Waterhouse And Zailer: The Carrier Part 23

"So was it Jason who hurt her, then, the one youre covering for by pretending he was here when she was attacked? By the way, before we leave were going to need the name and address of the friend whose house hes helping to renovate today. Will that be a problem?"

"I dont know the name!" Lauren stared at Charlie, wide-eyed. "Jason doesnt tell me stuff like that. He just said a friend, a house. Thats all I know."

Convenient, thought Sam.

Kerry started to weep. Dan looked away.

"Was the attack to warn Gaby off investigating Tims possible innocence?" Charlie asked, looking around the room. "In which case, you wouldnt have needed to hurt her that badly, or Jason wouldnt have. Scaring her might have been enough. Was that what you all agreed, since you love Gaby so much? Just a little attack, nothing too serious? And then someone broke ranks, someone watching the attack thought it was getting out of hand, didnt know where it might end. That someone panicked. Was it you, Lauren? Couldnt say anything, couldnt risk running or screaming in case Jason turned on you, so you used your phone to tweet for help, while he was busy attacking Gaby?"

Lauren was shaking her head as if to get the weight of it off her skinny neck. Sam wondered if she was borderline anorexic. Maybe not even borderline.

"Detectives are working on tracing the three tweets," said Sam. "Well find out which of your phones or computers they came from within a day or two, so you might as well tell us now."

Lauren let out a loud wail. "Are you f.u.c.king stupid?" she yelled at him, nearly stopping his heart. "I dont give a f.u.c.k what you do with my phone, you can stick it up your scabby a.r.s.e for all I care! Just find Gaby!" She rummaged in her dressing-gown pocket, pulled something out of it. Sam saw a flash of silver and tensed.

"Put that down!" shouted Charlie.

"Its okay," Sam told her. He could see now: it wasnt a knife, it was only Laurens phone. She threw it into his lap and ran from the room.

17.

SAt.u.r.dAY, 12 MARCH 2011.

The woman in front of me in the queue has dandruff on the shoulders of her black jacket. She is more upset than I am. Like Lauren at the airport. The name Lauren in my head makes it harder for me to stay here, where I need to be, though logically I know its not possible for me to attract another attack simply by thinking about her.

I can be rational, still. Ill prove it by staying put. If I run away, my thoughts will come with me. If I run from a man whos not here, how will I know Im not running toward him? He could be anywhere.

Like Lauren at the airport, the woman in front of me is shouting. I cant see the face of the man shes yelling at, only part of his body in its police uniform behind the gla.s.s barrier. I picture Bodo Neudorfs face; he is safely far away from this tirade, in Germany. "Tell you what, dont bother having my driving license sent back to me this time. Keep it! Save me the trouble of having to bring it in every five minutes!"

I fix my eyes on a large gray sticker on the wall and try not to listen. The palms of my hands are damp and itchy. The sticker has curved corners and says, "An induction loop system is available on these premises."

"Would I have been pulled over if Id been consulting a map?" the woman demands to know. "I dont have a SatNav-I would do, except Ive got no time to buy one or even think about buying one. I do have a knackered, torn road atlas, but for the past year its been in the boot, covered in mud from my sons football shoes! I use my phone while Im driving only to read the directions Ive e-mailed to myself. I wouldnt get done for looking at a map, would I, so I shouldnt be fined for looking at directions on my phone!"

She is the victim of an imaginary injustice, envious of phantoms: those who cruise along the M25 leafing through their untorn mud-free road atlases, cheered on by the police.

Youre supposed to look at the road and your mirrors and nothing else.

I dont tell the angry woman this because Im scared of her-also of the man shes haranguing and the two women sitting behind me in the waiting area. Im frightened of them all. Ive been monitoring my feelings carefully since yesterday and the one blocking out all the others is fear. Of everything: my surroundings, myself, noise, silence, any person I see or hear or pa.s.s on the street. Predictably, Im scared of the man who terrorized me, because I cant see him and so dont know where he is, how close he is, but I seem to be equally scared of everybody who isnt him, which I wouldnt have expected. Alone and locked in my car, Im afraid I wont be able to unlock the doors and get out if I need to; outside, I fear that something horrible is about to happen, something even worse.

