“Oh yes. Heart disease wasn’t it?”
“That’s why I’m here. I don’t think it was. . . . I think the postmortem was wrong.”
“And what makes you think that?” She leaned back, scrunching up her face, looking skeptical.
“I know someone who says she killed him. Her name’s Charlotte—and I think she went to the hotel and injected him with a lethal dose of diamorphine.”
“Mmm . . . hmmm. Let’s rewind. Who is this Charlotte? How did she know Mr. Nordberg? Why would she want to kill him?” She did me the courtesy of opening her notebook, taking a pen from the pocket of her jacket.
“I don’t know her well . . . I met her on the internet—we’d discuss men who harm women, and things escalated until she said she would kill Felix for me, to protect my sister.”
“Why would she do that? It’s rather extreme.”
I hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal about my own complicity, and then I said, “She wanted me to kill her boyfriend, Luke. It was supposed to be a bargain. Like the film Strangers on a Train.”
“My goodness!” Her tone was disbelieving and annoyed. “That’s quite something. And you think she was serious? People often fantasize about murder, you realize—that’s not a crime, it’s just human nature.”
“I know . . . I know that. Really. And at first I didn’t take her seriously . . . but now I think she’s kind of insane. She sent me proof that she was actually there, in Felix’s room. A gold cuff link in the shape of a four-leaf clover. I can’t see how she’d have it unless she’d been in Felix’s room at the hotel. And, something else—she said she took him a pain au raisin for his breakfast . . . and at the postmortem, they found raisins in his stomach.”
“They also found that he died from hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. . . .”
“That’s what I don’t understand. How come they didn’t find diamorphine?”
“Well . . . the fact is they didn’t do a toxicology report. It’s not routine in a straightforward case like this.”
“What?” I could scarcely believe it. “That’s terrible! And now he’s been cremated.”
“I think the point to focus on, Ms. Farrow, is that the case was straightforward—so there was no need for a toxicology report.”
“Surely it could be a coincidence—that he had a heart condition, but that he was actually killed by diamorphine?”
She folded her arms over a large, protective bosom, exasperated, and not concerned. “Well, that could happen,” she said. “But it’s unlikely. You seem to have got very caught up in your internet relationship with this Charlotte. . . .” Then, in a kindly, patronizing voice: “The internet is a beguiling thing, relationships can become all-involving in such a short time. Is it possible that you’ve allowed your thoughts to get out of control—to run away with you?”
“I have considered that. Really, I have. But you have to believe that I’m being serious.”
“So what would you like me to do? If it were up to you?” Her brashness made it seem like she was saying, So what would you like me to do, young lady? If it were up to you, young lady?
I leaned forward. “I’d like you to interrogate Charlotte.”
“On what evidence? Do you have any actual evidence of this Strangers on a Train bargain that you say you made?”
“You can look at our internet messages,” I said. “They tell you everything, but just not in straightforward language. Everything is hinted at.”
I had made a printout of the key conversations, and I passed them across the table. Melody read everything—slowly, carefully, running her finger down the text, underlining extracts with a ballpoint pen. As I watched, I felt a pain, like some stinging insect was inside my chest. Yes, Scarlet had referred to “our bargain” and “the danger Pink is in” and “the need to act”—but I could see now that Melody Sykes wouldn’t be convinced. It didn’t help that I hadn’t included the conversations in which I had gone along with Scarlet, told her that I would keep my end of the bargain.
She finished reading and looked at me, a faint smile on her lips, saying, “You seem tired, Ms. Farrow. I think you need a good, long sleep. I understand that you’ve been through a traumatic time—your brother-in-law dying so suddenly like that . . . I’m not sure there’s anything for me to follow up on here. It just seems like—forgive me, it’s the only phrase I can think of—a bit of internet nonsense.”
Tears were pricking at my eyes. “But you can go and see Luke Stone. . . . He’s Charlotte’s boyfriend—so he can give you her full name. He’s the one she wants me to kill!”
“And are you planning to go through with that?”
“Of course not.”
“Quite. That’s my point.”
She picked up her coffee cup and stood up, saying, “I think this brings our meeting to a close. I’ve made a note of our conversation—do feel free to speak to me again if you need to.”
I could see that this was her standard way of ending meetings with members of the public. She didn’t actually want to see me again.
? ? ?
At home later I drank half a bottle of Strongbow while I tried to figure out what I might do to convince Melody, and I kept arriving at the same conclusion—I needed to establish the connection between Scarlet and Felix. And the drunker I became, the more ready I was to dial a number I’d found online for Francesca Moroni, although the questions I wanted to ask were impossible, outrageous. I could hardly say: So how rough was Felix when you had sex? Did you ever think he would kill you? But my head was filling up with a cloudy, optimistic recklessness, so I poured another glass of cider and called anyway.
It was a good moment, apparently. She was alone and could chat—and I explained that I wanted to ask her about Felix, that I was looking for closure—I winced at the word, but plowed on, encouraged by her own slightly fuzzy diction, and pauses to sip.
“Fire away . . . ,” she said. “I won’t be offended. Seriously, I know that when someone dies you want to ask all the questions that you wish you’d asked when they were alive. Believe me, I’ve been there.”
So I questioned her about her relationship with Felix, how they met, and why they split up. She didn’t come across as the “poor Francesca” that Lucas had described—rather as a strong person who had had the courage to walk away when Felix had failed to commit.
We seemed to be getting along well, and I risked a more penetrating question: “Did he want you to give up your career?”
“What are you getting at?” She sounded sharper now.
“I want to know if Felix was controlling with you. In an obsessive, harmful way.”
A pause, while she took another sip of her drink. Then:
“Like he was with Tilda? Is that what you’re implying?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not going to bad-mouth Felix, Callie.”