‘But I made you dinner. Trout.’
‘I’m sorry. Put it in the fridge and I’ll have it tomorrow.’
‘Come on, Paul.’
Come on? Come on, what? ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated, hoping to sound sincere. No: not even hoping. His apologies to her were mere habit, like washing his hands before a meal. ‘Goodnight,’ he concluded. He didn’t wait for her to say anymore, just hung up. And lay on the sofa.
He thought sleep would be impossible, the sofa was not comfortable, the lights were all on. But he did sleep, waking at dawn to the sound of rubbish lorries in the street below. He had no recollection of falling asleep. Time had jumped forward and the only evidence of how he’d spent the night was the red mark of the sofa’s seam across his cheek.
‘It is Detective Chief Inspector Paul Strebel,’ he said through the intercom. ‘I came a few days ago, I tried to phone—’
‘Yes, I’m sorry, it’s disconnected,’ she said. ‘Please come up.’ An American voice, but softly accented. He hadn’t had many dealings with Americans and he was aware of the stereotypes he tended toward, and also his initial suspicion of her character.
Pilgrim Lankester was pretty, even beautiful, standing in the doorway at the top of the stairs. ‘The bill, I forgot to pay it.’ Why? he immediately asked in his head. There would have been many increasingly agitated reminders.
As he moved into the room, he glanced around, taking in the oddly impersonal space. There were no photos or reminders on the fridge, no magazines or mail on the counter; no stack of notices from the phone company littering the tabletop. He thought of a businessman’s hotel room. But the feeling he had wasn’t of transience; rather of tentativeness — someone unable or unwilling to make an impression.
She offered him tea. He studied her as she boiled the kettle, retrieved the cups. Despite the bruises on her face, there was an undercurrent of elegance to her. Well-cut clothes and hair, cheekbones and deep-set eyes: Mrs Lankester was the kind of woman, intimidating in her perfection, whom he saw in Zurich or Geneva stepping out of boutiques or chic little bistros. He could smell her. Faintly almond. Not perfume, but a soap or cream.
Her manners and beauty masked her essential timidity. Most people wouldn’t notice the way she bit her lip before speaking or hesitated mid-sentence. He guessed this behavior was habitual, not the result of trauma from the accident. He recalled she was only thirty-two, five years older than his own daughter. And while Pilgrim Lankester was vastly more sophisticated than Caroline, his daughter was confident, even bawdy. He suspected that Mrs Lankester had married young, and he would find Tom Lankester to be a strong character.
When her hand trembled on the teapot he said, ‘Don’t be afraid.’
‘Of the tea?’
‘No. Of me.’
She thought it was her fault. ‘No,’ he said, firmly, ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
Strebel would have been fine if she hadn’t cried. Crying made her ugly, her eyes puffed and red, her cheeks blotchy. He felt sadness, loneliness coming off her in waves, and this triggered in him what he begged to be a paternal response, but what he knew was lust. ‘Vulnerable women are beautiful,’ a colleague had once remarked, and Strebel had disagreed. In fact, they’d almost had an argument, because Strebel took the line that there was something predatory in finding weak women sexual. He’d been around too many rapists.
But now he felt the urge to touch this young woman, to hold her and comfort her — and he could not pretend the urge was simply protective. He was appalled. And in equal measure, he was stunned by the small hollow at the base of her throat, by the upturn of flesh where her upper lip bowed. It was as if she’d suddenly come into focus; she was clear, so brilliantly, perfectly clear and distinct against the gray, oaty mass of his life. He felt a surge of happiness — of being alive.
Stupidly, he handed her his handkerchief, the clean, pressed one Ingrid gave him every day, though he asked her not to. He was fine with paper tissues.
He should leave. Immediately. He should concoct an emergency. But instead, he asked her to walk with him to the incident scene. Oh, certainly, part of him was saying this request was legitimate — she might remember after all, he might gain a new perspective; but the greater part simply wanted to be beside her. Wanted the smell of her, to observe her excruciating loveliness.
As they walked, Strebel wondered if he could ever leave Ingrid. He’d like to think it would be simple, a matter of a suitcase and a polite goodbye. But they were bound by filaments. Not just magazine subscriptions, not just the burden of bureaucracy — health insurance, life insurance, house insurance, bank accounts, wills, pensions; but connections of habit. There would be inconveniences, petty losses. He’d have to buy a washing machine and do his own laundry. She’d have to ask their useless son-in-law to fix the toilet. But at least Strebel would be able to wear his own gloves. He was annoyed by the endless, small acts of dishonesty.
‘Do you want me to remember? Is that why we’re here?’ Mrs Lankester asked, and her voice reached him, though at first he couldn’t understand. He’d been thinking so intensely in his native tongue, and had to make the switch to English.
He noticed she was clenching and unclenching her hands. She was terrified. ‘You think I’m trying to trick you somehow. I’m sorry for that. But even if you could remember, I’m not sure I would want to hear. Memory is so messy.’
Ingrid would no doubt prescribe therapy of some sort. Psychotherapy, aromatherapy, candles and chanting, perhaps a cleanse or colonic. Strebel imagined the scurrying shamans who prayed on grief and uncertainty, plucking visions from the air and placing them like ripe fruit at the feet of their acolytes. Paying acolytes. How could you trust anyone you paid for a service? A prostitute gave you what you wanted. A therapist gave you what you wanted. What a mistake to believe in the sanctity of memory or dreams. A man might as well believe the romantic murmurings of a call girl.
He stared at the new bus stand. Should he be awed at his countrymen’s ability to reinstall a bus stand within days of its destruction? Or should he fear the haste to paper over tragedy? Then he glanced at Mrs Lankester, sitting next to him, her dark hair and neat form. In a pique, he tore off his gloves, then wondered if this was because he wanted to touch her.
She said something about her husband not liking the gloves she bought him, and Strebel remembered he’d admitted this to her only moments ago. Why had he felt it appropriate to leak some matter of his personal life?
‘Tell me their names,’ she said. The names of the children.
Names? He could name them all, every single one. Even the first child, the little baby who’d gone through the windshield. The rainy night. Rain, but of course. Thirty years ago, his first week on the job. He’d thought it was a doll. ‘Restrain her,’ his captain had said, and it had taken him a minute to realize the order concerned a woman. Restrain the woman who was running and screaming like a wounded animal in the rain toward the broken doll that had been her child.
Strebel looked over again at Mrs Lankester. He could not help himself. Her eyes met his. She was lost, and he would find her.
Distract me, he pleaded silently. From all this.
All this dying.
Midmorning and Ingrid was already on line four, wanting to know, ‘Shall I pick you up on the way or do you want to come in your own car?’