though." She lets out a high-pitched squeal of a laugh. "Can you imagine it? Kerry and Dan arent the kind of people whod want someone stabbed to death in their posh house, are they?"
"Francine was murdered in their house," I remind her. Who? Who did it, Lauren?
"There was no blood, though," she says, as if Ive completely missed the point.
This is really happening. Im debating messy and tidy murders and the kinds of houses they belong in. With Lauren Cookson.
"Do you think Im evil for killing him?" she asks me.
"I think you should get a medal," I say honestly.
"Really?" The hope in her eyes is painful to see.
"Why do you care what I think? Im just a snooty cow you hardly know."
"Thats true." Lauren smiles through her tears. "I dont know. Everyone else seems to think the sun shines out of your a.r.s.e and youll have all the answers. I wanted to see if they were right. You asked me why I followed you to Germany, in your letter. Thats why."
Im at a loss. Did I miss the part where she explained? "What do you mean?"
"Whenever I heard Kerry and Dan at each others throats after Francine died, it was always about you. Never in front of Tim, but whenever he wasnt earwigging, they started up. Kerry kept saying what about talking to you, that youd know what to do. Dan said no, Timd never forgive them. Sometimes it was the other way round-they swapped sides. Went round and round in circles. And you should have heard Tim, the way he used to go on about you. I was sick of the lot of them. I thought, Right, lets find this Gaby Struthers. Everyone keeps saying how great she is and how sh.e.l.l know what to do, so lets see if she does. Maybe Ill tell her, I thought. It wasnt right, what was happening-whatever Tim wanted, however good he was at making it sound okay. I was in a right state. You saw me. I was losing it, doing my head in with it. I wanted to see you, see what all the fuss was about. Soon as I did, I thought, No way can I talk to that f.u.c.king snooty b.i.t.c.h. Sorry, but you know what I mean."
"You heard Tim talking about me to Dan and Kerry?" I say.
"No." Lauren looks confused. "Why?"
"You said youd heard him talk about me."
"Not to Kerry and Dan. Only to Francine."
"Francine?"
Lauren nods. "I wasnt the only one who used to talk to her. Tim did too. Didnt like sharing her with me either. He wanted her all to himself."
No. He hated her. He left her. He went back, yes, but not because he wanted her.
"Who killed Francine, Lauren? Please."
She looks at the door. "If I tell you who, youll want to know why."
"Yes. I will."
"I should have showed you the letters in Germany." She starts crying again. "If I wasnt such a f.u.c.king chicken-s.h.i.t b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Id have showed you then, told you everything."
"What letters?"
"They were under Francines mattress. Then when she died and they chucked out her bed, Dan moved them. Hid them in Tims room, under his mattress instead. No one knew I knew where theyd got to, but I did. They all thought I wouldnt notice what was going on right under my nose. Kerry knew I knew and she knew I didnt like it, but she didnt think Id do anything. Stupid t.w.a.ts! I bet they all think those letters are still there. I thought, one day one of thems going to decide they want burning and then Ill never be able to explain why Francine died. I havent got the gift of the gab like Kerry or Tim. Or you. Thats why I took them: they explain it better than I could."
"So you took the letters with you to Germany? So that Kerry and Dan couldnt destroy them?"
Lauren nods. "I was going to give them to you. But then I just . . . couldnt."
"Where are they? Show me them, Lauren. Please."
"I cant. I havent got them anymore."
No. Dont let her say what I think shes about to say.
"Where are they?"
"In that bathroom, in that c.r.a.ppy hotel. I took my bag in with me. They were in there. I put them in the toilet whatsit, that bit on top. I thought, they wont get wet-I had them in a plastic thing. I wish I hadnt left them now. I panicked when you started going on about Tim, trying to get the story out of me."
I pull my BlackBerry out of my pocket, key in the number Simon Waterhouse gave me: his mobile phone.
"Do you think theyll still be there?" Lauren asks. "I should have given them to you. I knew I should."
"h.e.l.lo? Gaby?" Simon Waterhouse sounds startled, as if Ive woken him from a nightmare.
How will he feel when I tell him there are letters he needs to read in a toilet cistern on the top floor of a shabby hotel by the side of a dual carriageway in Germany?
