She tried a smile, not wanting him to catch any trace of her earlier temper or irritation, all professional now. ‘Just need to talk to you about something. Might be better to do it inside.’ She gestured behind him. ‘Shall we?’
Mark Turner blinked again, stood out of the way, allowing her entry.
She went in.
The curtains were closed, the house in near darkness. It felt odd, a complete contrast to the early evening sunshine outside. Dust motes danced and jumped, caught in the beams of light that crept in through the chinks. She made the outlines of furniture, square and heavy looking. Covered with sheets or throws. The room was cold. It felt remote, cut off from the world, Dickensian almost. Rose half expected to find Miss Haversham lurking in some corner.
‘Sorry,’ said Mark Turner, ‘I was… working upstairs. I… My Ph.D.’ He looked round as if seeing the room through her eyes. Then turned back to her, remembering who she was. ‘Why are you here, please?’
‘Is there somewhere we could sit?’
Mark Turner found the light switch. An old three-bulb chandelier lit up the room. Rose saw that the house was small, living room and dining room all in one. Stairs in the centre. A kitchen at the back of the house. A brick chimney breast with a gas fire in front of it. Shelves on both sides, crammed with books. A TV and DVD player underneath the window. CD system beside it. Throws covered the furniture. It looked functional, nothing more. A student or academic house. Except for one thing. Halfway down the room was a tree. The trunk against the wall, the branches spreading out along the ceiling, separating the one room into two areas.
‘Nice feature,’ said Rose. ‘Still alive?’
Mark Turner looked at it, frowned, as if it was the first time he had noticed it. ‘What? Oh. Here before me. Dead. Think it’s just for ornamentation.’
‘Right.’ She sat down in a covered armchair. Took out her notepad and pen.
He sat also, on the sofa. ‘So… what’s happened?’
‘You used to be involved with…’ She checked the notebook. ‘Suzanne Perry.’
A wariness came into his eyes, as if whatever answer he gave would lead him into a trap. ‘Yes…’
‘You and her were an item?’
‘Yes… why?’
A quick check of the notes again. Concentrate. Into the groove, get the answers quickly, then off home. ‘She was attacked at home last night.’
He reeled backwards as if a sudden gust had taken him by surprise. ‘What? She…’
‘Was attacked.’ She dropped her voice, calm and authoritative. ‘So we’re talking to anyone who knew her and who may have a key to her flat.’
‘Well, I…’ Mark Turner’s eyes widened. ‘You think I… you mean, I…’
Three ‘I’s in one breath, thought Rose. He might look innocuous enough, but that was a sure sign he had an ego on him. ‘When you and her split up, was it harmonious?’
He shrugged. ‘Is any break-up easy?’
‘You didn’t want anything more to do with her.’
His voice raised slightly. ‘Right. No. I didn’t. Had enough of her.’
‘But you kept her key.’
His eyes widened. ‘What?’
‘Her key. To her flat. You kept it.’
Mark Turner said nothing.
‘Any reason?’
‘I…’ His eyes darted all round the room as if looking for something or someone to answer for him. Eventually, finding nothing, he answered for himself. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Didn’t leave any of your stuff there to pick up later?’
He shook his head.
‘You still in touch with Suzanne?’
‘No.’
Rose looked at her notepad, read back something she had just written. ‘You’d had enough of her.’ She looked up at Turner. He was perched on the edge of the sofa, looking like he wanted to run. ‘What do you mean by that?’
He ran his hand through his greasy, unkempt hair, searching for inspiration, playing for time. ‘I’d just…’ He sighed, his whole body deflating. ‘She wasn’t an easy person to get on with.’
‘Why not?’
‘She…’ He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t trust her.’
Rose leaned forward, interested now. ‘You mean with other men?’
‘Not… really. Just… well, she’d tell me things, right? Little things. Plays or films she’d seen, who she’d been there with. Or people she’d met. And then we’d all be out together, the rest of the people from her course, and they wouldn’t know anything about it.’
Rose said nothing, made notes, encouraged him to continue.
‘Then we’d go and meet people for a drink and beforehand she would tell me about things that I was supposed to have done. You know, if anyone asked me.’
‘Why did she do that, d’you think?’
He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Wanted to seem more popular? She didn’t think she was well liked, I don’t think. Felt she had to do something to attract attention to herself. Make herself stand out.’
Rose said nothing, just took notes.
He sighed. As he did so, there came the creak of floor-boards from upstairs. He glanced up quickly, Rose’s eyes following him.
‘Someone else here?’ she said.
‘No,’ he said quickly, his eyes darting down to the right.
He’s lying, thought Rose.
28
Phil opened the door quietly, slowly, like he would at a crime scene when he didn’t want to disturb anything.
The house was in darkness apart from one table light, its crackled, mirrored mosaic base casting out a spider- web glow into the room. An empty wine glass and bottle next to it on the table, a paperback book left face down and open, like a bird refusing, or unable, to fly.
Marina must have been sitting there. Ever the detective, he thought, then castigated himself for the thought. Loosen up. You’re at home now.
He listened. No sound. Josephina would be sleeping. He put his car keys on the table, went into the kitchen, took a bottle of beer from the fridge, opened it, returned to the living room and sat down in the seat Marina had recently occupied. Took a long drink, sighed, closed his eyes and put his head back, tried to work the tension of the day out of his body.
Phil opened his eyes, looked round. So unlike his old, comfortable house, things here were unfamiliar and out of place. Still trying to think of the new house as home, of Marina and Josephina as family. Knowing they were both things he would have to work at.
He got up, checked the CD in the hi-fi. Midlake. Thought of putting it on himself but didn’t want to wake his partner and daughter. So he took another mouthful of beer, sat back.
He felt restless, agitated. Tried to tell himself it was because of the case. But he knew it wasn’t. Knew there were other reasons.
Knew that wherever he went in this house there were invisible walls that he couldn’t see, couldn’t go round, couldn’t climb over.
It was an early summer’s evening, still light, still sunny. A beautiful, tranquil view just outside his front door, a promenade by the river. The three of them could have gone for a walk, put Josephina in her buggy, set off along the
