“Of course. I’ll call the manager.”
Within a minute, the manager arrived and introduced himself as Otto, and he explained that he had been one of the people to find Felix in his room. Tilda gripped my arm as she asked, “Where was he, exactly? I have an image of him lying on the floor, and nobody knowing he was down there, nobody coming.”
“Oh no . . . It wasn’t like that. He was on the bed. It was as though he was lying in some comfort. If you’ll forgive me, I’d say that he looked peaceful, like someone in a painting. It was a strange thought of mine, but I thought it might reassure you to know this.”
“Yes,” said Tilda. “In a way it does.”
“I went to the room because I was summoned by Mr. Julio Montero, a colleague of Mr. Nordberg’s, I understand.”
“Yes . . . yes he is,” said Tilda. “Is he still here, in the hotel?”
“No I’m afraid not. But, excuse me, what is it that we can do for you?”
“I’d like to see his room. The room where he died.”
It was decided that Agnes should show us, and as she led us up the stairs, she kept turning around as if about to say something before changing her mind.
My first impression was that the room was so light and white and uncluttered that Felix would have been happy here. Tilda and I looked at the bed, as though it could tell us something about his last moments, but it had been remade into a state of pristine neatness, as though his death was a minor event, easily erased with the changing of sheets and the puffing of pillows. I went to the window to see Felix’s view, which was of a garden and a golf course, and silvery woods in the distance. At the same time, Tilda walked round the room, skimming the surfaces with her fingertips, touching where she thought Felix had touched.
“Everything’s gone,” she said, “but I can feel his presence. I can see him in this room doing ordinary things, having a shower, changing into his running gear.”
Her eyes were wet again, and Agnes said, “I took some photos yesterday morning. Of him, and of the room. Just in case they might be important . . . I didn’t know whether you, or others in his family, might like to see them. . . .”
Tilda looked at her harshly, her voice a strained whisper: “What? What are you saying? That you photographed his dead body? Why would you do that?”
“I don’t know. For some reason, I thought it important to make a record. I don’t really understand why.”
Tilda sat on the bed, her head drooping as though she were too tired to think, but she rallied herself and said, “I’d like to see them. Come here and show me.”
Agnes sat beside Tilda, and I sat beside Agnes, and she showed us pictures of the bathroom, his shaving gear and used soap, of the bedroom, the untouched hospitality tray, the view of the golf course, and finally of Felix, lying on his back on the bed, his eyes open then, staring vacantly at the ceiling, bathrobe gaping open, and left arm hanging down the side of the bed, fingers suspended above the floor.
Tilda stared at it, her face white, her expression frozen. “I want you to email these to me, then delete them.” She looked in her bag for a paper and pen, writing down her email address.
“And where are his things? His clothes and toiletries, his wedding ring and watch and cuff links? I should have them.”
“Yes, of course. We’ve packed them up. . . . You can take them when you leave.”
As we left the room and descended the stairs, we saw Otto waiting in the reception area, his arm resting on a black suitcase on wheels.
“These are your husband’s effects. . . . Please take them, and if there’s anything else I can help with, don’t hesitate to ask. I’ve put my card in the bag.”
So we took the suitcase and ordered a minicab to the station, heading back to London. Tilda said she’d rather be alone in her flat, and I returned to Willesden Green. Even though I was shattered, utterly spent, I turned on my laptop—it was a reflex action, I didn’t consciously want to do it. I gazed at the screen, and saw that I had received a dozen messages from Scarlet.
32
Her emails all said the same thing. “I’ve done everything that we agreed. Now it’s your turn.” Or, “Callie, you have to keep your side of the bargain. We must meet to discuss logistics.” Or, “Don’t ignore me. You must act now. . . . Remember, it’s what Belle wanted.”
I must do this; I must do that. She suggested nothing that would incriminate her, or me, and yet her words were all too easy to understand, and I felt so ill that I thought I’d throw up. Her claims were horrific—and yet I realized that I’d been expecting them from the moment I heard of Felix’s death, that I’d been carrying around my poisonous knowledge like a disease, knowing that Scarlet would take advantage of a horrendous tragedy. Right now, I desperately wanted to shut her up and shut her out, to distance myself from her.
I wrote:
For fuck’s sake. I don’t believe you. You’re sick. I don’t want to hear from you again. Stay out of my life.
She replied straightaway.
You’re funny, Callie. The evidence couldn’t be any stronger. By the way, please pass on my sympathies to your poor sister. I’m sorry for her loss. At the same time, let’s hope that her life and yours can return to a peaceful state now.
Don’t even mention my sister! You’re a toxic bitch.
The whole country is mentioning your sister, whether you like it or not. Have you seen the internet? The papers tomorrow will be full of her.
You’re a leech—sucking my blood at a terrible time. As I said, I don’t believe a word of what you write, so piss off and die.
Don’t get into a temper! Give me your address—I have something to send you.
No!