POLICE EXHIBIT 1437B/SK-
TRANSCRIPT OF HANDWRITTEN LETTER FROM DANIEL JOSE TO FRANCINE BREARY DATED 13 FEBRUARY 2011.
Francine, theres something Kerry and I havent been doing enough of in our letters, and thats telling you things you dont already know. We seem to be mainly giving you our perspective on past events. Maybe thats okay, I dont know. But the point of our doing this letter thing is to support Tim. Theres supposed to be only one difference between what hes doing and what were doing: hes saying it out loud, sitting by your bedside day after day, and were writing it down so that Lauren cant overhear anything.
Ive eavesdropped on Tims one-sided conversations with you. He doesnt tell you anything you already know-hes careful about that. I could be wrong, but I think he plans what hes going to say to you in advance, before going into your room. Theres a neatness to his monologues. Each one contains a revelation of some kind, even if its only that he and Gaby first kissed in the porch of the Proscenium Library on this or that date. No big deal to anyone apart from Tim, Gaby and you: the long-suffering betrayed wife.
At least youre not bored, I suppose. Tim wants you on the edge of your seat (sorry-you know what I mean), scared of what youre going to hear next. Its all what a stand-up comedian might call new material, though theres nothing funny about it. Gabys his only subject matter, and hes incapable of anything but total seriousness when it comes to her. He never runs out of new things to tell you: how she built up her company, endless technical detail about her creation, Taction, that no one but an expert or someone in love with an expert could hope to understand, her amazing website, witty remarks she made four years ago about trivial things. Tim must have a photographic memory. Or nothing else in his life that matters to him.
Having said that, Ive never heard him come out and tell you he loves Gaby, not in so many words. Still, youd have to be pretty dense not to have worked it out, Francine. No man wants to talk endlessly about a woman unless hes got it pretty bad. Kerry and I didnt quite realize the level of Tims obsession with Gaby until we heard him talk to you about her.
Since I cant be bothered doing any more work today, Im going to follow Tims example and tell you two things you dont already know. And like him, Ive planned both in advance. One is something no one knows: Im starting to think Ive been wasting my time for the past G.o.d knows how many years. I want to give up on my Ph.D., with immediate effect, and never see the d.a.m.n thing again. Kerry doesnt know. Shes against giving up on anything and would try to talk me out of it. And probably succeed. The truth is, Im not sure I can be bothered thinking or writing anymore about how the kinds of archetypes and stories were attracted to affects our att.i.tudes to financial risk. Its too interdisciplinary-messy and, at the same time, just too sodding obvious: person number ones worst fear is that h.e.l.l end up having to tell a story about himself in which he was too timid to grab an amazing chance and, as a result, missed out on the rewards enjoyed by those braver than him. Person number twos least favorite hypothetical life narrative is the one in which he stakes all his hard-earned savings on a long shot and is left regretting his recklessness in abject poverty. Person number one is obviously more likely to invest 100,000 in a high-risk illiquid start-up than person number two.
There: Ive said it in roughly a hundred words. Even youd understand, Francine, though Im sure youd find a way to condemn persons one and two equally. But youd grasp the basic concept. Any fool would. So why am I devoting years to writing a Ph.D. on it, months drafting questionnaires and gathering data to prove what I already know? Whats the point? Even if I finish and publish it, all thatll happen is a load of economic theory windbagsll queue up to shout me down in journals no one reads. Theyre already gearing up, apoplectic with rage because Ive brought a wishy-washy imposter like narrative archetype into their precious economics.
