Part 8 (1/2)
”I havent, but Ive seen it on telly. They all did it, together-all the suspects.”
”And its fiction,” Charlie said pointedly. ”And the reason for all doing it together was so that everyone could be alibied by a supposedly unrelated third party, so that it looks as if none of them can have done it. Brilliant idea, but theres only a point if no one wants to go down for murder. Your Tim Breary seems keen to do just that-in which case, why would they all need to . . .” Charlie stopped and laughed at herself. ”Of course they didnt all do it together. It doesnt take five people to hold a pillow over a semi-paralyzed stroke victims face.” In the Agatha Christie novel, the partic.i.p.ation of all the conspirators wasnt necessary to ensure the death of the target, but was symbolically significant: everyone wanted to get revenge in person and at close range by inflicting his or her own knife wound. Pillow wound? Stop it, Zailer.
Sam pulled the car over by the gra.s.sy bank at the side of the road. Charlie tossed her cigarette b.u.t.t out of the open window and listened to the kind of silence you only ever hear near the homes of the very rich. Ahead was a pair of gray stone gateposts topped by large stone b.a.l.l.s. ”Welcome to Lower Heckencott Hall,” said Sam. ”The Dower House doesnt have separate access, so we have to go through the grounds of the big house.” He chuckled. ”Thats what Kerry Jose calls the Hall. You should see the size of her place.”
Charlie couldnt take her eyes off the gateposts. On each one was a carved relief of what looked like a cake stand piled high with fruit. Odd choice, so far from a kitchen. Charlie pictured, instead of the fruit platters, an image on each post of a pillow, with a woman suffocating beneath it, a hand pressing the pillow down. Or perhaps several hands, each one pressing on the one beneath . . .
”What if Tim Breary did it, but they all wanted it done?” said Sam. ”Ive no proof, but maybe thats where the group thing comes in-the conspiracy, if you want to call it that.”
”You obviously do.” Funny, hed thought of the word too. Charlie reminded herself that she hadnt yet met any of these people. She was in no position to be theorizing with Sam.
He turned to face her. ”Personally, I think Tim Breary killed his wife, but that doesnt mean he isnt lying. Whatever the story is, they all know it. They all know the word-perfect lie theyve agreed to present for public consumption, and they all know the truth. And none of thems telling.”
7.
FRIDAY, 11 MARCH 2011.
”So what did you do?” Detective Constable Chris Gibbs asks me. ”When you realized Lauren was talking about Tim Breary.”
I thought Id finished the story I came here to tell. Thats why I stopped talking.
Staying focused is hard. My eyes ache to close and wont stop watering. The left one twitches every few seconds; Ive tried rubbing the skin around it, but the spasm is stubborn and wont be smoothed away. My hair is unbrushed and tangled, my trousers are streaked with mud and there are coffee stains on my top thanks to a bout of mid-flight turbulence. I must look repulsive. Poor DC Gibbs; I wouldnt want to be stuck in a too-small, too-warm interview room with me.
”Does it matter what I did?” I say. ”This is about Tim Breary, not me. He didnt kill his wife, so drop the charges and release him. You dont prosecute when theres no chance of a conviction, do you?”
”Not as simple as that, and not up to us,” says Gibbs. ”Its the CPS call. Crown Prosecution Service.”
”You, them, whoever,” I say impatiently. ”Whats a jury going to think when I stand up in court and quote Lauren Cookson on the subject of letting an innocent man go to prison for murder?”
”Your word against hers-thats what Id think. Id also wonder about your feelings for Tim Breary. I do wonder about them.” He stares at me. Am I supposed to feel guilty for having feelings? It would be so convenient to have none. Id be able to sit here and concentrate on protecting my interests, and Tims, with no red whirlwind raging inside me; police detectives would hear my rational arguments and not sense the havoc underneath.
”Whatever your relations.h.i.+p with Tim Breary is or was, the prosecutionll sniff it out,” Gibbs says. ”When and how did the two of you meet?”
Im not ready for this. ”Ill save the prosecution the effort by not hiding anything,” I say, hardly hearing myself. Reasonable speech is no compet.i.tion for the roaring whirlwind. ”Tim and I were good friends at one time. Its no secret. Ill tell them that, and then Ill tell them what Lauren said about him being innocent of murder, and the jury will acquit him. Except there wont be a jury. It wont come to that. The CPS will drop the charge as soon as theyve read my statement.”
