Making love with Wilf did help. It helped a lot. After so many months of struggling to establish some understanding, some control of the events in my life, it was a wondrous, joyous release to surrender myself to him. To be totally mouth to mouth, skin to skin.
Afterwards, I put on his shirt, savoring its earthy scent, thinking about poor Tilda putting on Felix’s shirt after he died. I wandered into the other room, looking for my phone. We’d agreed that a Thai takeout—green chicken curry with rice and lager—would suit us very well, and I needed to order. My phone was on the sofa, wedged in a crack in the cushions, and I flopped down, intending to search for the restaurant number. I couldn’t help noticing, though, a new email from Scarlet. I wanted to ignore it, to pretend that she didn’t exist, but the pull was too great; and suddenly, against my will, I was back in the bloody riptide, wanting to see how angry she was at my failure to turn up at her flat, and I clicked:
Dear Callie,
I was sorry that you couldn’t come to Manchester. It was disappointing. But all that doesn’t matter now because a terrible tragedy occurred here today. The love of my life, Luke Stone, has died from a drug overdose. I had known that he was a user, but I hadn’t suspected that his life was in danger. I came home and found him dead. I’m setting up a memorial page for him on deardepartedfriends.com. I thought you’d like to know.
Yours,
Scarlet
Wilf appeared at the bedroom door, naked like a bear and grinning wickedly, until he noticed my expression.
“Look at this.”
He read Scarlet’s letter, slowly. Then reread it. “Fuck. I mean fuck . . . Callie, you need to go to the police.”
41
We went to the same room as before, a little interrogation cell, empty except for a table and four chairs. “So, what brings you back?” Her tone was dog-tired. She looked like she’d slept in her clothes, a crumpled beige jacket over a yellow T-shirt with a coffee-colored stain. “Didn’t I tell you to take a break from your amateur detective work?” She sighed loudly, for effect.
“Something awful has happened. You know how I told you that Scarlet, I mean Charlotte, wanted me to kill her boyfriend? Well, he’s dead. Luke Stone is dead.”
Melody scraped her chair in close, and leaned over, eyeballing me across the table like This had better not be more of your bullshit, Ms. Farrow. “You’d better explain yourself,” she said.
“Look at this.” I passed her a printout of Scarlet’s email. “When she says I’m sorry you didn’t come to Manchester she means she’s sorry I didn’t come and kill Luke. She had given me diamorphine and syringes, and told me to come and inject him . . . I didn’t do it, so she’s done it herself. See.”
She read it, and reread it, and her tone changed. It was like she’d woken up. “I’d like to call a colleague in. I think two of us should hear this.”
She left the room briefly and returned with a young man with lank, floppy hair. “This is Detective Constable Ramesh Sharma. If you don’t mind, I’ll ask him to join us, and take notes. We’ll also record our conversation.”
“I’d like that.” I sat up straight, like it was my first day at work and I wanted to make a good impression.
“Okay. So let’s go back to the beginning . . . You say Charlotte—you don’t know her surname?—well, this Charlotte wanted you to murder her boyfriend?”
It was so complicated. I needed to explain about Felix at the same time—and I went through it all as best I could. Unlike last time, I showed Melody the photographs of Felix’s room at the Ashleigh House Hotel. “See how odd it is? Everything seems somehow arranged, and neat and tidy, and see how he hasn’t touched anything on the hospitality tray—and yet they found he had eaten raisins that morning, which fits with what Charlotte told me. It’s clear she was there, don’t you think? And how come she could just go into his room, with breakfast for him? He hadn’t ordered breakfast. And she must have spent time there, to somehow inject him . . . Isn’t it obvious that he must have recognized her? I’ve found out that Felix went to a website called illicithookups.com, which is for people who like sadomasochism, among other things. Charlotte likes violent sex—I know that. And so does Felix. Could she have looked for him on this website? Befriended him? Isn’t that worth investigating?”
She let me go on, and it was a wonderful liberation to be handing over my investigation to a professional person. At last! When she asked questions it was to nail down specific facts: What was the name of the hotel receptionist who took the photos? Did I have any more email communications with Charlotte? Could I give her Charlotte’s address?
Thankfully, she didn’t quiz me on my own complicity and, as I drew to the end of my account, she said, “Okay, Callie. That’s enough for now. We’ll make arrangements for you to hand in the syringes and diamorphine that Charlotte gave you to your local police station.”
As she spoke, I felt like my insides were being eaten up, like parasitic worms were penetrating my intestines. “I’m sorry . . . I binned them. It was so stupid of me. . . .”
The look that Melody and Ramesh exchanged told me everything. The idiot witness had chucked the evidence. Or worse, she was, after all, a liar, a fantasist. Melody seemed to deflate into her crumpled, stained clothes.
“We have your contact details and you can expect to hear from me in a few days.” Her irritation was back, undisguised. “In the meantime, stop your own activity. You have a wild imagination—keep it in check and we’re more likely to get to the truth.”
“Thank you . . . Thank you. Will you see Charlotte today? Bring her in for an interview?”
“I can’t discuss that. But take it from me that we’re taking your claims seriously and will investigate them thoroughly.” Her weariness had returned.
“I’m grateful.” And I was. Despite my stupidity, it seemed possible that Melody Sykes was taking over. That I’d offloaded a great burden.
42
Daphne said, “You seem better, Callie. You’ve been looking knackered recently, but something’s changed.”
“I’m pulling myself together. After Felix’s death . . .”
“Good for you. Tell you what, I’m doing so well with The Lady Connoisseurs that I’ll print off the manuscript and get you to read it. I’d value your opinion.”
I was flattered, and I spent most of the morning reading, and enjoying, her novel. I liked her private detectives, Maisie Fothergill and Hermione Swift, and the quiet treacheries of their circle of friends. There were big country houses too, and steam trains and afternoon tea, and time passed quickly until, just before lunch, Tilda came into the shop. She hadn’t warned me that she was coming, and I was surprised that she looked different. More energized than recently. Eyes shining, rather unnaturally. Better clothes—not the big tweed coat or the hat. Just trendy jeans (XXOX, Paradise in the Park?) and a tailored jacket that looked expensive.
Daphne said, “Oh . . . I was so sorry to hear about Felix. You have my sympathy.”
Tilda was polite, but she talked too fast. “Thank you. That’s kind of you. We’d been married only a few weeks . . . it’s still sinking in.”