“Yes I have. But it doesn’t matter.”
She was looking straight ahead, at the woods and the lake at the bottom of the hill, at the gray city in the distance, at the haze of tower blocks grabbing at the sky; and I was looking at her, thinking, Is this what a murderer looks like? So ordinary . . .
“Scarlet . . . I’m so amazed by what you’ve done. I’m struggling to comprehend it. How did you kill Felix? Without him struggling at all? Or there being any sign?”
“I can’t tell you right now. But I will eventually—maybe after the funeral. The important thing is for you to keep your side of the bargain . . . with Luke. Listen carefully, because I don’t want to repeat myself—his name is Luke Stone. Got that? He works for a TV production company in Manchester. It’s called Hollybank. He’s a researcher there.”
“Are you sure you want me to do this? Really sure?”
“Absolutely. Remember Belle, and what happened to her. She’d still be alive today if someone had got to Joe Mayhew first—and there are hundreds of women like her, hundreds. And if I leave him, he’ll come after me. You know this, Callie. . . . You’re not having doubts?”
“No. I’ll go through with it—to save you, and in honor of Belle.”
“Good. I hope you have the syringes and the diamorphine in a safe place.”
“Yes, of course.” It was true. The bin was as safe a place as anywhere.
“Okay—this is what you should do. Go to my flat in Manchester, it’s only a ten-minute walk from the station. When you arrive you’ll find Luke in a deep sleep. You’ll need to find a vein in his left arm, the inside of the elbow is a good place, I’m sure you’ve seen it done often enough, and there are videos on YouTube. Anyhow, you’ll inject him with sixty milligrams of diamorphine—that’s twice a lethal dose. Have you got that?”
“Yes—sixty milligrams. In his left arm. Will I need to do more than one injection?”
“Probably . . . While you’re doing it wear those thin latex gloves that medics use—you can buy them at a pharmacy—do that in London, somewhere busy, like Oxford Street. Anyhow, when you’ve finished, make sure his fingerprints are all over the syringe, then drop the syringe by his right hand. Got it?”
I was impressed by her ruthlessness. Doubtless, she’d be at work when Luke died, giving her an alibi—and I was supposed to scamper on back to London. It was perfect Strangers on a Train.
“How come he’ll be sleeping? Won’t he wake up?”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll have given him something that ensures that he won’t wake.”
“What—Rohypnol?”
“That’s my business. But take it from me, he’ll be knocked out. . . .”
Then she told me to stand by and wait for her to send me an address, a date and a time. “I’ll post them to you. Read them, and destroy them, then act.” She gave me two keys, one to the front door of her building, the other to the flat.
“I’m going now, Callie. You must stay focused. Obviously, don’t tell anyone about this—not a soul.”
“Scarlet . . . Before you go . . . Can I know your real name? It would make me feel better.”
“No. Of course not.”
She left and I noticed that she walked elegantly, with poise—walking slightly hips-first, like models do. Maybe she hadn’t been lying about that after all. I sat on the bench, figuring out what to do next. A light rain filled the air, and walkers on the heath put up umbrellas, pulled up hoods, and I drew my parka around me. Then I walked back down to the bus stop thinking I must track down Luke Stone. It was critical now.
? ? ?
At home, I ignored the dirty dishes and mugs in my sink, and microwaved myself a hot chocolate. Then I put Luke Stone Manchester into my search engine and came up with an eleven-year-old schoolboy who’d received a bravery award for rescuing a dog from a canal, and a retired soldier who’d served in Afghanistan. Obviously the wrong Lukes, so I looked at the Hollybank website—and found profiles of several senior members of staff—but nothing for Luke Stone. Facebook was also a dead end—the Luke Stones were all the wrong sort. It occurred to me then that maybe Scarlet had given me a false name—after all, my instructions were clear, I was supposed to go to her flat and inject the sleeping man. I didn’t need to know his name.
36
Felix’s funeral was on a cold Friday in October, the air sharp and fresh, even though the sun was casting a gentle light on St. Gregory’s church, on the graveyard of crooked headstones and the ground swell of copper-colored leaves. I arrived early, and to pass the time I revisited the graves of Emily Jane Goode and Henry Watson and Ernest Norwood Richardson, then sat on the broken bench by the stone wall, thinking that I’d slip into the back of the church later, hoping that nobody would notice me.
Felix’s international colleagues arrived in small solemn groups—women in black coats, thin stockinged legs, heels; men in dark suits. I saw Paige Mooney, this time with Robbie on her arm, and Kimberley Dwyer, and Mum (who didn’t spot me). No sign, yet, of Lucas or Alana or Erik, and no sign of Tilda. But I saw Liam enter the church, and hoped that I might speak to him after the service. I thought about how calming it would be, how soothing, to confess everything, and to follow his advice. I was so adrift, and he was a psychiatrist now.