I thought my panic would start to die away once the attack was over. When that didnt happen, I a.s.sumed Id misjudged how long it would take. That could still be true, I suppose. Its less than twenty-four hours later, too early to decide that I will feel as I do now for the rest of my life.

Thats what I dread most: that I will be stuck like this forever, in a silent scream of panic. He untied my wrists before he walked away-slowly, complacently, not even bothering to run-but he didnt release my mind. Thats the part I really needed him to free; I can still feel his plastic wrapped tight around it.

Should I give myself more time? Do I have a choice?

I refuse to sacrifice the rest of my life to this. If I thought I could get away with it, Id refuse to sacrifice the rest of the day. There are important decisions and negotiations looming at work: we have to refine our value proposition, convince Sagentia that the significant markup has to be on the disposables, which must be kept as simple as possible. I have to take care of all that and appear normal, make sure no one can see whats going on underneath.

I have to get Tim out of prison.

The woman in front of me turns away from the reception desk in disgust. Our eyes meet. "Sorry for the holdup," she says. "I should be embarra.s.sed, but Im too angry. '"I was at the end of my tether," said mother of two-thatll be the headline if I end up strangling this guy."

Shes only talking. She wont do anything to you here, in front of witnesses. "Dont worry," I tell her, closing my hand around my Saint Christopher in my jacket pocket. Its all I can think of to say.

"My relations.h.i.+p with the UK traffic police isnt a happy one," the woman explains. When she isnt yelling, she has a nice voice. What would I have thought of her if Id met her before? What if I tell myself theres no reason to be scared of her and I turn out to be wrong? She was yelling at someone who didnt deserve it. If I blame what happened yesterday every time I feel fear, how will I be able to differentiate between harmful and harmless? If I cant make that basic distinction, how will I manage in the world?

More than anything, I would like to know if my reaction is normal. I dont think it can be. I wonder if its happened to anyone else. Ive heard of post-traumatic stress, but never of the terror not subsiding at all, even long after whatever caused it has finished.

"Gaby?"

Its Charlie Zailer. Next to me. Where did she come from? Human beings dont have eyes in the backs or sides of their heads, but it must be possible to design a device thatd do the same job. Maybe thats what Ill work on next.

I order myself not to turn and run. When I met Charlie yesterday, before I was attacked, I wasnt scared of her. I remember not being scared of her. I approved of her; she wanted to find out the truth and so did I. She listened to me.

"Gaby, are you okay? You dont look as if you are."

"Yes, I do. I look fine." Ive washed every inch of myself and put on clean clothes. Im able to speak and say what I mean. Im not falling apart, not drawing attention to myself by shouting in public like the woman in front of me. I am looking better than okay, given the circ.u.mstances. "Can I talk to you as soon as youre free?" I say.

"I can be free now."

Lucky you.

"Gaby, do you know there are teams of police out looking for you?"

"No. Why? Im here."

Charlie Zailer smiles. "You do seem to be," she says. "What have you got in your pocket?"

"Youre not taking it." I no longer have a home. I need it wherever I go.

"Im only asking what it is. Im sure its fine. What is it?"

Inside my pocket, I unclench my fist. "Its a Saint Christopher medal on a chain."

"Can I see? I wont take it away. I just want to look at it."

I show it to her.

"Its beautiful," she says. "Shall we go somewhere private where we can talk properly?"

"No." What does she mean, "somewhere private"? Why?

"Youd rather talk here?" She looks over at the chairs in the waiting area. The man on reception is telling the shouter to go and sit there.

"No," I say. "Not here."

"We have a very nice private consultation room," says Charlie. "We can leave the door open if youd like."

The idea of an open door bothers me. And a closed one. I say nothing.

"Gaby? Im happy to do whatever youd like to do. Where shall we talk?"

Somewhere Ive been before. A place I know Im not scared of. Ill be okay away from the police station if I have Charlie with me.