You must be wondering why Im telling you something thats nothing to do with you, Francine. If I give up on my Ph.D. or if I dont, what do you care? Tim wouldnt waste time telling you a random piece of news, would he? At the risk of sounding big-headed, I think theres something hes forgotten to take into account: how affronted you always were when someone else took center stage, even for five minutes. You were incapable of sitting and listening to another persons news without starting to seethe and act up because youd lost the spotlight. Kerry and I noticed it the first time Tim brought you round to ours for dinner, the first time we ever met you. We were mystified and couldnt for the life of us work out what had happened to him. Suddenly, his long, entertaining rants that had always been the best part of the evenings we spent together were no more. Every question we asked him, he answered as succinctly and humorlessly as possible before turning the focus back to you. "Fine, thanks, not much happening at the moment." The "Fine, thanks" was weird enough in itself. Even weirder was "Francines having an exciting time at work, though, arent you, darling?" An exciting time at work. Never mind the fact that you were a pensions lawyer, Francine-it was such an un-Tim thing to say. Kerry and I couldnt work out what the h.e.l.l had happened to him at first. Then we realized. Actually, it was a bit of a horror film moment: the way the trusting heroine feels when she stumbles across a cobwebby black-and-white photograph alb.u.m and finds a photo of her husband lying in a coffin with the undertakers sutures all over his body, and realizes hes been dead for years and thats why hes got that strange st.i.tched Y-shape on his torso that hes always claimed was a tennis injury. (Please pardon facetiousness and intrusion of random narrative archetype. As I said, Ive been working on the Ph.D. all morning.) I think it would wound you, Francine, to have to listen to me chunter on about my career anxieties. It would cause your ego pain to be forced into a minor role-mute listener-especially knowing you wont get your turn when Im through.
Moving on to my second planned agenda item, the one that directly relates to you: remember when you and Tim got me Imperium by Robert Harris for my birthday? Its funny, Ive read Kerrys latest letter to you and she didnt even mention the Robert Harris aspect of the evening. Making Memories Night, to give it its official t.i.tle. You told me as I was opening my present from you and Tim that I probably already had it, but that Tim had insisted I didnt. You said it as if Tim, being Tim, was bound to be wrong. In fact, hed been spotlessly correct until earlier that same day when not one but two people had presented me with copies: my mother-in-law and my secretary. Kerry laughed when I told her. "Youll have to start putting the word about that youve gone off Robert Harris, otherwise youre going to be getting twenty copies of his latest book for birthdays and Christmases for the rest of your life." (Incidentally, Im sure a quick statistical a.n.a.lysis would reveal that your biggest flare-ups were on other peoples special occasions, Francine.) I ripped off the paper in one corner, saw the "Imp" of the t.i.tle at the same time Kerry did. She was sitting next to me on the sofa. We both knew what had to happen. Impossible as it would have been to explain to anyone who wasnt part of our crazy foursome setup, we knew it was inconceivable that wed laugh and say, "Actually, this is the third copy to arrive so far." Tim had a.s.sured you I didnt have it. If he turned out to have been mistaken, youd have made him suffer. Thanks to him, youd have been someone whod messed up the buying of a present, which, in your eyes, would have made you look bad in public.
I launched into a pretense of never having seen Imperium before and, for added security, not even knowing Robert Harris had a new thriller out. Kerry stood up and said she was just nipping to the loo. I knew it was an excuse. She wasnt willing to risk you going upstairs for some reason and seeing the two Imperiums in our bedroom. (Imperia?) Do you know what she did, Francine? She got the other two copies of the book, wrapped them in a shirt and stuffed them under the mattress of our bed. Id have done the same if I hadnt needed to stay put and make an elaborate show of loving your present more than I loved life itself, to make sure you felt properly appreciated.
Tim was trying to look relaxed, but I knew he knew too. Hed guessed from my face, and Kerrys, though he probably thought it was only one other copy of Imperium we were afraid of you finding and not two. Imagine that, Francine: that level of panic, over something so ridiculously trivial. Thats what you did to the people around you. Thats why I dont worry, like Kerry does, that Lauren knows whats going on. She thinks Lauren might have seen her shove a letter under your mattress. "And that matters why?" I asked. "What can Lauren do that can harm us?" Its not about harm for Kerry, though. Its about guilt. She couldnt bear for Lauren (or anyone, actually) to think she was doing anything wrong. Shes also scared Lauren might confront Tim and make him feel guilty. I can understand that. In Kerrys mind, Tim feeling bad equals Tim probably ending up dead.
Hence shes always encouraged his long "chats" with you, Francine. She talks about it as if its a kind of therapy for him. And hence this: our one-sided correspondence with you, and with the proviso that all our letters must be written in your room, sitting by your bed. This is how Kerry decided she and I would support Tim.
