The Lying Room Page 10

  ‘That sounds confusing,’ said Neve. ‘I’m sorry I’ve not been any help.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ said Hitching. ‘You’ve been more help than anyone else I’ve talked to.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good,’ said Neve, not thinking it was good in any way. ‘How do you mean I’ve been helpful?’

  ‘In several ways. For example, when Bernice Stevenson gave a statement to one of my clever young colleagues, she didn’t mention that she suspected her husband had been having an affair.’

  Neve suddenly regretted mentioning it herself. ‘I feel I’ve betrayed her,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve told the truth,’ said Hitching. ‘And don’t worry. I’ll be very discreet. But if she tells you anything else, I hope you’ll let me know.’

  ‘I’m sure she won’t.’

  ‘And this business of the files.’

  ‘I don’t see how that can be relevant.’

  ‘I’m just interested why he should ask you to bring over the files on your colleagues.’

  Neve had the alarming sense that she had incriminated herself by describing something that hadn’t even taken place.

  ‘I dropped that packet off weeks ago,’ she said a little desperately. ‘They probably weren’t those files you found.’

  Hitching looked thoughtful. ‘You’re probably right,’ he said.

  ‘Right? In what way? I didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Your file isn’t in the office either, with all the others. It’s disappeared.’

  ‘Well,’ said Neve. ‘I don’t know where it is.’

  ‘It’s strange though.’

  ‘Is it? I suppose it is.’

  ‘His assistant thinks it’s strange.’

  Neve thought of Katie’s stern face, the way her eyes rested on Neve.

  ‘And the other thing that’s strange is that according to his wife and his colleagues, he was going to a conference that morning. Why was he in the flat at all?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Neve. She was about to come up with some possible reason but bit down on the words.

  ‘There’s always a problem with investigations like this. You find some interesting piece of information and you construct a theory around it and it stops you thinking about anything else.’

  ‘What sort of theory?’ asked Neve warily.

  ‘That’s the problem. I’ve been talking to you for half an hour and I’ve already got two theories. Theory number one: Stevenson was having an affair.’

  ‘May have been having an affair.’

  ‘All right. May have been having an affair. That would explain why he was at the flat, wouldn’t it?’ He smiled at her. ‘Then you’ve got the possibility of a spurned lover or a jealous lover’s partner. And then there’s theory number two: Stevenson was about to make a person or persons unknown redundant.’

  ‘May have been about to,’ said Neve. ‘And surely you don’t kill someone who might be about to make you redundant, do you?’

  Hitching shook his head.

  ‘The last murder I dealt with was over a drug deal that wouldn’t have bought you a cappuccino. So, it could be theory one or it could be theory two but it can’t be both. And it could be neither.’

  Neve looked down at her cup. It was empty.

  ‘Your friend Renata, she seemed to have a bit of a hangover,’ said Hitching sympathetically.

  ‘It was her birthday yesterday.’

  ‘She mentioned that. And you’re having a birthday quite soon, I gather.’

  Neve gazed at him. Why had Renata told him that and what did her birthday have to do with anything? Was this some weird game he was playing? And then she had an eerie sensation, like she was underwater and a piece of debris was falling slowly towards her from the shipwreck above. For a moment she sat quite still, trying to work out what it was and then the memory thudded into her and she gave an audible grunt.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Hitching.

  ‘Yes,’ she managed to say, but she wasn’t.

  Her birthday was in two weeks’ time. And – oh fuck, fuck, fuck – Saul had bought her a present. As clear as if he was in the room with her now, she heard his voice: You just wait. So you’ll never forget me.

  ‘Heartburn?’ asked Hitching, leaning forward. So solid, so close. She could smell him.

  ‘What? No.’

  But her heart was burning, was thudding, and her face was clammy with fear. Saul had bought something for her and it was going to be delivered to the flat. He said it would be delivered to the flat in plenty of time for the day itself. Would it be addressed to her or to him? Would it have her name on it? Would Hitching, looking at it, know at once that it was meant for Neve Connolly? It would arrive this week or next. She felt dizzy.

