I spoke very slowly in response. ‘Michael was in Belfast at the time. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what is the only other possibility?’
‘There are various other possibilities.’
‘Such as?’
Chris shrugged.
‘Lots. Some form of incendiary device, for example.’
‘Was any evidence of such a device found?’
‘No.’
‘The car would need to have stood there with the dead bodies for two whole days. That’s not possible either. And what would have been the point of doing it anyway? Why go to all that trouble to start a fire?’
‘He was a psychopathic killer.’
‘Humour me for a moment, Chris, and stop talking like a fool. I’m not going to hold you to anything you say, I’m not going to embarrass you again, but just tell me how the car must have been set on fire.’
Chris mumbled something.
‘Sorry, I didn’t hear what you said.’
He lit another cigarette, blowing out the match with absurd deliberation and placing it in the ashtray before replying.
‘It is possible,’ he said, ‘that Daley had some sort of collaborator.’
‘No, Chris, you’re wrong. It is impossible that he
Chris looked at his watch and stood up.
‘I’ve got to go.’
‘I’ll see you out,’ I said.
He was gloomily silent as we walked back towards the police station. Only when we reached the steps at the main entrance did he turn and face me.
‘So you think,’ he said quietly, ‘that we ought to reopen the investigation and try and identify this mysterious assistant?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I know who it was.’
‘Who?’
‘It was Finn,’ I said, enjoying his gasp of disbelief. ‘In a way.’
‘What do you mean, “in a way”? What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘You find out,’ I said. ‘That’s your job.’
He shook his head.
‘You…’ he said. ‘You’re…’
He seemed completely at a loss. I held out my hand.
‘Sorry about being late. I’ll be in touch.’
He took it as if he thought it might give him an electric shock.
‘You… Are you doing anything tonight?’
‘Yes,’ I said, and left him there on the steps.
Thirty-Four
I could hear steps coming towards the door, see a shadow through the frosted glass, so I stood up straighter in the intimidating porch and put a polite and hopeful expression on my face. I suddenly realized how shabby I was looking. The door was opened a few inches and a woman’s face peered round it. I could see she was still in her dressing gown and had applied only half of her make-up. One eye was lined and mascara’d and ready for the day; the vulnerable other one wasn’t.
‘Laura?’ I said through the gap. ‘I’m so sorry if this is a bad time. I was wondering if I could have a few minutes with you.’ On her face, the expression of irritated politeness towards a stranger who’s called at the wrong time was giving way to surprised and, I thought, slightly appalled recognition. ‘I’m Sam Laschen,’ I added. The door opened wider, on to the wide hall with its polished wooden floor, the restrained sense of money and taste and a daily cleaner.
‘My dear, of course, you came to a party, didn’t you, with…’ Alarm and interest pursued each other across her features.
‘With Michael Daley. Yes. I’m sorry just to turn up like this. I need to find out something and I was wondering if you could help. I can come back later if that’s more convenient.’ She looked at me with narrowed eyes. Was I the gossip item of the year or a dangerous madwoman? The gossip item prevailed.
‘No, that is, I don’t have to get to the hospital till later today, I was just saying to Gordon yesterday… Do come through.’ I followed her solid chenilled shape into the room where a few months ago I’d eaten asparagus spears and drunk white wine. ‘I’ll just go and get some clothes on. Would you like some coffee? Or tea?’
‘Coffee.’
‘I won’t be more than five minutes,’ she said, and as she went up the stairs I could hear her calling urgently, ‘Gordon.
While she was out of the room, I pulled out the mobile phone which the hospital had supplied me with and which I still felt self-conscious using, and dialled.
‘Hello, yes, could you give me Philip Kale? No, I’ll hold.’
I gave my name and after a few seconds he came on to the line.
‘Dr Laschen ?’ He was obviously puzzled and, as before, in a hurry.
‘Yes, well, it’s just that I was wondering if you could tell me Finn’s – Fiona Mackenzie’s – blood type. From your autopsy report.’
‘Her blood type? Yes, of course. I’ll call you back.’
The prospect of a mobile phone bleeping in my pocket was too much.
‘No. I’m all over the place today,’ I said. ‘I’ll call you. In about an hour, say? Thanks so much.’
I could hear the sound of coffee being ground from the kitchen, china clinking. I dialled a second number.
‘Hello, is that the hospital? Yes, can you put me through to Margaret Lessing in the personnel office. Maggie? Hello, this is Sam.’
‘Sam!’ Her voice tinkled down the line. ‘Hi, what are you up to?’
‘This and that. Can you do something for me? I wanted to have a quick look at Fiona Mackenzie’s file from when she was in hospital after the attack. Could you get hold of it for me?’
There was a moment of hesitation.
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘Thanks, Maggie. Shall I pop round later today?’
‘Give me a call first.’
‘Fine. Speak to you soon.’
Laura felt better, I could tell. Her face was less tentative under her glossy grey curls. She’d put on a greeny- grey knee-length suit, the other eye and a lipsticked smile. She placed a tray down on the table between us – an upright pot, two china cups with little silver spoons on their saucers, a dainty jug half-filled with milk, and lumps of sugar in both pale brown and dense white. I thought of the milk bottle and jam jar standing on my kitchen table, the boxes still unpacked on the uncarpeted floor of my study. I’d never have this kind of style. Thank God.
‘How are you? We’ve all been so admiring.’ Laura poured me a deft cup of steaming coffee, and I added a