The drawback of these letters, from my point of view, is precisely what Kerry thinks is their best feature: you cant read them, and we cant read them aloud to you-Kerrys rules. So you dont know whats in them. Its the only way of being fair to everyone, in the opinion of my wise wife.
Who I think and have always thought, Francine, is in love with your unwise husband. Its lucky shes not his type physically or I might have lost her years ago.
I dont especially want to be fair to you. When were you ever fair to Tim? Or any of us? I think Im going to read you this letter. Kerrys out. She wont know. Ill feel guilty about keeping it from her, but thats not enough to stop me.
Here goes.
26.
16/3/2011.
Sam took the last of the letters from Simon. They were sitting on the floor of a chairless attic room in the Haffner Hotel in Germany, the room Gaby Struthers and Lauren Cookson would have shared when their plane was delayed, if Lauren hadnt fled. Who wouldnt run, Sam thought, from a room like this? It was a s.p.a.ce no one would choose to enter, let alone spend time in, unless what they had in mind was a death pact or the filming of a movie in which everybody was supposed to be depressed all the time. The curtains were mottled with filth, the carpet was a collage of shiny bald patches. A previous resident of the room had discarded a shriveled pink Elastoplast in a corner that the cleaners, a.s.suming any ever came up here, had failed to spot and remove. There was nothing on the walls apart from jagged lightning flashes of plaster where the paper had peeled off. Actually, the walls reminded Sam of Simon and Charlies living room, but hed kept that thought to himself.
A stale smell hung in the air: old alcohol and sweat. It made Sam wish hed never left the civilized Proscenium Library.
He pa.s.sed the letter back to Simon once hed read it. "More of the same."
"Im sorry."
"No, its not your fault. You were right: a plastic wallet full of hidden letters in a hotel toilet cistern in Germany, brought all the way from Lower Heckencott in the Culver Valley-it sounds as if its going to be useful. Sounds as if it could hardly fail to be significant. Yeah, we could have sent uniforms to pick it up, but-"
"Not what I meant," Simon cut him off. "Im sorry about . . . you know. How Ive been. You were unlucky, thats all." He dropped the pile of letters on the floor as if they were nothing but an irritation, and drew his knees up to his chin. He looked like someone waiting for a giant to reach down and whack him over the head. Although perhaps the grimness of the room was contributing to that effect, Sam conceded.
He waited.
"Im low-level angry most of the time, never really know why," Simon told him. "You got the brunt of it. This time."
Sam wanted to meet him halfway, but was afraid that if he said, "Well, to be fair, I should probably have told you sooner," things might take a turn for the less cordial; Simon might retract his apology. "Lets put it behind us," he said, pleased to be forgiven whether hed done anything wrong or not.
"It was useful," said Simon.
"For you, maybe." Sam smiled to take the sting out of his words. "You thrive on conflict and drama." You thrive on not thriving. Turn your own negative energy and everyone elses into . . . Sam didnt know what.
"No, I meant the wallet." Was that a half smile from Simon? "The letters. Read them again."
Sam picked up the one nearest to him. "What, you think they tell us something?"
"I think theyve told me something theyve not told you. They might if you ask nicely."
"Not who killed Francine?" Sam wouldnt have missed that.
"Something more important than who. They tell us why."
Was this some kind of trick? Simons revenge?
"I cant see it," Sam said. "I see hearts and grudges and insecurities and regrets poured out on paper, thats all." He fanned out the pages on the floor in front of him. Odd words jumped out: "memories," "hammer," "twist." He knew looking like this wasnt going to help, but he was too impatient to read the whole lot again. Was Simon going to make him?
Any chance of cutting me a bit of slack, as Im resigning soon? In a few weeks it wont be my job to work things out anymore. Sam had been trying to think of a way to broach the subject all day; the last thing he wanted was for Simon to take his decision personally, and he couldnt think how to phrase it to ensure that didnt happen.
"I cant see any motive here." He gestured at the letters. "Cant see a why."
Simon nodded. "You wont do. Because you dont know who."
"But we agreed these letters dont tell us who." Which means . . . "You know who killed Francine?"
"You would too if you werent thinking of killing her in the wrong way."