on.’ He said it as if he was passing sentence, suggesting something that would be unwelcome to me-a punishment- instead of what I’d wanted to happen since the day I met him.
‘Good.’ I searched his face for an indication of his meaning. Was he worried about me and wanting to stay close to protect me? Did he think Mary Trelease was a danger to us? Or was it a lack of trust that made him feel he had to watch my every move?
I had no way of answering any of these questions. ‘I’d love it if you moved in,’ I said.
But my punishment wasn’t over yet. Aidan said, ‘I’ll need that proof you promised me. If the painting you’re talking about really exists, if you didn’t make it up, find it. Find it and bring it to me.’
8
Simon knew something was wrong as soon as he walked into Proust’s office. Wronger than usual: sub-zero already, and he hadn’t opened his mouth yet. A man he didn’t recognise stood behind the inspector, leaning against the wall, holding a manila folder. Neither he nor Proust said anything. Both seemed to be waiting for Simon to take the initiative, which he could hardly do, having no idea why he’d been summoned. He thought he’d wait it out.
Unless the Snowman had ditched one of the many tenets he often boasted had served him well for fifty-odd years-which struck Simon as unlikely-then it had to be the other man who smelled as if he’d fallen into a bath full of aftershave. Proust disapproved of scented males. Simon guessed he wouldn’t make an exception for one who reeked of seaweed mixed with acid.
The man wore a toffee-coloured suit with a white shirt and a green tie that was silk or some other shiny material. He looked to be in his late thirties, and had the eyes of a jaded Las Vegas croupier, out of place in his pink, unblemished face. Human Resources? The Snowman didn’t introduce him. ‘Where were you yesterday afternoon and evening?’ he asked Simon.
‘I’ll ask you again: where were you?’
The croupier looked nearly as angry as Proust. Simon tensed. Was this trouble of a different order of magnitude? It was hard to tell; around the Snowman, he always had the impression that his marching orders were imminent. Was he about to make the biggest mistake of his career? Had he already made it? ‘I followed Aidan Seed to London, sir.’
The inspector nodded. ‘Carry on.’
‘Sergeant Zailer and I spoke to Seed and Ruth Bussey yesterday afternoon, sir. The exchange left us both feeling even more concerned…’
‘Skip the justifications. I want your movements, from when you got into your car to follow Seed until you arrived home.’
Wishing he knew who the croupier was and why he was there, Simon did as instructed. When he got to the part about following Seed to Friends House, the Snowman and his anonymous guest exchanged a look. When he told them he’d eavesdropped on the Quaker Quest meeting, the croupier asked him to report exactly what he’d heard. He had a Cockney accent. Simon waited for Proust to say, ‘I’ll ask the questions,’ and was disconcerted when he didn’t.
He told the two men everything he remembered: Olive Oyl, the fat, sweaty bald man, Frank Zappa, the Immense Something Other, the quote about cutlery not being eternal. ‘How many of the people in that room do you think you could describe with any degree of accuracy?’ asked the croupier.
‘The two speakers, no problem,’ Simon told him.
‘You left Friends House before the meeting ended?’ said Proust.
‘Yeah.’
‘What time was that?’
‘I don’t know-eight-ish.’
‘And you went where?’
‘Back to Ruskington Road, where I’d left my car.’
‘Was Mr Seed’s car still there, outside number 23?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did you drive straight home?’
‘No, sir. I approached the house-number 23-and looked in through the ground-floor windows, and the window of the basement flat.’
‘What did you see?’
‘Nothing much. Empty rooms.’
‘Empty of people, or entirely empty?’
‘No, they had furniture and stuff in them.’
‘I trust you’ll be able to give DC Dunning a thorough description of each room you peered into, complete with all the
The croupier moved forward, opened the file he was holding and placed a blown-up colour photograph on the table: the front of 23 Ruskington Road. With a biro, he pointed at the bay window on the right. ‘Did you look through this window?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you see?’
‘A dining table and chairs. The table had a glass top. A sideboard against one wall.’ Although it was only last night, Simon found it hard to be certain. He’d taken a quick look and decided there was nothing of any interest: no bookshelves stuffed with books about Quakerism, nor anything else to link the house to Seed. ‘Maybe a rug and… a tall plant in a pot? Yeah, I think a plant.’
Dunning and Proust exchanged another look. ‘Anything else?’ Dunning asked.
‘No. Not that I can remember.’
‘What about on the walls?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Was there anything up on the walls?’
Simon struggled to bring to mind an image of the room. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t notice.’
‘Pictures? Photographs?’
‘It was darker inside than out. If there were pictures, I didn’t see…’ He stopped. Now would be a bad time to get something wrong.
‘Why must there?’ asked Proust.
‘Like I said, I didn’t notice. I’d more likely have noticed if the walls were bare than if they weren’t. People usually put something up, don’t they? Put it this way: nothing about the room struck me as odd. It looked… lived in. Normal.’
‘Did you see anything leaning against a wall?’ asked Dunning.
Simon hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Like what?’
‘You say the room looked lived in?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So nothing you saw suggested to you that people might recently have moved in?’
‘No. Such as?’
‘Packing crates, maybe pictures leaning against the wall, waiting to be put up? Picture hooks, a hammer? Cardboard boxes with “dining room” written on them?’
‘No. Nothing like that.’
