‘Did you tell the panel?’
‘No. I’m only stupid once. I hadn’t been blackmailed, Cannon Ridge hadn’t actually been mentioned.’
‘Splitting hairs though.’
Susan Ayliss gave me a look that said something I didn’t quite understand. ‘Mr Irish, in my life, I’ve worked very hard for everything. I grew up in foster homes. Fought off men since I was ten, put myself through university cleaning toilets. I can’t be blackmailed. But I wasn’t going to cut my own throat.’
I found my picture of Alan Bergh. ‘Is this the man?’
No hesitation. ‘Yes. Who is he?’
‘Alan Bergh. The late.’
She sighed and looked away.
‘Robbie had a relationship with a man,’ I said. ‘Does that surprise you?’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘he said he took any work that was going.’
‘There’s an album of photographs missing.’
‘I think we’re talking about sex again, not a relationship.’
‘Yes. We think the album was passed on to someone. Any idea who that might be?’
A shake of her head. ‘No, no idea, not the vaguest.’
‘Robbie didn’t mention anyone.’
‘No. He didn’t talk about himself. One of the things I found attractive.’
Rain again, big spots freckling the pier, cold on the face.
‘Thanks for talking to me,’ I said. ‘Did his death surprise you?’
She looked away, at the sea. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It made me sad. I was hoping I’d have the chance to kill him myself for making me feel so defiled and so worthless.’
I watched her go, the wind pulling at her trench coat, lifting the shoulder flaps found so useful on the Somme those many years ago, now threatening to levitate Susan Ayliss. She turned her head and looked back, came back.
‘I’ve told you everything I can, Jack,’ she said. ‘Will you promise me it’ll remain confidential?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Susan.’
I liked her even more than I had when she’d been a media star.
36
I brooded, driving automatically, registering nothing, a danger on the roads. There was nowhere else to go in the matter of Marco/Robbie. I couldn’t help the judge. It had all been for nothing, traipsing around the country, the city.
Marco was a blackmailer’s bait, bait for all sexual persuasions. The blackmailer could be Alan Bergh, representing other interests. Why else had he been filmed? In any event, both men were dead. The attempt on brave Susan Ayliss had failed, the one on principled Colin Loder would too. Cannon Ridge was a decided matter, another judge would make the finding Colin Loder could not.
This matter was almost at an end.
And yet and yet. Marco was murdered, Alan Bergh was murdered.
I pulled up at lights.
Susan Ayliss had no doubt that the Cannon Ridge tender was the reason for the plot against her. Which side? Anaxan or WRG? The latter would have been eager to add some weight to their side of the seesaw, the other side having a Cundall, son of a man who could walk into the Premier’s office and berate him. But they didn’t get the weight, their tender failed. That could have left Bergh and Robbie as untidy bits, much too knowing.
Cathexis.
I had been looking at the building, looking at it across the intersection without seeing it. It was austere, all its materials visible, concrete and marble, bronze and glass, steel and copper — rough, smooth, shiny, dull, hard, soft materials. I could see the incised name that Marco was photographed passing.
Cathexis.
The lights changed. I went around the block, found an unlawful park, walked back to the building. A smoked- glass sliding door admitted me to an extravagant, hard-surfaced lobby, a hall that hummed the word Money. Directly ahead were two lift doors, pale timber. Nothing so crass and indiscreet as a list of tenants was in sight. I was glad I was wearing a decent suit. A recent suit, anyway.
A hotel-sized reception counter was at the right, two young women in black on duty behind it. Beyond that was a door marked Security. I couldn’t see cameras but they would be on me and the entrance.
‘How may I help? She was English, willowy, blonde, nectarine skin.
‘Gone blank. I can’t remember the agents for the building.’
‘Barwick amp; Murphy,’ she said, smiling. ‘Is it something I can help you with?’
‘Well, you might.’ I took out my notebook, thumbed. ‘Here it is. The Doyle apartment. For sale.’
‘Doyle?’ She looked at the other woman, also blonde but more mature oak than willow. ‘Do we have a Doyle?’
The woman was looking at a monitor, didn’t turn her head. ‘No.’
‘Sorry,’ said the first blonde. ‘It’s probably in another of their buildings. They handle dozens.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thanks anyway.’
I walked away. Another hunch that failed to deliver. Near the door, I thought, what the hell, try another one. I turned and went back, notebook open.
‘I think I had the wrong page,’ I said. ‘It’s Cundall, the Cundall apartment that’s for sale. If I’ve got the right building.’
The willowy blonde frowned, turned. ‘Jean, do we have a Cundall?’
Mature-oak blonde didn’t turn. ‘What?’
‘It’s supposed to be on the market. The gentleman’s not sure whether he’s at the right building.’
Mature blonde looked around, an annoyed face, deep lines between her eyes, spent a millisecond on me, made a judgment. ‘Who says it’s on the market?’
‘B and M told this gentleman.’
Jean sniffed. ‘They told you it was Mrs Cundall’s apartment?’
‘Yes.’
‘That is quite irregular. Twelve two is owned by Dalinsor Nominees.’
‘I don’t really care who owns it,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for an apartment.’
‘They’re supposed to inform us,’ said Jean. ‘And there are no inspections without a B and M agent.’
‘I’ll be back with one,’ I said. ‘One of their top agents. Licensed to sell.’
Walking back to the car, I felt smug for a minute. A hunch that paid off. Or had it? What had I learned by finding out that Ros Cundall owned an apartment in a building Marco had gone into? Nothing. Ros Cundall probably owned apartments in every expensive block in the city.
Marco working at The Green Hill, Marco going into Cathexis, Marco from the Umbrian idyll turning up on Colin Loder’s doorstep.
I was beginning to like the Umbrian story less and less. Too romantic for my taste. And, in the light of what I now knew about Marco and Susan, implausible.
From the car, I rang Colin Loder’s borrowed mobile. He wouldn’t be in court, it was lunchtime.
‘Yes.’
‘Jack.’
‘Jack.’
‘Clarification. Umbria, the person arrives on the doorstep, later reappears.’
‘Yes?’
‘Bullshit, yes?
A pause, a sigh. ‘Well. Yes. A story.’
I waited.
