because most of us assume that the people we’re dealing with are not psychopaths or frauds.’ He glanced at Chris. ‘We’re the ones who are supposed to be detectives, unfortunately.’
‘But what would have happened?’ I asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘After the fake suicide of Finn.’
‘All very simple,’ said Chris. ‘Daley gets the money. Then, a year or two later, we would hear rumours which would say something like: poor Daley has checked in with Gamblers Anonymous. Gone off the rails, lost half his money or whatever at the racetrack. In fact, it will have gone in cash to pay off…’ Chris opened his hands, acknowledging defeat, ‘X.’
‘Have you any idea at all who this young lady might be ?’ I asked. ‘A patient? An old friend? A previous girlfriend?’
Nobody answered.
‘She might have a criminal record,’ I ventured.
‘Who might?’ Rupert asked flatly. ‘We only have one link with her.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You knew her better than anybody.’
‘Are you mad? I didn’t know her at all.’
‘All we ask,’ said Chris, ‘is that you try to think. You don’t have to tell us now. Just try to remember anything, anything at all she might have said or done that could give a clue as to her real identity.’
‘I can answer you straight away. I’ve spent days going through every memory, everything she told me, any conversation I can recall. It was all fake. What can I say? She could cook. She could do simple magic tricks. But the more I think, the more she becomes like a nothing. All the things she said, all that she did, were just so much dust thrown in my eyes. When I get beyond it she’s not there. I’m afraid I’m not much help. So what are you going to do now?’
Rupert got up and stretched, his hand touching the polystyrene tiles on the ceiling.
‘We’ll conduct an investigation.’
‘When are you announcing the reopening of the case?’
Was it my imagination or did I see him take a deep breath, steeling himself for what he was about to say?
‘We’re not announcing it.’
‘Why not?’
Rupert cleared his throat.
‘After consultations at the highest level we have decided that we might improve our prospects if the murderer doesn’t know that we are after her. She has missed out on the money. She might make a mistake.’
‘Who might? How would you notice?’
Rupert mumbled something.
‘Rupert,’ I said sharply. ‘Is this a way of burying the case?’
He looked shocked.
‘Absolutely not, that accusation is unworthy of you, but I know you’ve been under stress. It’s just the most effective way to proceed and I’m confident it will produce results. Now, I think we’ve explored everything useful. When are you going to London?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘You’ll leave your address with us, won’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. If anything occurs to you, if anything happens, just get in touch.’ He held out his hand. ‘We’re very grateful to you. Sam, for the way in which you have enabled the truth of these tragic events to be arrived at.’
I took his hand.
‘I’m glad you’re grateful, Rupert. And if I ever suspect this case is being hushed up…’
‘Trust us,’ said Rupert. ‘Trust us.’
I emerged, blinking, into the pedestrian precinct on the edge of the market square and bumped into an old woman and tipped her wheeled shopping basket over. As I retrieved onions and carrots from the pavement, I felt like a child who had woken from a dream and was surprised to find the world carrying on unaffected. Yet I felt that I was still in my hermetic dream. I still had places to go.
Thirty-Seven
There followed a weekend of boxes, an interested child, a disturbed cat, a large van, flirtatious removal men, mugs of tea, arrangements, bunches of keys, and my own rented storage space, reserving about 5 per cent of my possessions for the temporary flat.
Amid the bustle of obligations there were two things I really needed to do. First of all, I had a sheaf of requests for interviews and I browsed through them and rang a couple of friends who read newspapers and asked their advice, and then on the Monday morning I rang Sally Yates at the
Then, at the end, came the statement for which I had set up the entire interview.
‘So now you’ve escaped it all…’ said Sally Yates, sympathetically, her sentence fizzling out so that I could pick up its thread.
‘But, Sally,’ I said, ‘both as a doctor and as a woman, I wonder whether we ever can escape experiences just by running away from them.’ I left a long pause, apparently too upset to trust myself to speak without losing control. Sally reached across the kitchen table and put her hand on mine. As if with a great effort, I began to speak again: ‘This has been a personal tragedy and – with the new post-traumatic stress unit, a professional falling-out – and at the heart of it are people who were not what they seemed.’
‘You mean Dr Michael Daley?’ Sally asked, her brow furrowed in deep concern.
‘No, I don’t,’ I said and when she looked quizzical gestured that I could say no more.
As we stood on the landing, saying goodbye, I hugged her.
‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘You got me to say things I never intended.’
Her cheeks flushed with pleasure, quickly suppressed.
‘It was very special to meet you,’ she said, holding me even tighter than I was holding her.
The newspaper was clearly eager because less than two hours later a photographer arrived. The young man was disappointed that my daughter was out but placed me next to a vase of flowers instead. I gazed soulfully at them, wondering what sort they were. I was rewarded the next day with a large photograph and a headline: ‘Sam Laschen: female heroism and the mystery that will not die.’ Not particularly snappy, but it would send a shot across the bows of DI Baird and his merry crew. Next time I would be less mysterious.
I had a second task, a larger and more painful one. A friend had vaguely offered the services of her childminder in an emergency. This was an emergency. I took Elsie round the corner to a chaotic terraced house containing a Spanish teenager and a beetle-browed five-year-old. Elsie stomped in and didn’t even turn to say
