‘If something has eyes like a wolf, and it has ears like a wolf, and it has a mouth like a wolf, then it’s a wolf.’ I sipped at my wine. ‘But if it doesn’t have eyes like a wolf, and it doesn’t have ears like a wolf, and it doesn’t have a mouth like a wolf, and it doesn’t howl at the moon, then what?’
I found a piece of paper and a pen and began to write things down. I compiled a list and then began to underscore and circle and join things with lines. I let the pen fall. I thought of Geoff Marsh and his medium-term strategy, I thought of Elsie and my new peaceful life, I thought of the absence of press attention and finally and inevitably I thought of Danny.
In a pocket of my purse with some ticket stubs and credit-card slips and my identity card for the hospital and bits of fluff and stupid things I should have thrown away was a slip of paper with Chris Angeloglou’s home number on it. The last time we had met he had given it to me, saying if at any time I wanted to talk about things, I should feel free to give him a call. I suspect the plan was for him to apply his own brand of intrusive remedial therapy and I had responded with the driest of smiles. Oh God. The police were totally sick of me. Everybody – the family, the hospital, everybody – just wanted these terrible events to go away. If I let it go, there would be no problem. It would interfere with my work, unbalance me emotionally and stir up old memories for Elsie which could only harm her. And if I actually phoned Chris Angeloglou now, on top of everything else, he would probably imagine that I was asking him out on a date. But when I was sixteen I had sworn a very stupid oath to myself. At the end of your life, it is the things you
‘Hello, is Chris Angeloglou there? Oh, Chris, hi. I was ringing… I wondered if we could meet for a drink. There’s something I wanted to talk to you about… No, I can’t do the evening. What about lunch-time? Fine… Is that the one in the square?… Fine, see you there.’
I replaced the receiver.
‘Stupid, stupid, stupid,’ I said to myself, consolingly.
Thirty-Three
A resource manager in a suit with strange lapels was trying to explain to me the philosophical difference between hospital beds as an accounting concept and hospital beds as physical objects that people can lie in, and by the time I half-understood it I realized I was running late. I tried to ring Chris Angeloglou but he was out. I conducted another meeting on the phone and another while walking along a hospital corridor. I cut even that short and ran to my car. I stopped to pick up a prescription for Elsie (as if there were any medicine which could cure lack of sleep in association with chronic naughtiness) and drove around the central Stamford car park, getting stuck for long periods behind people manoeuvring into tiny spaces when there were huge sections visibly free ahead.
By the time I puffed into the Queen Anne I was almost half an hour late. I immediately saw Chris seated in the far corner. As I drew closer, I saw he had made a complicated construction out of matches. I sat down heavily with a cascade of apologies and, naturally, it fell over. I insisted on getting drinks, and without waiting for any instructions I went to the bar and hysterically ordered two large gin and tonics, every flavour of crisps they had and a packet of pork scratchings.
‘I don’t drink,’ said Chris.
‘I don’t really, either, but I thought just this once…’
‘I mean I really don’t drink.’
‘What are you, a Muslim or something?’
‘An alcoholic.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘Right. Can I get you a mineral water?’
‘This is my third.’
‘I’m extremely sorry, Chris. I know how busy you are. I got held up and tried to ring you but you were out. And now I’m babbling.’
Neither of us spoke for a moment and I tried to gauge how angry Chris was and whether this would do any good. He took a sip of his drink and attempted to give me a sympathetic smile.
‘You’re looking better, Sam,’ he said.
‘Better than what?’
‘We were worried about you. A bit guilty as well.’
‘There was nothing really to worry about. My ducking didn’t even give me a cold.’
He lit a cigarette.
‘Do you mind?’ I shook my head. ‘I wasn’t thinking of mat,’ he continued.
‘What were you thinking about?’
‘It was difficult for you, in different ways. We felt sorry for you.’
‘It was worse for other people.’
‘You mean the murder victims?’ Angeloglou laughed as if it required an effort. ‘Yeah. Well, it’s all in the past now. This new job must be good for you. We’re looking for that Kendall girl. You probably saw it on TV.’
I shook my head.
‘I don’t watch TV.’
‘You should. There are some good things on. American programmes mainly…’
Angeloglou tailed off and his eyes narrowed. He smiled inquiringly at me. This was the pause being left for me to explain why I had arranged this meeting.
‘Chris, what’s your version of what happened?’
The interest in his face slackened slightly, as if the dial had been turned down. He had a handsome face, dark, with prominent cheek-bones, a strong jaw-line, over which he sometimes ran his fingers as if he were surprised by its firmness. He was too neat for me. Too well groomed. He had been waiting for me to say that I had been wanting to get to know him better but had held back while the case was going on. But now, how about dinner some time and let’s see what may happen? After all, I was a professional woman and one of those feminists and had funny hair, all of which probably meant I was sexually adventurous. Instead I was still being neurotic about the case.
‘Sam, Sam, Sam,’ he said, as if soothing a child who had woken in the night. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know.’
‘I don’t have to do anything, Chris, that’s not the point.’
‘You had a terrible, terrible time. You were traumatized…’
‘Don’t tell me about trauma.’
‘And then you became a big heroine and we gave you lots of credit and were – still are of course – grateful to you. But it’s over. I know that you’re the expert and I shouldn’t be telling you this but you’ve got to let this go.’
‘Answer my question, Chris. Tell me what happened.’
He took a drag on his cigarette that was almost brutal.
‘I’m not interested in talking about this case any more, Sam. Everybody involved is dead. It didn’t go particularly well for anybody.’ I gave a sarcastic snort. ‘But we got away with it. I don’t want to think about it.’
I sipped deeply from one of the gin and tonics. Then I took a deep breath and said, more or less honestly, ‘Listen to me for five minutes and then if you’re not interested, I won’t mention it ever again.’
‘That’s the most promising suggestion you’ve made so far.’
I tried to put my thoughts in some sort of order.
‘You believe that Finn and Michael killed the Mackenzies, and then Michael cut Finn’s throat, even though it would have been easy for Finn to have been somewhere else with an alibi.’
Chris lit another cigarette.