"The Proscenium."

"Whats that?" she asks.

"No, its too far." Im not thinking straight. "Its a private subscription library in Rawndesley. Where I met Tim. Its got the best collection of out-of-print poetry books anywhere in the country. All first editions, some signed by the author."

"Ill drive us to Rawndesley if thats where you want to go to talk."

"They do lunches for members. Tims a member. So am I. I could take you in as a guest, but Im not hungry." I am taking too long to make up my mind. If yesterday hadnt happened, I would know what I wanted to do by now.

I look at the doors I walked in through ten minutes ago. Im not brave enough to walk out onto the street again, not yet.

"Lets stay here," I say to Charlie Zailer. "The private consultation room sounds all right. With the door closed."

"Good idea," she says. "Shall we go via the tea and coffee machine? I wouldnt recommend the coffee but theres a decent range of teas-might help to keep you awake. You still havent slept, have you?"

"I dont feel tired," I tell her. Sleep. How will that ever happen again? Ill have to see my GP, get some strong pills to knock me out. Without sleep, Ill be no help to Tim. I only just had the energy this morning to cancel the three meetings Id scheduled for today because the working week no longer adequately accommodates everything I need to do. As lies go, mine were hardly inspired: "Im ill. Can we rearrange? Ill be in touch as soon as Im better." I knew no one would doubt me. I wouldnt cancel a meeting unless I was half dead.

I follow Charlie Zailer along a brick-walled corridor, the brick broken up by thin floor-to-ceiling opaque gla.s.s windows on one side. She keeps slowing down so that I can catch her up, but I dont want to be level with her. I want to be able to see her and for her not to see me, especially knowing that soon Ill be facing her across a table and there will be no escape. Trying to keep my facial expressions and breathing under control has been the hardest part of today. One man I pa.s.sed on the way from the car park to the police station stopped me and asked if I was all right. I hadnt said anything to him or looked at him; all Id done was walk past him.

At the drinks machine, I choose Earl Grey tea because its what I normally prefer, even though, for once, I would rather have ordinary. Isnt that what youre supposed to drink to help you through an ordeal: plain builders tea? Is an ordeal any excuse for allowing myself to become a cliche?

The private consultation room is small and warm with two pictures on the walls, framed but not behind gla.s.s. They must be oils. You dont need to put oils behind gla.s.s, only police receptionists. One of the paintings is of a small building at the entrance to a park-a lodge house, with red leaves on its roof. It looks familiar; Blantyre Park, maybe. The other is of a man playing a piano. No, tuning a piano. Same artist. I walk over to look at the signature: Aidan Seed.

At the center of the room are two blue-fabric armchairs, each one next to a small wooden coffee table, two tall potted plants and a view from the only window of a lineup of ventilation units embedded in a damp wall. The sight of them makes me feel immediately claustrophobic. I want to go somewhere else now that Ive seen this, but Im too embarra.s.sed to ask. Theres a blind, though-a plain white roller. I walk over to the window and lower it. Itll be better if I cant see the grilles of the ventilation units. Ill be able to imagine the view from a different bit of the police station. At the back of the building there must be rooms that overlook the river and the red bridge. Ill picture that instead.

In the far corner, theres a plastic-topped metal table with four metal-legged chairs. I would like it if Charlie Zailer would sit over there with her back to me and write down what I say, but sh.e.l.l want to discuss everything with me and look at me, and probably ask questions, even though theres no need. All I need is for her to listen. Ive been rehearsing my speech all the way here.

"The furniture in here changes from day to day," she says. "Shall we sit in the comfy chairs?"

I sit down. The worst thing I can do is leave it to her to steer things. I have to run this show; I took the lead by coming in, and I cant lose it. "Did you get the truth out of Kerry and Dan?" I ask her. "You know theyre lying, right?"

She looks surprised. After a few seconds, she says, "Gaby, if its okay, Id rather talk about you first. A lot of my colleagues have been very worried about you."

"Me?" Im fine, or I will be soon. Tims the one in prison. "No. I dont want to talk about me first. I want you to answer my questions."

