A Room Swept White (12 page)

‘I was looking for something and I didn’t find it. Does the name Wendy Whitehead ring any bells?’

‘No.’

‘What are the chances of it being buried somewhere in all this lot? I’ve skim-read as much as I’ve had time to, but—’

‘Don’t bother,’ says Tamsin. ‘Any name that crops up even once, I’d know it. I know every expert witness, every health visitor, every solicitor . . .’

‘What about just Wendy, then? She might have got married and changed her surname. Or divorced.’

Tamsin considers it. ‘No,’ she says eventually. ‘No Wendys. Why?’

‘She rang me last night.’

‘Wendy Whitehead?’

‘Rachel Hines.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘I know. I was there, remember?’

‘No, I mean later. After she’d driven away without getting out of the car. Almost immediately after. She apologised, said she still wanted to talk to me, but I’d have to come to her.’

‘Did she say why she drove off?’

‘No. I saw her looking behind me, sort of like . . . I don’t know, it looked as if she was staring at somebody over my shoulder, but when I turned round there was no one there. I turned back and she’d driven away.’

‘You think she saw something that scared her off?’

‘What could she have seen? I’m telling you, there was nothing there. Just me. No one walking past, no neighbours looking out of their windows.’

Tamsin frowns. ‘So who’s Wendy Whitehead?’

I hesitate. ‘This might be something you’d rather not know.’

‘Is it bad?’

I don’t know how to answer that without telling her.

‘Is Joe shagging her behind my back?’ Tamsin kicks the globe over. ‘That’d be typical of my luck at the moment.’

I can’t help smiling. Joe would never be unfaithful to Tamsin. His favourite hobby is making no effort whatsoever. You can almost see him looking at other women and thinking
Don’t need to bother, already got one of those
. ‘It’s got nothing to do with your personal life,’ I say. I can’t stand the suspense, even though I’m the one with the information, not the one waiting to be told. ‘Rachel Hines said Wendy Whitehead killed her daughter and son.’

Tamsin snorts and slumps back in Laurie’s chair.
My chair
. ‘No one was in the house when Marcella Hines died apart from her and Ray. Same with Nathaniel four years later – he was alone with his mother at home when he died. Wendy Whitehead certainly wasn’t there, if she even exists. What’s
more interesting is why Ray Hines is lying, and why now.’ I open my mouth but I’m not quick enough. ‘I know why,’ Tamsin says. ‘To reel you in.’

‘So what do I do? Go and see her? Ring the police?’ I spent most of last night asking myself these questions, unable to sleep for more than half an hour at a time.

‘Go and see her for sure,’ says Tamsin. ‘I’m curious. I’ve always been curious about her – she’s a strange woman. She’s gone to great lengths to keep Laurie at a distance, but she can’t seem to get enough of you.’

If there’s even the tiniest chance that it’s true, then I ought to tell the police. And if Wendy Whitehead turns out to be a real person, one who didn’t murder Marcella and Nathaniel Hines? She might be interrogated or even arrested, and I’d have caused trouble for an innocent woman. I can’t do that, not without finding out more.
Not without being sure it isn’t exactly what Rachel Hines wants me to do
.

Why hasn’t Laurie rung me back? I’ve left messages for him everywhere I can think of, saying I need urgent advice.

Marcella and Nathaniel. Now I know their names. I haven’t thought much about having children, but if I did, I wouldn’t give them names like that. They’re the sort of names you choose if you think you’re someone to be reckoned with. I wonder if this is my Reverse L’Oréal Syndrome kicking in again; what would I call my kids, Wayne and Tracey?
Because I’m not worth it
.

Wayne Jupiter Benson Nattrass.
Oh, for God’s sake, Felicity, grow up!

Why has Rachel Hines waited until now to mention Wendy Whitehead? Why would she go to prison rather than tell the truth?

‘Tell me about her,’ I say to Tamsin. ‘Everything you know.’

‘Ray? She drew the short straw when it came to husbands, that’s for sure. Have you read the transcripts of Laurie’s interviews with Angus Hines?’

‘Not yet.’