  Hitching was saying something. She narrowed her eyes and his face came into focus. He was watching her closely.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I should probably, you know . . . And you must have more important things to do.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Hitching said. ‘I should be the one saying sorry. I just wish all my interviews were as enjoyable as this. And as helpful. Not that this was an interview, as I said.’

  They walked out of the tea shop together and stood facing each other on the pavement. Neve suddenly thought of her first proper meeting with Saul. Hitching wasn’t going to do something awful like kiss her on both cheeks, was he? He held out his large hand and she shook it.

  As she walked back to the office, she tried to reach beyond the thick dread.

  What had that meeting really been about?

  ‘Have you remembered tonight?’ asked Tamsin.

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?’ Tamsin sounded injured.

  ‘Look at her face.’ Gary grinned. ‘She’s definitely forgotten.’

  ‘I’m sorry. There’s so much going on. What about tonight?’

  ‘Neve! The reunion.’

  Neve’s heart sank. A group of friends from university days were gathering in a pub in Hackney and she really, really didn’t want to go. She hadn’t wanted to go in the first place: after all, as she’d said to Tamsin, there was a good reason she had lost touch with almost everyone who was going to be there. But Tamsin, raw from the collapse of her marriage, was trying to make an effort to be sociable, and had begged her to come with her to lend support.

  ‘You’re not going to pull out?’ asked Tamsin suspiciously.

  ‘No, I’m not going to pull out. I won’t come for long though. I’m quite tired from last night.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ said Renata. ‘I’m a dead woman walking.’

  ‘But did you have a good time?’

  ‘You mean, before I disgraced myself? Probably. I don’t think it was worth it though. The things I remember are bad enough. I really don’t want to know what happened during the gaps.’

  ‘How’s Charlie?’ asked Neve, remembering the expression on his face as Renata had toppled over.

  ‘Charlie is Charlie. Very disapproving. He never gets drunk. He never does things that he’s going to be embarrassed by later. All very dignified.’ She wrinkled up her face. ‘I don’t like getting older,’ she said plaintively. ‘I don’t like being in my forties. My late forties. I looked in the mirror this morning and I barely recognised myself, all puffy-faced and squinty-eyed.’

  ‘That’s the hangover,’ said Gary.

  ‘I thought I’d get wiser.’ Renata suddenly looked like a child, her pretty face woebegone. ‘I thought I’d be calm and, well, happy. Happy!’ Her voice rang out. ‘And now all this with Saul,’ she said miserably.

  Neve was about to say something when her mobile let out a bright ping and then another; she pulled it from her pocket. It was Mabel again: What time are we meeting? read the first, and the second: Half an hour????

  ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘I’m supposed to be doing some shopping with Mabel. I forgot that too.’

  ‘What kind of shopping?’ asked Renata, who was wip
ing her eyes with her sleeves, smudging her mascara.

  ‘Stuff for university. You know – mugs, spoons, things for her room.’ She had imagined a relaxed hour or so with Mabel, mother and daughter bonding over teapots and duvet covers and woks – did people still have woks? ‘I can’t go,’ she said, sitting down heavily, fatigue rolling over her so that she thought if she closed her eyes she could go to sleep right there and escape from the nightmare. ‘I just can’t.’

  ‘Of course you can,’ said Gary. ‘You never take lunch breaks normally and it’s important. Mabel’s leaving home.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’ Neve heaved herself out of her chair. She felt impossibly heavy and at the same time felt she might float away. ‘Bad timing. I won’t be more than an hour. If Bob asks, tell him I’ve just popped out. I’ll make up for it. I’ll work late.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ said Tamsin. ‘Reunion, remember.’

  ‘I’ll work late tomorrow, then.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Renata, giving her a small push. ‘Go and have a nice time with your daughter.’

  The nice time started badly. The chain came off her bike and got hopelessly kinked. Neve had to turn the bicycle upside down on the pavement to get it back on and by the time she’d finished, her hands were covered in oil, and so were her jeans. She thought of Bernice that morning, so impossibly elegant, and smoothed her hair back from her face, remembering too late that now her face would be oily as well.