"All right. Yes, we all think Kerry and Dan havent been straight with us. But I think and hope that were getting closer to where we need to be. You seem to care about the truth as much as we do, which is . . . great. We dont often meet people like you. Most people either only care about keeping them and theirs out of trouble, or they dont care at all."

"I only care about keeping Tim out of trouble," I tell her. "I know he didnt kill Francine, but if he had, Id lie and say he hadnt. Im not a good person."

Charlie seems to find this acceptable. "Who is?" she asks.

"Tim. Good and stupid. Hes covering for Jason Cookson for some reason. I dont know why specifically, but I can give you a wider explanation: Tim believes his own suffering matters less than anyone and everyone elses. Look at his marriage to Francine if you want proof that hes capable of long-term self-sacrifice."

"Youre saying Jason Cookson killed Francine Breary?"

"Yes."

Charlie nods. I was expecting a barrage of questions. Instead, shes waiting for me to go on in my own time.

"You heard me tell Kerry yesterday about meeting Lauren Cookson at Dsseldorf Airport." This part is easy; Ive been going over it in my mind for most of the night, the exact words Ill use. "So you know thats how I found out about Tim being charged with Francines murder-from Lauren. 'An innocent man, she called him. I couldnt persuade her to tell me any more. She was terrified: ran away, missed her flight home. That was how much she didnt want to talk to me about it. From her many references to her husband Jason-other stuff she said, nothing to do with murder-I decided he had to be the one she was scared of. Yesterday morning when I got back from Germany, I came here and told DC Gibbs that Jason Cookson must have killed Francine. Why else would Lauren keep quiet if she knew Tim was innocent?"

"Gaby . . ."

"No, wait. I dont know for sure that Jason bullies Lauren, but when I left here yesterday and went to the Dower House, guess who I met driving out of the gates? The bully himself. He was rude and threatening, warned me to leave Lauren alone and forget what shed told me. He might as well have had 'Thug tattooed on his forehead, to add to his collection. He knew who I was before I told him. Lauren must have phoned him from Germany in a panic. Shed compromised security, hadnt she? She was probably scared Id turn up at the Dower House asking questions, and wanted to warn Jason in advance."

Charlies expression hasnt changed since I started talking.

"Dont you get it?" I ask her. Am I not making sense apart from in my own head?

"Get what?"

"Why would Jason threaten me and warn me to keep away if it wasnt him that killed Francine?"

"Lets a.s.sume he did, then," Charlie says. "How does that fit with Kerry and Dan lying? Are they protecting him too?"

"Him or themselves. Im not sure which. You need to find out if Jasons got some kind of hold over them. Laurens his bullied wife, but I cant think of any reason why the rest of them would rather Tim went down for Francines murder than Jason, unless theyre scared h.e.l.l physically attack them. Which they might well be. Jason has henchmen: people to do the dirty work hed rather not do himself."

"How do you know that, Gaby?"

Ive rehea.r.s.ed this bit too: tell without telling. The bare minimum, then move on. "One of them paid me a visit at home last night. To warn me. Same warning as Jasons: keep away from Lauren. Not surprising, since it was Jason who sent it."

"How do you know Jason sent this man to your house?" Charlie asks.

"I cant prove it. Thats your job. So is protecting vulnerable women. If Ive been warned by Jason, and then again on Jasons orders, what do you thinks happening to Lauren, who dragged me into it? Worse than warnings, for sure. You need to get her out of that house."

That last part had an effect. Good.

"I take your point, Gaby, but I saw Lauren this morning. Sam Kombothekra and I spoke to her."

"Did she seem terrified?"

"Everyone seemed . . . unsettled," says Charlie. "Not only Lauren. If shes part of a conspiracy to obstruct, as were both saying we think she is, thatd be enough to explain her nerves, wouldnt it? And if its more than that, if shes scared of her husband-"

"It is. You need to get her away from him!"

"I cant, Gaby. We dont have the power to separate women from their husbands against their will. What I can do is go to the house again, have another chat with her . . ."