Part 9 (1/2)
I see that I have lost Gibbs somewhere along the way. Keep it simple. ”Tims no more a killer than Lauren is,” I say.
”Have you ever met Jason Cookson?”
”No. Youre right. I know nothing about him. If I could take back what I said about him, I would.”
”Its always easier to believe that the people we dont know and dont care about are the evil ones,” says Gibbs.
”I dont care about Lauren,” I say indignantly. ”Saying she cant be a killer is hardly a declaration of undying love.”
”'Undying love. Thats an interesting phrase.” Gibbs leans back in his chair. ”What made you think of it?”
”My ambition to find new and inventive ways of being sarcastic,” I say flatly.
”Tell me about your relations.h.i.+p with Tim, aside from him being your accountant.”
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart) Tears flood my eyes, spill over. ”I cant,” I whisper.
”You said Lauren seemed frightened of you at Dsseldorf Airport, when you first spoke to her.”
Did he mean to help me out with that swift change of subject? Im grateful for it either way. ”Yes. I gave her a fairly ruthless pep talk at the boarding gate. She was yelling at the airport staff, yelling at other pa.s.sengers, at anyone who told her something she didnt want to hear. Except me. Soon as I weighed in, the fight went out of her. It was instant. She just stood there and looked at me as if she couldnt believe I was talking to her. I dont know if it was surprise or horror or what, but direct contact with me was a problem for her. It makes sense now, but it didnt at the time. Then later, when I b.u.mped into her in a corridor, after . . .” I break off.
”After what?”
He doesnt need to know about the pregnancy test. ”After wed been told to go to Departures and wait for the coach,” I say. ”She ran away from me as if I was chasing her, which I then did.”
Gibbs frowns and looks at his notes again. ”She ran away, but then a few minutes later she threw herself into your arms, told you shed helped to frame a man for murder, and ordered you to look after her all the way back to Combingham.”
”Yes. It makes no sense.”
”I wouldnt say that.” Gibbs stands, walks over to the window. He b.a.l.l.s his hands into fists and presses them against the gla.s.s as if hes getting into position for smas.h.i.+ng it. ”It makes sense if her feelings about you are mixed. She wants to get near you, or else whys she there?”
He must be right. But why? Why shadow me all the way to Dsseldorf and back? How did she know about me? Did she hear Tim mention my name?
”Shes on that flight because of you, and frightened in case you find out her reason for being in Germany, which is that youre in Germany. Last thing she wants is a confrontation.”
”Then what does she want?”
”Lets stick to questions we can answer,” says Gibbs. ”Was she on your morning flight as well?”
”That was the impression I got. She had no suitcase with her, so she hadnt been away overnight, and she mentioned having seen me in the morning. Theres only one Combingham-to-Dsseldorf flight on a weekday morning-the one I was on, the seven a.m.”
”Can you think, off the top of your head, how she might have known you were planning to go to Germany yesterday, and your flight times?”
”I have a blog,” I say, embarra.s.sed. Thats right: I cant communicate with the man I live with, so I compensate by oversharing on the Internet. ”Its mainly about sciencey, techy stuff, but it has my schedule on it.” So that Tim can keep track of what Im doing. So that one day, if he ever wants to, he can be waiting for me at the airport when my plane lands. ”And for light relief, and because its become a thing now and my regular readers like it, it also has a lot of me exaggeratedly moaning about having to get up early in the morning to fly to various places. Including Dsseldorf.”
”Name?”
”You know my . . . oh, right, the blog. Gaby Struthers dot com forward slash blog.”
”What line of work are you in?” Gibbs asks.
I hate answering that question unless I can do it properly. Its difficult to summarize, and Im too pa.s.sionate about my work to skirt over any of the details. ”At the moment Im part of a company called Rawndesley Technological Generics. Were working with a German company on a new product. Hence yesterdays trip.”
”New product as in something youve invented?”
”Something were trying to invent.”
Gibbs walks back to the table and sits down. ”What?” he asks.
”Is it relevant?”
He shrugs. ”Im interested in people who invent things. Ive never had the urge myself. Everything I want exists already.” Something flickers across his face: a problematic or unhappy thought. His strained smile immediately afterward convinces me that I didnt imagine it. ”Ive always reckoned people who invent things are trying to make life too complicated, but thats probably just me.”
”Lucky the person who dreamed up the wheel didnt agree with you,” I say.
”Thats different. Im not saying nothing ever needed to be invented. It was different in the old days, before we had everything we needed.”
Is he being serious? ”So you wouldnt bother to invent intelligent string, then?” As if youd have a hope in h.e.l.l of succeeding.
”Whats that?” Gibbs asks.
”What it sounds like. Imagine being able to wrap one piece of string around a box, say, and have the string measure the dimensions of the box.”
”Is that what your company makes? Intelligent string?”
”Were trying. Were not quite there yet.” We need another twenty million pounds worth of investment. Fancy chipping in?
Gibbs looks annoyed. ”Ive seen string,” he says. ”How dyou make it intelligent? Its just string.”
Im too tired to explain that what my colleagues and I are struggling to create is not the kind of string hes picturing, that you buy in a ball from the hardware shop. If I did, hed probably ask me why I call it string when it isnt. ”I need to sleep,” I say. ”Can I . . . How soon can I talk to Tim?”
”Thats for HMP Combingham to decide,” says Gibbs. ”Thats where hes remanded.”
The word makes my heart thud like a dropped lead ball.
Tim. In jail. Because Francines dead. If I could get in, I would: live there with him forever if I had to.
Where are these thoughts coming from? Who is the person having them, this doormat who would sacrifice everything shes worked for to live in prison with a man who rejected her? I dont recognize myself as me anymore.
Gibbs hands me a hanky from his trouser pocket. ”What are you thinking about thats made you start crying?” he asks.
I dont need to tell him about the red whirlwind, which isnt really red, or made of wind. Hes not my shrink, or my friend. Im thinking that I was doing so well. Id done an expert job of flattening everything down, sweeping it out of the way. And now its ruined. Lauren Cookson ruined it, and I hate her. I hate her for making me feel like this again, when I thought Id beaten it.
I am not, in fact, thinking at all. Things are cras.h.i.+ng through me: that would be a more accurate way to describe it. ”Whats the nearest hotel to the prison?” I ask, standing up. I suddenly cant bear to be in this cramped room for another second.
”Arent you going home?” Gibbs jolts to his feet. Is he about to grab me and force me down into my seat?