  ‘I’ve been here for ten minutes,’ said Mabel, standing over her as she locked her bike to a metal signpost outside the department store. ‘What’s that on your face?’

  ‘Oil.’

  If Neve wasn’t looking her best, neither was Mabel. She seemed to have lost weight overnight, although perhaps her platform boots made her look thinner while her over-large backpack, worn high, gave her a hunched appearance. Her face was pale and peaky and her hair was scraped back into a tight knot. She had a faint trail of spots running along her jawline. Her clothes – black ripped jeans, black long-sleeve tee shirt, black hoodie – weren’t particularly clean and she looked malnourished and neglected. Neve wondered if she’d started taking drugs again – or maybe she was playing the part of someone who was taking drugs. She was a chameleon, always taking on the colour of her moods and her surroundings, always dressing up to play a part. It was impossible to tell what was real and what was theatrical and self-invented, or how far Mabel distinguished between them. This had been a problem through all the farcical family therapy sessions they had had over the past years.

  Certainly, she was not in a good mood. She glittered with a malevolent energy, was unable to keep still.

  ‘How’s the great clear-out going?’ asked Neve. She hated her bright tone, hated the way that – even when her world was crumbling under her feet and a chasm opening up – she wrenched herself into the familiar role. She was the hoper, the believer, the holder-together. ‘Is the chair out of the door?’

  Mabel turned to her, standing on the balls on her feet and moving her head from side to side. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll have a go when I get home.’

  ‘Don’t bother.’

  ‘It can’t just stay there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s your bedroom.’ Mabel didn’t just shut her bedroom door, she locked it.

  ‘But I won’t be in it.’ She caught the expression on Neve’s face and added: ‘Or maybe I won’t be.’

  ‘Anyway, let’s go and look at what you need,’ said Neve, stepping into the revolving doors.

  It took Mabel ten minutes to decide on a kettle. She hated all of the mugs. She said she didn’t need any pans. When she spun round angrily, her backpack swept three tumblers off the shelf and they shattered on the floor. An assistant came towards them with a forgiving look on her face and made a big fuss of sweeping up the shards while Mabel twitched and scowled.

  ‘How about a toasted sandwich maker?’ asked Neve.

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’

  ‘Everyone has sandwich makers.’

  Neve picked a cafetière off the shelf and held it out.

  ‘I don’t drink coffee. Remember?’

  ‘You’ll want to make coffee for other people.’

  ‘You want me to be sociable.’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  Mabel muttered something under her breath, then picked up a collection of wooden spoons. ‘I’ll take these.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And this.’ She selected a long, sharp knife in its plastic sheath.

  Neve had an uneasy feeling, looking at her daughter holding the blade in front of her. ‘Shall we look at teapots?’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘About teapots?’

  ‘Fuck teapots. I don’t care. I don’t care what we buy. I don’t care if I have a toaster or a chopping board or a milk pan or matching pillowcases or lined notebooks or . . .’ She gazed wildly around her. ‘A laundry basket, or a bedside lamp. I don’t care. It’s all crap. Do you hear?’

  ‘I hear.’ Neve pushed away all of the fears that were crowding in on her and tried to concentrate on her daughter, who was wound so tight with anxiety and rage it seemed she might splinter into a thousand pieces. ‘Let’s leave this. It’s the wrong time. We can do it another day – or just buy you things when we get there and see what you need.’ She held up a hand. ‘If you decide to go. And we can talk about that as well, but not now. Now we’re going to have something to eat and a mug of tea and I’ll go back to work. All right?’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Just a mug of tea then.’

  ‘It’s so hot and bright in here. It makes me want to break things.’

  ‘I know. Here. Come with me.’

  Neve put her arm around Mabel’s bony shoulders and led her out of the store, on to the main road, down a side street, into a little café. She pulled back a chair for her and then slid into the seat opposite. She ordered a pot of China tea, lemon on the side, wondering how many mugs of coffee and tea she had drunk today. It occurred to her that she had had nothing to eat since she couldn’t remember when but the thought of food made her stomach churn.

