“Does it really?” Sadler remarked drily.
“Yes, yes it does. It’s never serious.”
“Is that why you left the hotel? I’m informed that you were both guests here.”
“That’s right. If we hadn’t had a row I’d have just gone off to my own bedroom. Things would have been resolved more easily after a good night’s sleep. We were both incredibly tired, we’d been working non-stop since Friday.”
“You said your argument wasn’t serious, yet you stormed out of the hotel. You didn’t just go to bed.”
They all watched him silently.
“Look, if you’re implying…” Some of the old Oliver was finally breaking through. He was getting angry.
“I’m not implying anything, Mr Guinane. I’m merely trying to establish the facts. You left the hotel, so where did you go?”
There was just a beat before Oliver replied. “I went home, of course. I’d had enough, I was exhausted, stressed—I had to have a break.”
“Did your…” Sadler considered for a moment, “words with Mr True lead to violence?”
“Good God, no! Jim and I are friends. We’re friends. There was nothing serious in what we said to each other.”
“The porter collecting breakfast cards outside another door claims the argument he heard sounded violent.”
“He’s exaggerating. Jim and I would never come to blows. God, we’ve known one another for years.” He looked up appealingly at the tall policeman. “I would never hurt Jim.”
Sadler gave a slight nod of his head as if absorbing all he’d heard. He turned away from Oliver and went to the window where he nudged back one side of the lace curtains to study the street below. He was only a couple of feet away from me and I could tell there was a lot more deliberation going on beyond those cold blue eyes.
“Tell me precisely what the argument was about,” he said, still looking through the glass.
Ollie shook his head in frustration. “It’s complicated. Primarily it was about the creative work for a prospective client, but it went on from there.”
“Oh?” Sadler turned back to Oliver and I caught the other detectives glancing at each other.
“Another company, a big agency, wanted to merge with us.”
“Swallow us up, Ollie!” I wanted to shout.
“Jim was against it, I was for. But look, it wasn’t serious enough to kill him over. It would have been resolved, just as all our little spats are.”
“So you often argued, then,” said Simmons.
“God, no.” Oliver shook his head vehemently. “That is, yes, but it was never serious, it was always over small things.”
“Merging with another company?” said Simmons wife scorn in his voice. “Sounds serious enough to me.”
“That’ll do, Simmons,” Sadler said curtly. He looked as if he had other things on his mind now. “Mr Guinane, we could take your home address and phone number from the hotel register, but I’d appreciate it if you gave it to one of my officers before you leave.”
Oliver nodded anxiously, as though he were eager to please. You’d have thought he had something to feel guilty about.
“Also, before you go,” Sadler added, “can you tell me a little more about James True?”
“You’re certain it is him, then?” Oliver almost looked hopeful that there might be some mistake. “I mean, his face…”
“You assured us it was a few moments ago. Why would you think otherwise now?”
“I don’t.” Oliver lowered his head into his hands and his voice was muffled. “It was just… just…”
“I know it’s hard to accept, but we have no reason to believe the body belongs to anyone else but James True. His name was in the hotel register, along with yours. Despite the facial damage, his dental records will confirm his ID because the lower jaw is almost intact. I’d imagine some reconstruction work could be done on the upper jaw without too much trouble. What I’d like you to tell me is, what kind of man was he? You must have known him very well.”
Oliver lifted his head again and his hands flapped limply over his knees. “He was a good friend. He was just, you know, a regular guy. A bit self-contained, I suppose, he never really gave much of himself away. But he had a good sense of humour and, of course, he was very talented.”
“A very successful man, I would expect,” surmised Sadler while one of his officers made notes.
“Yes, very. Together we were a great team. Although I’m the copywriter and Jim is… Jim was the art director, we interchanged a lot. Generally we both came up with ideas, but sometimes he thought up good copy lines while I had layout ideas. Our track record speaks for itself.”
Oliver paused, as if it were difficult to continue. He stared blankly at the carpet.
“Was he married?” Sadler persisted.
My friend nodded.
“Did he have any children?”
At that, Oliver finally broke down and wept.
The chief superintendent stepped towards him and placed a hand on Ollie’s shoulder. “Please try and answer my questions, Mr Guinane. Then you’re free to go.”
“Jim had a daughter. Primrose. She’s only seven years old.” Now he really broke down. The two younger detectives seemed embarrassed by his sobs.
“Just one more thing, Mr Guinane. One more question for now, and then it’s over. Try to answer me.”
“Yeah… okay.” Ollie found a handkerchief in his trouser pocket and dabbed at his eyes with it “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice shaking. “What did you want to know?”
“Just one thing.” Sadler’s sombre tone had all the quality of an undertaker’s. “Was James True a handsome man?”
17
It was a lousy day for me, as you’d expect.
I spent the best part of it chained to the hotel room, not because I wasn’t free to go, but because I didn’t want to leave. I couldn’t face going away from my body, bloody and cleaved though it might be.
I slunk into different corners whenever someone came near, generally just keeping out of the way. Silly, I know, but it was hard to come to terms with the phantom I’d become: I still imagined people would bump into me. Besides, I didn’t like that feeling I had when someone brushed through me, which they did twice when I went from the lounge into the bedroom, and vice versa. I got a weird sensation of assorted thoughts and feelings when it happened, a jumble of emotions that were entirely alien to me. A certain amount of chemical electricity was involved, much milder but similar to touching the wire of an exposed light switch. No more than a brief but uncomfortable buzz.
At one point in the proceedings, the bedroom telephone together with the one in the lounge rang and it was DC Coates who picked it up. He listened, then turned to his superior, who was watching.
“Hotel switchboard, Sir,” Coates said quietly, as if in deference to my corpse. “Mrs True is on the line, wants to speak to her husband.”
“Tell them to say he can’t take the call right now,” advised Sadler. “I’ll be leaving here soon to go to True’s home address. I want to break the bad news to his wife myself.”
I jumped to my feet and kind of glided across the room to reach the phone, but Coates had already given instructions and was replacing the receiver when I reached it. I had no idea what I’d have done if I’d got there in time. Andrea would have been unable to hear me and what would I have told her anyway? “Hey, honey, I’m a ghost.” Non-existent heart twice as heavy, I slunk back into my corner.
More white-clad figures appeared, then left. More photos were taken, more video-filming done, including the lounge and Ollie’s bedroom. Blood splatters and even minute spots were measured in relation to my corpse. A Home Office pathologist arrived and, together with the superintendent, examined me more closely, their conversation kept to a low murmuring.
Finally, the pathologist, who was a woman, straightened and I heard her say, “The autopsy will tell us a whole lot more.”