‘They’re somewhere in all that lot.’ Tamsin nods at the mess of papers. ‘Dig them out, they’re worth a read. You’ll think Angus can’t possibly have said those things until you come across the press cuttings in which he’s quoted as saying the exact same things.’ She shakes her head. ‘Have you ever had that, where you hear something from a person’s own mouth, something they’d have no reason to lie about, and you still can’t believe it?’

‘What does he do? What’s his job?’

‘He’s some kind of editor at
London on Sunday
. He ditched Ray as soon as the verdict went against her. Paul Yardley and Glen Jaggard couldn’t have been more different. They were with their wives all the way, totally supportive. I reckon that’s why Ray Hines is such an oddster. If you think about it, she suffered an extra trauma. Helen and Sarah were let down by the system, but not by the people closest to them. Their families never doubted their innocence. When you get a chance to read all the notes, you’ll see that Helen and Sarah consistently refer to their husbands as their rocks, both of them. Never mind a rock, Angus Hines isn’t even a pebble!’

‘What about the drugs?’ I ask.

Tamsin looks puzzled. ‘Sorry, was I supposed to bring some?’

‘Rachel Hines is a drug addict, right?’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Who told you that?’

‘I heard two women talking about her on the Tube once. She mentions it herself somewhere too . . .’ I look around for the relevant bit of paper, but can’t remember which corner of the office I dropped it in, or even what it was.

‘Her interview with Laurie,’ says Tamsin. ‘Read it again – assuming you can find it among the debris of my once-immaculate filing system. She was being sarcastic, taking the piss out of the public’s ridiculous perception of her. She’s no more a . . .’

The door opens and Maya comes in carrying two mugs of something hot on a tray. ‘Peace offering,’ she says brightly. ‘Green tea. Fliss, I need to speak to you as soon as poss, hon, so don’t be too long. Tam, please say we’re still friends. We can still have jolly nights out together, can’t we?’

Tamsin and I take our cups, too stunned to speak.

‘Oh, and I picked this up from reception by mistake, hon.’ Maya pulls an envelope out of the waistband of her jeans and hands it to me. She flashes a sickly smile at us, waves the tray in the air and leaves.

A cream-coloured envelope. I recognise the handwriting; I’ve seen it on two other envelopes.

‘Green tea?’ Tamsin snaps. ‘Slime is green. Snot is green. Tea’s got no business being—’

‘Tell me about Ray Hines not being a drug addict,’ I say, tossing the envelope to one side. I know there will be numbers in it, and that I won’t be able to work out what they mean, so I might as well forget them. It’s someone’s idea of a joke, and eventually they’ll deliver their punchline. It’s probably Raffi. He’s the comedian around here. One of his favourite topics of conversation is funny things he said and how much everyone laughed at them. ‘If she isn’t or wasn’t a druggie, why did
anyone think she was?’ I ask, trying to sound as if my mind’s still on Rachel Hines.

Tamsin stands up. ‘I’ve got to get out of here. You’ve been summoned, and if I stay, I’ll end up killing somebody.’

‘But . . .’

‘Laurie wrote an article called “The Doctor Who Lied” – it’s somewhere in all this mess. Everything you need to know about Ray Hines is in it.’

‘What paper was it in?’

‘It hasn’t been published yet. The
British Journalism Review
are taking it, and the
Sunday Times
are publishing an abridged version, but both have to wait until Judith Duffy loses her GMC hearing.’

‘What if she wins?’

Tamsin looks at me as if I’ve made the most idiotic suggestion she’s ever heard. ‘Read the article and you’ll see why that’s not going to happen.’ She leaves the office with a parody of Maya’s wave and a ‘Bye,
hon
’.

I manage to restrain myself from begging her not to leave me. Once she’s gone, I try and fail to persuade myself to put the cream envelope in the bin without opening it, but I’m too nosey – nosier than I am frightened.

Don’t be ridiculous. It’s some stupid numbers on a card – only an idiot would be scared of that
.

I tear open the envelope and see the top of what looks like a photograph. I pull it out, and feel a knot start to form in my stomach. It’s a photo of a card with sixteen numbers on it, laid out in four rows of four. Someone’s held the card close to the lens in order for the picture to be taken; there are fingers gripping it on both sides. They could be a man’s or a woman’s; I can’t tell.

