“Sweet Jesus!” Ridgemount breathed.
Resnick nodded towards Patel, who went forward and reached his hand towards Ridgemount’s shoulder.
“Nooo!” Ridgemount screamed and backed clumsily against the stove, cleaving the space between Patel and himself with his fist. “No! Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!”
Patel moved in again but now there was a knife in Ridgemount’s hand, a kitchen knife, tears and fear glistening in his eyes.
“Steady!” called Resnick
Behind him, Calvin struggled to be free. “He won’t … You can’t … He won’t let you touch him. Not at all. He can’t.”
Resnick nodded, understanding.
“Let the boy go,” he said and Naylor, querying the order with his eyes, did exactly that. “Now, Mr. Ridgemount,” said Resnick, moving round Patel, slowly extending one hand, fingers spread. “Please let me have the knife. You have my word, we won’t touch you. Give me the knife and all you have to do is walk to the car and wait with one of the officers. We do have a warrant to search these premises and we’ll see that’s finished as speedily and with as little disturbance as possible. After we’ve searched the house, you’ll be driven to the station.”
“And Calvin?”
“He’ll come with us also. He can ride in the same vehicle as you if you wish.”
Ridgemount reversed the paring knife and placed the handle, carefully, in Resnick’s hand.
Forty-three
The postcard was from the island of Mykonos and off beyond the low, white buildings what Lynn presumed to be the Aegean was a dark stain like an ink blot in the monochrome copy on her desk. She imagined how blue it would be and Karen Archer stepping down to it through sand, even this far on in the year, to swim. We thought you would like to see this, Karen’s parents had said in their covering letter, we hope it sets your mind to rest.
Sorry to have been out of touch for so long but felt I just had to get away. Thank God for Thomas Cook and Access!! Think of me in the sun, pigging out on ouzo and olives!!! I’ll phone the minute I’m back in England. Take care and try not to worry. I’m fine!
Heaps of love, Karen XXXXXXXXXXXX
Well, good for you, Lynn thought. Be nice, wouldn’t it, if everyone in your position could go swanning off to Greece and pretend it had all been a bad dream. She sat for a moment, resting her head down into her hands. What’s the matter with you? Did you really want her to be a body somewhere, just so that you could have another victim, something to trace back to Ian Carew’s hand?
“Everything that’s said in this room,” Resnick explained, “everything you say, will be recorded on this machine, afterwards the tapes will be sealed and signed to show that they’re a true record.”
Ridgemount nodded to show that he understood.
“What I’d like you to do is say what happened in your own words, exactly as you want. If there’s anything that doesn’t seem clear, I might interrupt to ask a question, but other than that all I want to do is listen. All right?”
Ridgemount nodded: all right.
Carew hadn’t been certain whether to go up to her when she was with other people or wait again until she was alone. He hadn’t known whether to wear something not exactly formal but a little less sporty. Suggest that this was serious, not play. Touch and then go. Finally he settled on a faded denim shirt, white slacks, moccasins. Wallet buttoned down in his back pocket in case she said, “Terrific! Let’s go for a drink, celebrate!” Later they could get something to eat, that new place up from the Council House, all white tablecloths and single-stem flowers, Sonny’s, he’d been wanting to go there.
In the event, she didn’t say a thing. Stood there, staring at him as if not really able to believe it was him. The others that were with her, three of them, nurses, uncertain what to do, whether to walk on or stay, staring from Sarah to Carew and back again. Beneath her long, open coat she was still in her uniform, belted tight at the waist, dark sheen of her hair: perfect.
“Surprise, surprise!” Carew said.
“See you tomorrow, Sarah,” called one of the others, continuing on her way.
“Fine,” Sarah said. “Bye.”
Then they were alone in the middle of the broad corridor, doors off. Paintings by local primary children on the walls. “I thought you were in jail,” Sarah said.
Carew smiled. “I was. It was a mistake.”
“There must have been something. They must have arrested you for something.”
“Is that what you think?”
“Well, yes.”
A doctor, stethoscope around his neck, came into the corridor and walked towards them. He had a squash ball in his hand and he was squeezing it rhythmically, pressing it hard into his palm.
“Well, there was something,” Carew said. “They seemed to think I’d murdered someone. A woman.”
Scarcely missing a beat, the doctor turned through one of the doors and disappeared from sight.
Sarah Leonard was staring at him, unable to work him out. “And now they’ve changed their mind,” she said.
Carew smiled. “The wrong Ian. You see, they found her diary, the woman’s, and there was a name there, Ian. They thought it was me.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know. But it was a mistake. The real Ian turned up, the one from the diary and, well, here I am.”
“What for?”
“Um?”
“What for? Why are you here? I don’t understand.”
The smile shifted from the mouth to the eyes. “I thought, you know, we had some unfinished business.”
Sarah waited.
“When we were talking, before, if I remember rightly, we’d just got to the point.”
“Of what?”
“Finalizing the arrangements. Where we were going to go, where we were going to meet. Italian or Chinese. You know the kind of thing.”
“I may do. But what makes you think I’d ever agree to going out with you? Especially now.”
“Exactly my point.”
“What?”
“Especially now. It’s not every day the police decide you didn’t murder somebody after all. We have to go and celebrate.”
Sarah shook her head. An elderly woman was maneuvering the length of the corridor on a Zimmer frame, pausing every fifteen feet or so to draw breath.
“We’ve got to,” Carew said.
“You’re the one. It’s nothing to do with me. You celebrate.” She began to walk towards him, veering left to go past. As she drew level he caught hold of her hand.
“It’s no fun on your own.”
“Tough!”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
One of the side doors opened and she pulled herself clear. A porter backed out a trolley bearing a sheet and blankets, nothing else. He was chewing gum and whistling “When You’re Smiling”; recognizing Sarah, he winked and grinned and switched the gum from one side of his mouth to the other, all without quite losing the tune.
“Just one drink,” Carew pleaded. “Half an hour. On your way home.”
“No.”
“But …”
“No. How’s it spelt?”
Carew hung his lower lip, made a good pass at crossing his legs standing up, and stared at her as if she’d asked him to explain the theory of relativity. “Er,” he stuttered. “Um … er, um … the first letter, miss, it’s not an M?”
“No.” Willing herself not to find his little-boy act funny, just absurd. Pathetic.
“N? It’s an N, isn’t it? N for no.”
Unable to stop herself smiling, Sarah nodded. “Yes.”
“Yes?” Carew was suddenly no longer the timid boy, moving confidently towards her. “You did say yes.” He’d been saving his best smile for last, the one that never let him down. “Half an hour,” he said. “An hour at most.”
“I was lying there,” Ridgemount said, “I was lying there with my eyes taped over shut and I couldn’t move. They had this tube, see, this tube clamped over my mouth. Taking the air down to my lungs. And they’ve been saying, before, you know, they give me this shot, put me under, she was saying, this girl, not much more than a girl, just a few seconds and you won’t feel a thing. Not till you’re back in recovery and it’s all over.