  Mabel glanced at her, then lowered her head into her hands.

  ‘Mum?’ she said, almost inaudible. It had been years since she had called Neve that. Was she crying? Neve wanted to touch her, hold her, wipe tears from her daughter’s small, grubby face, but she stopped herself.

  ‘I’m here. Talk to me.’

  Mabel lifted her head and straightened up. The expression on her face hardened so that she looked almost spiteful. ‘Why would I want to talk to you?’ she said. ‘Why in the wide world?’

  Actually, thought Neve, stepping into the lift, pressing the button for the fourth floor, she didn’t care anymore: she was too tired, too stupefied with all the deceit and all the fear. She saw herself in the lift’s cruel mirror: her bruised face was strained and she had a smear of oil on each cheekbone. That wasn’t the woman Saul had fallen for. Saul, she thought. He would be lying in the morgue now, on one of those metal trays.

  They had never spent a night together, the clock had always been ticking. But once, lying in bed together after making love, he had fallen asleep. One of his arms had been over her body and their legs were tangled together. Neve had lain there for half an hour or more watching him as he slept: the way his mouth was very slightly open, the way he looked serious like he never did when awake. He seemed younger and more innocent in sleep, his face smoother, all the lines wiped away. She followed the smallest changes in his expression. He was so familiar and yet so mysterious, a stranger who had come into her life and who she knew would go out again. He stirred and opened his eyes to see her watching him, and he smiled at her – such a smile. She wouldn’t forget. In spite of the shame, the guilt, the terror and the ghastly mess of it all, she would never forget.

  The lift doors opened and she was face to face wi
th Katie.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, startled.

  ‘Neve.’ Katie nodded. ‘Good. I want to ask you something.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘In my office, if you don’t mind. It’s like a fish bowl in here.’

  Neve followed Katie into her room, which was adjacent to the one that used to be Saul’s.

  ‘Apparently,’ said Katie after she had closed the door, ‘you’ve been saying that Saul was having an affair.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘That’s what I’ve heard.’

  ‘You’ve heard wrong.’

  ‘You’re new here.’

  ‘I don’t see what—’

  ‘Everything was fine until you and your colleagues arrived.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying.’

  ‘It seems very simple. There are rumours flying around the place that Saul was having a fling with someone in the office. What do you say to that?’

  Neve thought she might hoot with laughter. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I mean, as you pointed out, I’m new here. I don’t know what goes on. I certainly haven’t been saying any such thing.’ She paused, then added: ‘His wife thinks he was.’

  ‘Bernice?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So she knew?’

  Neve had the feeling of stumbling around in thick fog, things looming up at her. ‘You mean, you knew Saul was having an affair, but you didn’t know his wife knew?’

  Katie shook her head. ‘You’d be surprised what I know,’ she said. ‘Not much escapes me.’

  ‘I should get to work.’

  ‘He might be dead,’ said Katie. ‘But I can still protect him.’

  ‘Good luck with that.’

  Only Renata and Tamsin were at their computers. Neve sat at her desk and pulled up the files she’d been working on. She propped her chin in her hand and stared at the images without really seeing them. Little motes floated in front of her eyes. She was so drained that it was all she could do to keep from falling asleep on her keyboard, but into her tired mind spun sharp pieces of dread. Saul had bought her a present that would be delivered to the flat in the next few days. Bernice knew of an affair and suspected someone in particular – who? Katie also knew of an affair, and had implied she knew who it was with. Mabel was on the downward slope again, jittery and frantic and full of rage. Other things too: her bangle, which had disappeared. The hammer, which had also disappeared. Her personnel folder, which hadn’t been with Gary, Tamsin and Renata’s and wasn’t here at Redfern. Nothing made sense. And then there was the detective, Hitching. She didn’t like the way he looked at her. It gave her the creepy sense that he knew something.