“I owe you an apology. . . . I suspected you of selling a story to the Mail. When we were here, at the pub, I confided that Tilda was having trouble with Felix, then, within days a nasty, insinuating story was in the paper. It seemed too much of a coincidence. But I realize I was wrong, and I’m sorry . . . I’ve been thinking about it, and I had to speak in a loud voice that day, because the pub was so crowded, and the builder guy who was also at the bar, the one who was covered in dust—he could have overheard everything. And one of those shrieking girls on the other side of us—she leaned across and asked for a menu, but really she might have been listening.”
“Come here.” His hand was under my chin, pulling me in, and he kissed me. But then he said, “There’s one thing wrong with your apology. It’s based on you thinking you were overheard in the pub. Not based on your assessment of me, your belief in me. You need to accept that I’m not that sort of person—I’d never do anything like that. Can’t you see?” His eyes were locked with mine, and I could see the blue of his irises.
“Yes, I can see. I’m sorry about that too. . . . There’s something else, Wilf: that day when I helped out in the garden in Bishops Avenue. I want to tell you how that was the best day for me. I’m always living inside my head. Spending my whole life in the indoor world of the bookshop, or reading crime books, or staring at my laptop, or observing others. It was amazing to be outside, cool air on my face, digging earth, and being with you.”
“Hey . . . any time. I loved seeing you concentrating so hard and seriously on your weeding, getting your hands dirty. And your muddy thighs of course . . . I still dream of those pink shorts.”
“And another apology: I’ve been suspicious about you and Amy Fishwick. . . .”
“Ah! Amy Fishwick.”
“Yes. I was getting the impression that something’s going on with the two of you. And it’s been driving me mad, turning it over. Not knowing the truth . . . then she came in, all kind of pert and perky, and bought you the Nemesis book.”
“Well—the Nemesis book, as good as it was, couldn’t buy my affections, you’ll be happy to know. All that’s happened with Amy is that I fixed a problem on her computer, and she bought me a book. We’re work colleagues who get along pretty well. That’s all.”
“But she’s keener than that, isn’t she?”
“Maybe . . .” His grin told me that he was happy to leave some uncertainty in my mind.
His hand reached across and held mine, not fingers between fingers, but firmly wrapped around, so my hand was squeezed inside his. I wanted to stay in that moment, with everything it promised. And I so wanted to be back in Wilf’s bed, but I had to take a risk. . . .
“Wilf, I’ve got some pretty bizarre stuff I need to tell you about.”
“Okay . . .”
“It’s about Felix and the way he died.”
“Yeah?”
“Well—it might be more complicated than the postmortem suggests. . . . I’ve been on the internet, on a forum about dangerous men who are violent to their partners; it’s a support group. Anyhow, I’ve been on this forum, this website, for months now. It’s called controllingmen.com—have you heard of it?”
“No . . . no, I haven’t.” He sounded wary, but I had to keep going, I had no option.
“Well, I’ve made a friend on this site, called Scarlet. And I had another friend, called Belle, but she was killed . . . by a violent man. He stabbed her, and he’s on trial. Anyhow, Scarlet’s been telling me that she killed Felix. That it wasn’t heart disease at all . . . As I said, it’s weird stuff.”
“Callie, you’re sounding crazy.” He pulled his hand away from mine, and took a sip of his beer.
“I know I am. I’m in so deep in this mad world. And I’m worried about Scarlet, I think she is seriously dangerous.”
“Okay . . . ? So do you have any actual evidence?”
“Sort of . . . She has these syringes that Belle stole from a hospital . . . and lethal doses of diamorphine. She showed them to me.” I didn’t want to freak him out any more, by explaining that she had given some to me, that she wanted me to kill Luke, that I was pretending to go along with her plan.
“And why haven’t you gone to the police, if this is true?” He sounded cold now, stilted in the way he voiced his words. And he’d shifted away from me, so that our legs were no longer touching.
“I can’t. It sounds too unbelievable, like I’m the lunatic. Especially as I don’t even know her true identity. Scarlet is a made-up name. I need to discover who she really is—then I can go to the police. They’ll be able to raid her flat, maybe find diamorphine and syringes . . . maybe other evidence.”
He was staring at me now, right into my eyes, looking almost frightened of me. I examined his face, reveling in its rough beauty, desperately hoping he would be sympathetic.
“Callie, you’re right. It does sound unbelievable. It does sound like you’re the lunatic. . . . I’m sorry, I need to get back to the office.”
Then he pushed the table away roughly, got up and left, muttering, “I’ll call you,” in a stony voice. I watched him barge through a group of young men in suits and disappear through the swing door.
I was so disappointed—I’d thought he might be my wingman, at my side while I tried to get to the truth about Felix’s death and Scarlet’s involvement. But he was gone, and I was still on my own. I made my way back to Saskatchewan Books.
Daphne said, “Nice lunch, lovebird? I saw you and Wilf heading off to the Albany.”
“Stop it, Daphne! I’ve had enough.”
She pulled a long face and returned to her writing while I switched on my laptop. Nothing from Scarlet, so I wrote to her again.
Send me Luke’s details! If I’m going to do this thing, I need to get on with it. I don’t want to waste time.
After five minutes:
I have to be sure you are committed to the project.
I’m a hundred percent fucking committed. How can I make you believe me?
Okay. I’ll meet up with you to tell you his name and what you must do. Same place as last time. Be there at 1:00 p.m. tomorrow.
35
I did the head scarf thing again, because that’s what Scarlet wanted, using the same orange scarf. And, as I made my way to Kenwood, I wondered how it was that she was so at ease with giving instructions to other people. Maybe she had been raised like that—a little princess led to believe that her own wishes were paramount. I wondered too how it was that she could travel from Manchester to London so easily on a weekday when she should be at work. Maybe she was part-time, like me.
I took the same route as last time, walking uphill through the woods and across the grass and, as before, Scarlet was already there—sitting on the last bench, head covered in the red scarf, her bag beneath her feet. The same bag—the one that had contained syringes and drugs. As I approached, I reminded myself to learn as much about her as possible, to study her appearance, and ask her questions that might elicit useful information.
She glanced up. Pale blue eyes, shaped thick black eyebrows, thin lips, long skinny face. Not unattractive, but also not the stunning beauty that she had pretended to be. And no hint of a smile: “Hi, Callie, come and sit down.”
“Did you come from Manchester this morning?” I tried to keep my voice natural, not too inquisitive.
“Yeah. My train got in at eleven. Check it if you like.”
“Oh, that’s not what I meant,” I lied. “I was just thinking that you’ve had to take time off work.”