That night in bed my thoughts kept returning to Wilf. He was right—I did need to believe in him. I needed to fight against the permanently paranoid frame of mind that I’d been in, maybe because I’m so often lonely, and loneliness breeds paranoia. Tomorrow, I thought, I’ll go to Willesden Estates and find out whether he’s actually seeing Amy. If not, I’d see if I could get him back.
In the morning, I felt optimistic. I wore my suede boots with my best gray jeans and a new rose-colored top that went well with my dark hair. I admired myself in the mirror, skipped downstairs, and saw that the post had arrived, lying untidily all over the mat, most of it junk. I sifted through the ads for Indian takeout and local handymen, and found a brown padded envelope with my name on it. I could feel something small and hard inside, and I inspected the address—written out in a heavy-handed black script that, I knew instinctively, belonged to Scarlet.
33
A gold cuff link in the shape of a four-leaf clover. I recognized it immediately and turned it over in the palm of my hand, feeling its weight and its smoothness, like I did before, that time at Curzon Street when I’d gone through Felix’s clothes, found his cuff links, put the dead fly inside his shirt collar. For a while I stayed by the front door, just standing in the shabby hallway, turning the four-leaf clover over in my hand, thinking about what it represented, thinking in a vague, floaty way, unable to come down to earth. Then I ascended the stairs, went back into my flat, dropping the bee bag on the floor, crawling into bed, deep under the duvet, not even bothering to take off my boots. I popped the cuff link inside my mouth, and sucked on it, tempted to swallow. But I didn’t. I spat it out, placed it on my bedside table and, because I was overwhelmed, I closed my eyes and fell into an uneasy, troubled sleep.
It was midday when I came round with a pounding head and saw I’d missed two calls from Daphne, doubtless wondering where I was. But I couldn’t phone her right now. I wouldn’t be able to handle her comforting voice, and instead I did the last thing I wanted to do and made myself dial Tilda’s number. She picked up straightaway, and I asked if she had looked through the bag she’d been given by the manager of the Ashleigh House Hotel.
“Yes, I did that this morning. It was so dreadful seeing Felix’s things, his shaving gear, his shampoo for fuck’s sake—but at least there was a shirt that he’d worn that hadn’t been washed, and if I hold it close, I think I can smell him.”
“Was everything there, what you expected to be there . . . ?”
“Why? Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason,” I lied. “I mean, sometimes hotel staff aren’t honest—they steal things.”
“Callie! The hotel staff were so nice to us . . . I wouldn’t expect anything like that. Though, something was missing. I’m sure it’s a mistake.”
“What?”
“A gold cuff link—one of a set that I gave him as a present. They’re lovely—in the shape of a four-leaf clover. But, it turns out that Felix was the unluckiest person I’ve ever known.”
“Oh.” That’s all I could say.
“Callie?”
“I have to go now. I’m supposed to be at work.”
I phoned Daphne. “I’ve been unwell with a bad head, but I’m coming in now.”
I’d decided to be strong, to take charge of my relationship with Scarlet and discover her identity.
34
Instead of paying attention to the customers, I was emailing:
I received the four-leaf clover and I’m trying to come to terms with what it signifies. I don’t understand everything. I can’t think how you did it, Scarlet. I can’t explain what has happened since.
By I can’t explain what has happened since I meant the postmortem. If I were able to speak plainly I’d say: There’s an inconsistency here—you want me to believe that you killed Felix, but the postmortem says he died naturally. How do you explain that? I couldn’t be explicit, as I needed to abide by Scarlet’s rules, make her think I was on her side.
I’m confused about what to think. I’m impressed by you, and grateful to you—grateful that my sister is safe. At the same time, I’m overwhelmed by the burden of knowing that I must now play my part. But I am ready, Scarlet. As you suggested, we should meet up again to discuss it. As a start, why don’t you send me predator details?
I read and reread the email. Did it sound too unnatural? Was it too incriminating? I dreamed up a scenario in which I was on trial for conspiracy to murder—wondering if I could be condemned by my own words. The word predator jumped out at me as problematic and, sticking with the Controlling Men terminology, I changed it to X. With luck, Scarlet would believe in me, and would send me Luke’s full name. Once I knew who he was, I figured, I would be able to identify her.
I was about to write more but was interrupted by Daphne saying, “Is now a good moment to discuss stocktaking?”
I could hardly say, “No, it’s an awful moment,” so we spent the next half hour making a schedule for our annual stocktaking and analysis of our sales to see which genres have sold best, and which worst. In truth, I already knew that crime books are our bestsellers. But Daphne thought romance was doing pretty well too; and there’s a good solid following for military history in our part of Willesden. When we finished, it was almost lunchtime, and instead of going back to my email, I made my excuses and walked round to Willesden Estates. The two young women behind the desks looked at me pointedly, like they were expecting an embarrassing scene. One of them swished her hair. “Is Wilf in?” I stammered, just as he came through from the back room. I felt self-conscious as I asked him if he’d like to go to the Albany for lunch.
“Sure.”
We walked in silence, each of us not wanting to risk saying the wrong thing.
We’d beaten the lunchtime rush, and picked a corner table—the same one that Tilda and I had chosen at the start of the summer. I had a cheese-and-Marmite sandwich and a cider, and Wilf had his usual, a ploughman’s and a pint of lager.
The food arrived, and Wilf started eating, turning to me with his mouth full, saying, “What’s been the matter, Callie? Why have you been ignoring me?” He was trying, but failing, to sound nonchalant, which gave me the confidence to make my confession.