He picks up our dirty plates and takes them to the kitchen area, scraping leftovers into the bin, standing at the sink, washing up in a horrible way.
“Please,” I say. “Support me. . . .”
“I can’t. You know what I think—I think you were dragged into a dark world by poisonous people. You need to stay away from all that.”
“Belle wasn’t poisonous . . . far from it.” This morning I read on the BBC website that Joe Mayhew had pleaded guilty to manslaughter, citing diminished responsibility, and had been sentenced to nineteen years in prison. Beside the report was a photo of Belle, her lopsided grin, her head slightly to one side, looking so pretty, so cheerful.
“Go if you have to. I can’t stop you,” Wilf says coldly.
? ? ?
The train to Manchester is overcrowded and late, and I’m stressed as I rush from the station, hoping I haven’t missed the event, and in my haste I take a wrong turn, getting lost, wasting another ten minutes. When eventually I find The Green Man I’m fearing the worst, sure they’ll all be gone. But then I see, in the corner on small stools by a flickering fire, Luke’s work colleagues, Lulu and Sanjeev, along with three other young people, who are introduced as Alistair, Poppy and Jill. Two bottles of wine are open on a table, alongside used glasses, signs of a bigger crowd that was here earlier, and I wonder whether Scarlet was amongst them.
I say that I saw the notice online and have come up from London.
“That’s nice of you. We’re still in shock,” says Lulu, looking me up and down, checking me out. “I guess you are too. . . .” She crosses her legs, which are in scruffy but sexy fishnet tights, and holds her wineglass with a hand encased in a fingerless glove; her nails are varnished and chipped in black.
“I had no idea he was an addict,” I say. “Did you? Was it obvious at work?”
“He used to look bloody awful sometimes. He got so thin, and sometimes his skin looked almost gray, and his eyes so tired . . . I’d say to him, ‘Another rough one?’ and he’d laugh it off and say, ‘You know Charlotte—she keeps me up all night.’?”
“Did she come this evening? Charlotte, I mean.”
“No . . .” She sounds disapproving. Takes a large gulp of wine. Flashes a scornful look with her kohl-rimmed eyes.
“That’s a pity—I’d like to offer her my sympathy. Do you know if she’s at the flat?”
“Actually, I don’t think she’s even in Manchester. She’s acting weirdly. She’s a fucking deviant.”
Lulu exchanges a glance with Sanjeev and says, “We found out about Luke’s death from Charlotte; she turned up at the office to tell us. I guess it was the shock—but she was manic, describing everything in minute detail—how she found him lying across the bed on his back, his arm hanging down to the side, a needle hanging out of his skin . . . It was grotesque. She was getting off on the drama of it.”
So Luke’s position on the bed was identical to Felix’s. It made a sick sort of sense.
“What makes you think she’s not in Manchester?”
Lulu crosses her legs the other way. “Well, she didn’t come to the funeral, and the flat has gone back on the rental market. So, we reckon she’s gone. . . . How well do you know her?”
“Not well.”
“The thing is, Callie, she’s not popular around here. We can’t help thinking that she was a bad influence on Luke. Before he met her, he was fine.”
“How long were they together?”
“Three years. And in that time, he changed so much. You must have noticed? He became moody and depressed, and physically wasted, kind of crack-brained . . .”
She leans forward, jutted jaw, pushing untidy dreads of red hair out of her face—her manner suggesting that it’s dawned on her, only now, to question who I am.
“How long had you known Luke?”
“Oh not long.” That’s truthful at least. Then I add, “We met at Narcotics Anonymous,” realizing at once that I’m making a mistake.
“I thought you said you didn’t know he was an addict?” Now Sanjeev leans in to hear my answer.
“Oh, I meant I didn’t know he’d relapsed. . . .”
“Well, if you’re a recovering addict—you know how important it is to have positive people around you. And Charlotte was never that,” says Sanjeev, sounding annoyed.
“Did she or Luke ever mention someone called Felix?”
“I don’t think so . . . why?”
“Oh, no reason . . . I just wondered if Luke knew my friend Felix.”
“Well, it’s an unusual name,” says Lulu flatly. “And I agree with Sanjeev. I don’t think Luke ever mentioned it.”
“I sometimes thought that Charlotte might have had a fling with Felix—it’s not that Luke told me so, but I wondered all the same.” I’m making it up as I go along, and there’s a wild, anxious note in my voice.
“It’s unlikely,” says Lulu. “Charlotte’s not that sort of girl—not at all.” She and Sanjeev exchange a look that I interpret as She was only too keen on Luke, unfortunately.
“And you’ve no idea where she went?”
“No. She could be anywhere. As far as I can make out, she didn’t have friends. Not local friends anyway.”
“What about her work? Doesn’t she work in a beauty salon?”
“Haha! No. She sometimes works as a model. At least, that’s what Luke said. And she’s trying to break into acting . . . not very successfully I think. She’s had a couple of theater roles, in tiny venues, and nothing else. She’d consider herself way too good for a beauty salon. But, look, this evening isn’t about Charlotte, it’s about Luke.” Lulu’s eyes become red.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t mean to distract you.” I can see that Lulu had feelings for Luke. I lean forward and whisper in her ear, “I don’t think Luke killed himself.”
She nods, giving me a sideways glance. It’s not like I’m saying anything that surprises her. It’s like I’m reflecting her own feelings back.
“I’m going to find Charlotte,” I say. I mean it. “I know she’s hiding, but I’ll find her.”
46
Wilf’s avoiding me, staying longer at work, going to the pub afterwards; while I revert to my old self, spending forever online, constructing new theories for the dossier. I give Illicit Hookups one last try. Since Francesca had told me, so seriously, about the site, she must have thought it was significant. Maybe Felix was more than a casual visitor; maybe he was a regular.
I scroll through a hundred women or more, all the Naughty Nikkis and Sadistic Sadies, and stop to inspect someone calling herself Mystery Madam of the Night. In her photo she’s kneeling on a bed, knees apart, skimpy underwear on her bony body and a black mask partially covering her face, leather, with Catwoman eyes. I study her. She could be Scarlet; it’s just possible. I pay ￡120 for the privilege, and send a message:
Love your photo. But I’m new here. Don’t know how it works.
Hello lover. It’s easy. I’m here to listen. Tell me about your secrets, your fantasies and let’s take it from there, Roxanna xxx
I’d rather tell you in person, Roxy.
I’d rather that also. I adore a first-timer. What’s your name?