‘Print the original out in full and get it to me as soon as possible. ’ Simon was on his way to the door. ‘We’ve got plenty of print-outs of the first diary file.’
‘You mean the second,’ Norman called after him. But Simon was gone.
Norman’s face drooped. Hoist by my own petard, he thought. He’d said it was Simon’s job to work out what it all meant, but he’d been looking forward to a bit of a discussion; he’d thought they might try to puzzle it out together. But, come to think of it, when he’d left the room, Simon Waterhouse hadn’t looked puzzled. Which was puzzling.
‘Why would a suicidal woman want to perk up the last desperate outpouring of her misery?’ Norman asked his captive audience of computer equipment. Like Simon Waterhouse, they offered no satisfactory response.
Simon bumped into Sam Kombothekra outside the CID room. ‘We’ve got a problem,’ said Sam. ‘Keith Harbard’s still in reception. His cab hasn’t turned up yet. When’s Jonathan Hey getting here?’
‘He didn’t say a time. He just said as soon as he could.’
‘Shit.’ Sam groaned, ran his hands through his hair. ‘This is all we need.’
‘What does it matter?’ Simon followed Sam as he sprinted down the corridor towards reception.
‘They’re friends. Harbard’ll ask Hey what he’s doing here, Hey’ll tell him we’ve called him in as an expert to help us at the eleventh hour, Harbard’ll say he’s supposed to be our expert.’
‘So? We get rid of Harbard as politely as possible.’
‘There’s no way Harbard’s going to leave without a fuss, allow himself to be usurped by a better expert-a man half his age. He’ll be straight on the phone to Superintendent Barrow, who doesn’t even know we’ve called Hey in!’
‘That’s Proust’s problem, not ours. Proust agreed to Hey coming in; he can explain it to Barrow.’
‘We should have gone to Cambridge. Why didn’t we go to Cambridge?’ Sam, using another of his wife Kate’s techniques, answered his own question. ‘Because you’d already invited Hey here, without checking with me or Proust or-’
‘Sam?’
‘What?’
‘Can you hear something?’
The raised voices grew louder as they ran. One raised voice: Harbard’s. Simon and Sam crashed through the double doors to reception.
‘Professions… Professors,’ said Sam, red-faced. Simon understood his nervousness. Personally, he felt oddly detached from the proceedings. He smiled at Jonathan Hey, who looked relieved to see him. Hey was eyeing Harbard anxiously. ‘Is there a mistake?’ he asked Simon. ‘Keith said you didn’t need me after all.’
‘Keith’s wrong.’
Harbard turned on Sam. ‘What’s going on? Aren’t I good enough any more? You send me on my way and call in my close friend and colleague without even telling me?’
‘Keith, I had no idea you hadn’t been told,’ said Hey, looking as uncomfortable as a schoolboy about to be caned by the headmaster. ‘Look, I really feel awkward about this.’ He looked at Simon, clearly hoping to be let off the hook. ‘As Keith says, we’re friends, and-’
Sam had recovered. ‘This way, Professor Hey,’ he said, leading Jonathan Hey out of reception, steering him by the shoulders so that he couldn’t decide to leave with Harbard as a gesture of solidarity. The doors banged shut behind them.
‘Six-six-three-eight-seven-zero,’ Simon told Harbard. ‘That’s the taxi number. If it doesn’t turn up in the next five minutes, give them a ring. Tell them to put it on our account.’
He turned his back on the irate professor and hurried after Sam and Jonathan Hey. He caught up with them halfway to meeting room one. ‘What did you say to him?’ Sam asked.
‘Oh, just smoothed his ruffled feathers and poured oil on troubled waters.’
‘Yeah, I bet.’
‘I hope you did, Simon.’ Hey sounded alarmed. ‘Poor Keith. I’d like to phone him as soon as possible, if that’s okay. I’m not happy about… the way this has happened. Couldn’t you have warned me, or…?’
‘Jonathan.’ Simon put a steadying hand on his arm. ‘I know Keith’s your mate and you don’t want to offend him, but this is more important. Four people are dead.’
Hey nodded. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘You know I’m happy to help if I can.’
‘You’ve been a big help to me already,’ Simon told him. ‘That’s why our DI’s looking forward to meeting you. Sergeant Kombothekra’ll tell you that Proust rarely looks forward to meeting anyone. Right, Sam?’
‘Well… um…’ Sam coughed to avoid having to reply. Bad form to take the piss out of your inspector in front of an outsider. Jonathan Hey looked back at Simon for reassurance. So did Sam. Simon considered how rare it was that people looked to him for comfort. Usually he unsettled those around him with an inner turbulence he found impossible to hide. Now, for once, there was no churning in his head. He hadn’t had a chance to tell Sam, hadn’t stuck around long enough to tell Norman Grace, but the last piece of the puzzle had fallen into place in Norman’s office a few minutes ago. Now he knew everything. Charlie would have to marry him. If I really want her to…
They arrived at meeting room one where Proust was waiting for them. The inspector sounded unnaturally courteous as he shook Jonathan Hey’s hand and said how pleased he was to meet him. He looked incongruous, standing beside a tray laden with tea, coffee, sugar, milk, cups and saucers and an impressive range of biscuits-probably an entire selection box. The tray was lined with one of those lacy-doily things that Simon had never known the proper name for. Had Proust asked for that? Had Sam? Simon had told them both that Hey was well-spoken, used to the luxuries provided by Whewell College, Cambridge.
‘Tea, Professor?’ said Proust. ‘Coffee?’
‘I don’t normally… oh, what the hell. I’ll have a coffee. Thanks. White, one sugar.’ Hey blushed. ‘Sorry to sound like a wuss. If I drink too much caffeine I have stomach problems, but one cup won’t hurt. Endless peppermint tea depresses you after a while.’
‘I’m a green tea man myself,’ said Proust. ‘But since there’s none here, I might risk a cup of builders’ finest. Sergeant? Waterhouse?’
Both nodded. Was Proust actually going to pour drinks for all four of them? Incredibly, it seemed he was. Simon watched as he put the milk in the cups first, then tea in three of them, sugar in one, coffee and sugar in the fourth. He knows Sam doesn’t take sugar and I do-he must have noticed, stored the information away. Simon felt a pang of affection for the Snowman.
Having made the drinks, Proust left them sitting in a row on the tray and stood back to admire them, pleased with his little line-up. Hey was talking to Sam about his drive to Spilling, how long it had taken from Cambridge. Had Sam asked him? Simon hadn’t heard if he had.
‘It’s the A14 that can be a real killer,’ Hey was saying. ‘Bumper to bumper, crawling forward. There’s always an accident.’
‘But you managed to avoid the A14 tonight,’ Simon chipped in. Hey looked confused. ‘No, I…’ When he saw Proust walking towards him, he put out his hands and smiled, ready to take his cup of coffee. Then he saw what the inspector was holding and took a step back.
It was a pair of handcuffs.
‘Jonathan Hey, I’m arresting you for the murders of Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick,’ said Proust, ‘and for the murders of Encarnación and Amy Oliva-your wife and daughter.’
19
Friday, 10 August 2007
I walk and walk, head down, looking at none of the people I pass, speaking to nobody. An endless network of suburban streets. It’s only when I get to the main road and see the Picture House and the Centre for Alternative Medicine in the distance that I realise I’m in Spilling.