It wasn’t sudden infant death syndrome, my dear professor, I said, newly found conviction surging through my voice. By the way, you have a lofty reputation as a world-leading expert on SIDS, don’t you? A reputation that hinges on the research you’ve done in the past. All of it. The entire corpus. And if it ever emerged that your report on Catherine was flawed…
The resulting flash of fear in the man’s eyes said it all.
You have no proof that Claire.… he trailed off, bottom lip quivering.
That’s when I realized I’d finally struck paydirt. About the true manner of Catherine’s death. Claire Evans had something to do with it. The problem was: What the hell did Claire do to her daughter?
Course I do, I said. I have all the fucking proof I need to go to the press tomorrow.
Another glimmer of fear in the professor’s eyes. His reaction triggered a further revelation in my head. What Claire did to Catherine was right there before my eyes all along. I was too blind to see it earlier.
Claire must have killed her own baby. In a fit of postpartum depression. After all, she suffered from depression even before she got married. Those mentally crippling blues must have returned with a vengeance soon after she gave birth. And Mark must have helped cover it up. By begging his old Trinity friend to issue a SIDS diagnosis. Professional confirmation that it was a sudden, unexpected, and unexplained fatality. A death from unknown causes. A diagnosis to absolve Claire.
From murder.
But how does one kill a three-month-old baby without leaving a trace?
I gripped the coffee-cup handle. My mind a whirl of possibilities. Then it hit me.
I’m glad I spent a bit of time at St. Augustine’s reading. Novels have a tendency to broaden one’s mind. By offering insights into the minds of the damned people who wrote them in the first place. Especially certain novels written by certain authors. Who make shitloads of money describing what happened in their own lives.
As thinly veiled fiction.
Claire might have smothered her own baby to death. With something soft. Something innocuous. Like a pillow. Perhaps a bolster. Or she could have simply flipped Catherine to a facedown position. How gruesome. And how like her. If this was the case, the dark, dire deed would be almost impossible to prove. There must be only two written records of what really happened that day: Claire’s own diary.
And Mark’s diary, as well.
I have video evidence that Claire smothered baby Catherine, I said. Calmly. Confidently. Even though I was making it up. Taped evidence that proves your diagnosis of SIDS was wrong. Quite wrong. Was your report influenced by certain parties? People whose lives hinged on your findings? You covered up the ghastly deed committed by Claire Evans all those years ago, didn’t you?
Covert homicide.
Which makes you an accessory to murder, Professor.
Or simply an inept SIDS researcher.
The professor sagged back onto his chair. His response told me what I needed to know. I’d nailed it.
Right down.
How much do you want? he asked, voice trembling. Looking as though he was on the verge of hyperventilating.
Me? I opened my eyes wide. I don’t want your money, Professor. I have enough money to keep myself in the style to which I’ve become accustomed. I have spartan tastes, as a matter of fact. I put it down to years of enforced deprivation. Granted, I do have a thing for fancy lingerie. And bright killer stilettos. But a world-class scientist really ought to think about the Nobel Prize, shouldn’t he? Wouldn’t it be tragic if that precious plum disappeared beyond reach? Especially as it’s within your grasp. Right there, at the tip of your pudgy little fingers. But proximity is often an illusion, isn’t it? Because the things closest to us are often the farthest away.
Like love, for instance. Or vengeance, for that matter.
What do you really want, Mrs. Livingstone? The man’s face was wan. The color looked good on him.
I want you to help me, Professor, I said.
12 April 2015
How am I ever going to get hold of Claire and Mark’s nineteen-year-old paper-and-ink diaries? Both items must surely be kept inside safes. Gigantic barricaded steel contraptions within that Newnham mansion of theirs. Everyone’s paranoid about old diaries these days. After all, hasn’t diary blackmail and extortion become a multimillion-pound business? The tabloids are always running stories about thefts. Criminals demanding obscene amounts for the return of those little pieces of shit.
If only Steve Jobs had gotten his act together earlier. At least three years earlier. Life would be so much easier. Definitely less complicated.
I have a plan. It’s fucking crude. But it should work.
I need to find the right person. To extract the two diaries for me. In the middle of the night.
Without leaving a fucking trace.
The philosopher Kierkegaard wrote: “Life can only be understood backwards.” This quote also applies to death. Although life progresses linearly, homicides are understood backwards. You can only solve these murders by scrutinizing the past in careful reverse chronological order.
—Textbook of Criminal Investigation, volume 4 (Oxford University Press, 1987)
Chapter Twenty-One
Hans
5? hours until the end of the day
I still think she’s mad. No one in his or her right mind would concoct such a crazily convoluted scheme. A plot of such perverse proportions merely to destroy a man. Sophia’s diary will never hold up in a court of law. Fact: Diaries written by ex-inhabitants of mental institutions tend not to go down well with juries. I’m also beginning to doubt if Sophia’s diary can even be admitted as legal evidence in the first place. Its contents are definitely straying in the direction of the absurd.
But what if…what if it contains a small kernel of truth?
Just a tiny one.
This kernel may shed light on the identity of her murderer. And it’s my job, after all, to find out who killed Sophia Ayling. A detective should never lose sight of the crime. That was what Mr. Grizzled Professor said within the first minute of walking into his Introduction to Criminal Investigation lectures all those years ago. It’s easy to get sidetracked by irrelevance, he said, waving an unlit cigar for emphasis. Haven’t twenty years of investigating murders taught me not to discount even the faintest possibility? Isn’t this one of the main facts I’ve learned about police procedural work over the years?
Should I believe the diary in front of me? Chiefly, Sophia was determined to get her hands on some pages from diaries belonging to Mark and Claire Evans. Pages she thought would illuminate the fact that Mark had bribed a medical expert to conceal the true cause of his daughter’s death.
The premise is so preposterous that it’s ridiculous. It defies all rational, factually driven understanding. But lunatics who claim to have minds that remember everything might well be capable of elaborate and outlandish schemes. Tactics fueled by an equally extreme desire to destroy.