Martha have the cottage.’
‘Their greed was their downfall,’ said Proust. ‘I’m not going to lose sleep on their behalf. Villiers is still standing and still rich. The same can’t be said for Martha-Mary-Wyers-Trelease or whatever her names were.’ Seeing the others looking at him oddly, he added with relish, ‘And I won’t be losing sleep for her either. Now, do we have any other ideas about how to proceed? Ones that don’t involve us relying on the rumour of a copy of a painting?’
‘What if we could persuade Seed to go and see Smith in prison?’ said Kombothekra.
‘Absolutely not.’ Simon turned to Charlie, sure of her support until he saw her face. ‘Don’t tell me you think it’s a good idea?’ he said. ‘After what that evil bastard put him through, we’re going to persuade him to pop in for a chat?’
‘It might be good for Aidan to see Smith face to face,’ said Charlie. ‘To tell him the truth and ask him to tell the truth. Look where lies and avoidance have got him. Ruth Bussey’s certainly in favour of having everything out in the open-he might listen to her, even if he’s reluctant at first. Why don’t we explain the problem to Aidan instead of trying to protect him as if he’s a kid?’
‘And if he can’t talk Smith into telling the truth? Then he feels like a failure on top of everything else he’s had to go through, and it’s our fault.’
‘I think it’s a reasonable idea,’ said Proust. He’d avoided the word ‘good’, reluctant to pollute Kombothekra’s mind with praise. ‘Don’t worry, Waterhouse. It won’t be down to you to do the persuading. I think Sergeant Zailer might manage that without your clodhopping assistance.’
‘I don’t work for you any more, sir. I work for-’
‘No,’ said Simon. ‘If it’s got to be done, I’ll do it. I know I’m not…’ He paused.
‘The list is endless, isn’t it?’ said Proust. ‘The list of what you’re not. Top of it is this: you’re not going to be concerning yourself with Aidan Seed from hereon in.’ Proust opened his desk drawer, pulled out what looked like a large book. Except it wasn’t. It was… oh, shit, it couldn’t be…
‘Yes, Waterhouse. Brand new, with shiny cover and unbroken spine. The Automobile Association’s latest road atlas of Great Britain. I bought it with a ten-pound note I found in the bin by the photocopier shortly after our last tete-a-tete.’
‘Sir, you can’t…’
‘There are two categories of people in this world, Waterhouse: those who admit to the mistakes they’ve made and attempt to compensate, and those who correct them retrospectively in their own minds by pretending they never happened. If something succeeds, they were behind it all the time. If it fails, they never supported it in the first place.’ Proust leaned back and folded his arms across his belly. ‘I like to think I belong in the first category. If I get something wrong, I put my name to it and do my best to atone for my mistake.’
Simon, Charlie and Sam Kombothekra stared at him, dumbfounded.
‘On this occasion, I’m pleased to say I couldn’t have behaved better and therefore have nothing to atone for,’ the Snowman went on. ‘Whatever our colleagues in London had to say about you, Waterhouse, I stuck resolutely to the view that you were reliable and would be proved to be so. While others doubted, I always knew you’d be back here where you belong. How would it have looked if you’d returned to discover that I’d reassigned Mrs Beddoes and her multifarious misdemeanours to Sellers or Gibbs? I did no such thing. I fought off many attempts, on the part of colleagues who shall remain nameless…’-Proust scowled at Kombothekra-‘… to purloin work that was rightfully yours. You all know I have my faults, but I’m happy to say disloyalty isn’t among them.’
He held out the road atlas for Simon to take. ‘Happy travels, Waterhouse. May the prevailing winds be with you.’
29
‘Do you think he’s all right in there?’ I ask Saul for about the twentieth time. We’re in Sam Kombothekra’s car in the car park at Long Leighton prison, waiting for Aidan, Charlie and Sam to come out.
‘I think he’s more than all right,’ Saul says, as he has twenty times already. ‘What about you? Can you face what might happen? ’
‘If Aidan can, I can.’ Yesterday I donated my entire collection of self-help books to Word on the Street, where I’d bought most of them. This morning I took down my Charlie Zailer wall. None of that was real. The progress Aidan and I have made since that night at Garstead Cottage-that’s real. Substantial.
Saul pats my hand. ‘I’m going to tell you something Aidan made me promise not to,’ he says.
‘What?’ My heart dips. ‘We agreed no more secrets. When did he…?’
‘He’s going to ask you to marry him. Later today, whatever happens in there. He’s got an engagement ring in his pocket. What will you say?’
I feel faint with relief. ‘Yes. Obviously.’
‘Good. I knew that would be your answer.’
‘Then why tell me and spoil the surprise?’
‘There have been enough surprises already,’ said Saul. ‘With any luck, there won’t be any more for a good long while.’
I open the car door, seeing Charlie walking towards us across the car park. Something’s not right. She’s looking purposeful, walking too quickly. ‘I need you both to come inside,’ she says.
‘I don’t want to see him,’ I tell her, panicking. ‘Aidan doesn’t want me to…’
‘You won’t see Len Smith. You’ll be nowhere near him.’
‘Is Aidan all right?’
‘He’s doing fine. He’s doing brilliantly.’
‘Then what…?’
‘It’s better if I show you. I’m assuming neither of you’s got your passport or driving licence with you.’
‘No.’
Saul shakes his head.
‘Then leave everything in the car-wallets, bags, the lot.’
‘But…’
‘Be quiet and listen. Until we get back here, your names are Tom Southwell and Jessica Whiteley. You’re both here for a job interview-English teacher, education department. You handed over your passports this morning- they’ve got them-and you’ve just nipped out for lunch. Right?’
I’m about to tell her I can’t do it when I hear Saul say, ‘Right.’ I make a face at him behind Charlie’s back, but he doesn’t notice. He’s busy mouthing, ‘Tom Southwell’ to himself.
When we reach the glass-sided hut that’s set into the high wire-mesh fence, Charlie says her name with confidence, for our benefit as well as that of the uniformed guard inside. ‘You’ve got my ID already. There I am.’ She points to her name on his list. ‘Oh, it wasn’t you before, was it? Sorry.’
‘No probs.’
‘Same with us,’ says Saul easily. ‘Tom Southwell and Jessica Whiteley.’
‘In you come,’ says the guard. He has to unlock three gates for us. Charlie tells him we know where we’re going and he leaves us to it.
‘Where
‘Patience, Ruth,’ says Saul. I give him a look. He’s the one who’s supposed to dislike surprises; he’s all talk.
‘To the education department,’ says Charlie.
‘I don’t want to teach English in a prison,’ I tell her. ‘What’s going on?’
Eventually, we come to a wide corridor with green-painted walls. I think of the last time I followed Charlie down. It feels like a lifetime ago. Like that one, this one has pictures on the walls, the prisoners’ artwork, some of it excellent. Charlie stops in front of a picture, and when I look at it, my heart surges up to fill my throat.
‘Her,’ I say, feeling the same horror I’d feel if she were to materialise in front of me, back from the dead. I’d recognise her style anywhere. I recognise the picture, too, from Aidan’s description.