I look for a name or any writing, but there’s nothing.

I stuff the photograph back into the envelope and put it in my bag. I’d like to throw it away, but if I do that I won’t be able to compare the fingers holding the card to Raffi’s fingers, or anyone else’s.

Don’t let it wind you up. Whoever’s doing it, that’s exactly what they want
.

I sigh, and stare despondently at the papers on the floor. The envelope has made me feel worse about everything. I haven’t got a hope in hell of making Laurie’s film. I know it; everyone knows it. All these interviews and articles, the medical records, the legal jargon . . . it’s too much. It’ll take me months, if not years, to get on top of it. The idea that all this has become my responsibility makes me feel sick. I have to get out of the room, away from the piles of paper.

I close the door behind me and head for Maya’s office, half hoping she’ll fire me.

‘You’re a dark horse.’ Maya folds her arms and looks me up and down as if searching for further evidence of my shady equestrian qualities.

‘I’m really not,’ I say. Then I take a deep breath. ‘Maya, I’m not sure I’m the best person to—’

‘Ray Hines rang me a few minutes ago, as I expect you already know.’ Wisps of smoke are rising from her desk. Tamsin’s bottom-drawer theory must be right.

‘What . . . what did she want?’ I ask.

‘To sing your praises.’

‘Me?’

‘She’s never rung me before, and never returned my calls. Funny that, isn’t it? That she’d call me now. Apparently – though this is news to me – she had reservations about Laurie, ungrateful sloaney toff that she is.’ Maya smiles. It’s the sort of smile a waxwork might reject as being a little on the stiff side. ‘Sorry, Fliss, hon, I don’t mean to take my anger out on you, but, boy, does it make me mad. When I think how hard Laurie worked to get her out, and she has the nerve to say she never thought much of him . . . as if it’s up to her to dish out judgements, as if Laurie’s some jumped-up nobody from nowhere instead of the most garlanded investigative journalist in the country. She said he couldn’t see the wood for the trees, except she’s so stupid, she got it the wrong way round. Her exact words were “He can’t see the trees for the wood”. She’d still be in prison if it wasn’t for him. Has she forgotten that?’

I give my best all-purpose nod. I want to know exactly what Rachel Hines said about me, but I’m too embarrassed to ask.

‘Do you by any chance know where Laurie is?’ says Maya.

‘No idea. I’ve been trying all day to get hold of him.’

‘He’s bloody well left.’ She sniffs and looks out of the window. ‘You watch – we won’t see him again. He was supposed to be in until Friday.’ She bends down behind her desk. When she reappears, she’s holding a well-stocked glass ashtray in one hand and an unambiguous, entirely visible cigarette in the other. ‘Don’t say a word,’ she tries to joke, but it comes out more like a warning. ‘I don’t normally smoke in the office, but just this once . . .’

‘I don’t mind. Passive smoking reminds me of how much I used to enjoy the active version.’ And makes me feel superior to the poor, weak fools who haven’t given up yet, I don’t add.

Maya takes a long drag. She’s one of the oddest-looking women I’ve ever seen. In some ways she’s attractive. Her figure’s great, and she’s got big eyes and full lips, but she’s completely missing the chin-neck right-angle that most people have between their faces and their torsos. Maya’s open-plan face/neck area looks like a flesh-coloured balloon that’s been stuffed into the collar of her shirt. She wears her long dark hair in exactly the same style every day: straight at the top and elaborately curled at the bottom, held back by a red Alice band like a Victorian child’s doll.

‘Be honest with me, sugar,’ she purrs. ‘Did you ask Ray Hines to ring and talk you up?’

‘No.’
No, I fucking didn’t, you cheeky bitch
.

‘She said she’d spoken to you several times yesterday.’

‘She phoned me and said she wanted to talk. I’m going to ring later, set up a meeting.’ I leave out the part about Wendy Whitehead, and, to be on the safe side, the story of last night’s abortive rendezvous. Until I know what any of it means, I’m reluctant to hand it over.

‘She’s one step ahead of you.’ Maya picks up a scrap of paper from her desk. ‘Shall I read you your orders? Marchington House, Redlands Lane, Twickenham. She wants you there at nine tomorrow morning. Have you got a car yet?’