Gibbs doesnt disagree as I expect him to. ”It wouldnt happen that quickly,” he says distractedly, as if something more interesting has drawn his attention away from me. ”A lots going to depend on whether Lauren confirms or denies your account of last night.”
So Tims freedom hinges on the testimony of an unstable tattooed moron. Thats comforting to know. ”Sh.e.l.l deny it because shes scared s.h.i.+tless,” I say.
”Youd be surprised how many people cave in at the first challenge,” says Gibbs.
I want to tell him to stop wasting time speculating and get out there and find Lauren.
”Wheres Tim?” I ask. ”Is he here, in a cell somewhere?” If the answer is yes, Im going to find it hard to stay in my seat. ”Is he in prison? I need to see him.” I think of what Lauren said last night about smas.h.i.+ng down doors.
”Hes on the CPS side.”
”What?”
”Whos a more reliable witness in your opinion, Tim Breary or Lauren Cookson?”
I cant give him the quick answer he wants. No question about Tims character can be answered easily. He is both reliable and unreliable.
”Because they disagree,” Gibbs says. ”a.s.suming what youre telling mes the truth and shes claiming hes innocent.”
”Every word Ive said is true.” Gibbs words are the problem, not mine. I dont understand them. Who disagrees? With what? Is this how Lauren felt last night, trying to talk to me? ”In an ideal world, Id be having this conversation after ten hours sleep,” I say. ”I know you probably dont mean to, but . . . please, can you not mess me around?”
”Tim Brearys confessed to the murder of his wife.”
My stomach lurches. I swallow hard, do my best to breathe at the same time as keeping my throat shut tight. I compensated for lack of sleep with a big cooked breakfast at Cologne Airport this morning. It looked and tasted disgusting, but will give me enough energy to get through the day, if it doesnt end up splashed all over the table in front of me.
”If hes confessed, hes lying,” I say once my stomach waves have subsided. He cant have. The article I read said nothing about a confession, only that Tim had been charged. ”Why would he confess? It must mean . . .” I fall silent, temporarily unable to locate the meaning. I didnt expect a police station to be so much like an airport: being here makes me feel grainy, undefined, simultaneously lost inside myself and trapped outside my life.
”Youre too tired to work anything out,” Gibbs says. ”If you want to help Tim, answer my questions. You can think later.”
If I tell him that I can usually do both at the same time-thinking and answering-will I come over as big-headed?
Youre pathetic. You want him to know that youre the great Gaby Struthers, but look at you. You cant keep a coherent idea in your brain for two seconds.
”What did you do after you Googled Lauren Cooksons name and found out about Tim?” Gibbs asks.
Fell apart. Am still falling. ”Tried to convince myself to believe it,” I say. ”Made myself go through the search results on my phone systematically, reading as much as I could. I had no idea what Id do when Lauren came out of the bathroom, what Id say. I wanted to run away.”
”Why?”
”Isnt it obvious?”
”The obvious thing would be to talk to her, wouldnt it?” Gibbs says. ”Tell her that you know her innocent man and you dont think that can be a coincidence?”
”How can it not be a coincidence?” I wipe my runny eyes. ”I know it cant be, but if it isnt, that has to mean-”
”Gaby,” Gibbs interrupts me. ”Youre exhausted.”
Why is he telling me things I ought to be telling him?
”Dont put yourself under pressure. Its my job to work out whats going on, not yours.” He smiles at me as if he wants to get his smiling practice over and done with for the day. Or maybe he wants to be warm and rea.s.suring, but doesnt know how to go about it. ”Why did you want to run away from Lauren, once you found out her innocent man charged with murder was Tim Breary?” he asks.
”I wasnt thinking straight. I wanted to get back to the UK and the police as soon as I could. Not that tramping miles along the autobahn at night would have made that happen-which is why I stayed put.”
”You said you wanted to run away. That suggests running from as well as running to.”
Hes got me there. In exchange for his smile, I decide to tell him the truth. ”Id mentioned Tim to Lauren already. Not by name, but Id told her about a man whod been important to me. Then to find out she must have meant Tim . . .” The red whirlwind roars louder.
”Take your time,” Gibbs says quietly.
There is no time. I have to see Tim now, help him now. ”I was scared shed walk out of that bathroom and Id grab hold of her and shake her till she told me everything: why she was letting Tim take the blame for a crime he didnt commit, how she knew he hadnt done it, who did it if not him. I didnt think Id be able to restrain myself. Shed have seen how much it mattered to me. Even someone as stupid as Lauren would have guessed it was Tim, the man Id been talking about.”