Birth Marks (6 page)

He ordered another cappuccino and started right in there, eye-to-eye contact and intimate delivery over the sugar bowl.

‘Miss Wolfe, I have been instructed by my client to ask if you would consider taking on a job for them.'

‘Yes.'

‘The assignment is to look into the circumstances surrounding Carolyn Hamilton's death.'

And out of all the things I had not been expecting this was the first. ‘Carolyn Hamilton's death. You mean above and beyond the verdict of the inquest?'

‘I mean the inquest concerned itself only with what took place on that Saturday night. My client would like to know more about the preceding eight months.'

‘I see. May I know your client's name?'

‘I'm afraid that is not possible. At this stage they would like to remain anonymous.'

I shook my head. ‘Sorry. I don't work like that. There are other private investigators who might oblige you, but it has always been my practice to know who I'm working for.'

He paused. Then he cleared his throat. ‘I am sure you understand my position, Miss Wolfe. My client is, of course, deeply distressed by the loss. I think it's fair to say that they feel themselves to be responsible in some way for what has happened. These feelings are enormously painful to admit to or talk about. But there is still the need for her to know. My client has asked me to stress that anything you find out will be kept in the strictest of confidence. You may deliver a closed report to myself and I will pass it on to them. No one else will know anything about it.'

Solicitors, of course, do not make linguistic blunders. Seven years of study and a lifetime of earning money from the letter of the law sees to that. Which meant the slip had to be intentional. So Miss Patrick still had the need to know, but no longer the bility to ask directly. Maybe I reminded her of happier times, when the only notes received had first-class stamps on them and talked of dance repertoires and the weather. Grief and guilt. They can do weird things to people. No investigation ever brought anyone back to life, and in the end there are always those willing to speak ill of the dead. I ought to have known that.

But my mind was on other things. Ahead of me stretched the promise of four days picking up carrier bags for a Saudi diplomat's wife in London to buy up Harrod's, then a week at a cash and carry where someone was doing just that. Frank would be pissed off, but he'd get over it. Anyway, I owed Miss Patrick four days' work. I reminded Mr Greville of this when it came to talking money but he, like his employer, wasn't interested. All in all he made me a very generous offer, more than my going rate, and no limit on expenses. We shook hands on the deal and went our separate ways.

I started work in the car going home. First things first. We had a pregnant woman who had disappeared for seven and a half months and turned up in the river. Two questions to start with. Where had she been and who was the father? To help us along we had some dates. According to the PM report Carolyn had been between thirty-four and thirty-five weeks pregnant when she died. Working backwards that took us to the end of April. Which meant she had been on intimate terms with the father of her child exactly around the time she left Cherubim. When in doubt,
Cherchez I' homme
. Any
homme
.

I
would have gone back to Eyelashes anyway. If, that is, he hadn't come to me first. Funny what dancers choose to do in their spare time. I hadn't figured him for the inquest type. But then I hadn't figured her for the young mother sort either. He rang me in the evening. It sounded like he was calling from the theatre, but it was after eight and I seemed to remember he was in the opening scene. He wanted to know if I fancied a late-night drink. I offered him his place or mine but he didn't like that idea. In the end we met in one of those Covent Garden hangouts which look more like a visitors' book than a restaurant. He was sitting at a table under a signed picture of Tab Hunter. It suited him. In front of him were a number of wine glasses and a dead fish. There was a certain similarity to the look in their eyes.

‘I phoned you, you know. A couple of days after. But you weren't in.'

People who don't leave message on answering machines. I hate them. ‘You could have tried again. Or left your name. I would have called you back.'

‘Well, wasn't any point, was there? I mean the old lady employed you to find her, not bury her. I didn't think you'd be working for her any more.'

‘So what makes you think I'm working for her now?'

‘Are you?'

I looked at him for a moment. That touch of red around the eyes had spread. A thing of beauty is a joy for ever. Well, how would Keats know, anyway? He never stuck around long enough to find out. I kept my fingers crossed behind my back and told him a lie, which was whiter than most. ‘No. I'm not working for her any more. I'm working for myself. That's why I'm here.'

He took a swig from an already empty glass. ‘Yeah, guilt. It's a killer, isn't it?'

‘Is that what you brought me here to say?'

‘I didn't know about the baby, you know,' he said, as if I had disagreed with him. ‘She didn't tell me.'

‘So, she didn't tell you. I thought you said you weren't that close.'

‘It wouldn't have made any difference anyway,' he said thickly. ‘I mean by the time we talked, you and I, she was already dead, that's what the police said.'

‘Not quite. She died some time between four and six thirty. We met just after five.'

He looked up at me and scowled, but said nothing. The waitress arrived, all black fishnet and mini-mini-skirt. He ordered two more drinks. I decided not to rush him. I'm normally quite a good judge of alcoholics, working out the habituals from the anxiety one-offs. Regulars, for instance, never order by the glass; it's a waste of too much time and money. Which meant Scott was on a binge, the old drowning-the-sorrows routine. Guilt, yeah, it's a killer. Except she'd been dead for over a month now. How come he was still crying? Either he was more bi-sexual than he had let on and was facing a paternity crisis or the rest of life was kicking him around too.

‘So, how's the show?'

He looked at me. ‘Minus a grey cat.' He shrugged. ‘Well, I never did like the music anyway. Case of the emperor's new clothes if you ask me.'

‘What about your friend?'

‘My friend? Oh, he found another friend. Happens all the time.'

‘So what do you do now?'

He shrugged. ‘This and that. Auditions, classes, that kind of thing.'

‘But not Cherubim?'

He grinned, but there wasn't much humour in it. ‘How right you are. Not Cherubim.'

‘I'm sorry,' I said quietly.

‘No, you're not. Neither am I really. Fucking awful place. All those little boys and girls walking on tiptoe to please their mummies and daddies.'

The waitress sped by the table, depositing two glasses as she went. The wine slopped over on to the cloth. He watched the stain grow. Then he shook his head. ‘Shit. I would have told you, you know, I mean if you hadn't been working for
her
. Parents. Jesus, they think they own you. Only they call it love rather than possession. And everything's fine until you do something they don't want you to, or, God forbid, become someone they don't want you to be. Then it's them or you. Simple as that. So she wasn't Marie Rambert. So what? I just thought she deserved the chance to get away. If that was what she needed. Maybe that's why she got pregnant, eh? Cocking a snook at the old dear.'

‘Who was the father?'

‘I said already—she didn't tell me about the baby.' And you could tell he hadn't liked the question.

‘OK. So let's try something else. What about her debts?'

‘I told you, she needed some money.'

‘Not some money, Scott, a lot of money. What did she spend it on, apart from clothes?' He shrugged. ‘Eight thousand quid at last count, which amounts to seriously more than the odd spending spree. What was she on?'

The laugh was more like a guffaw. ‘Anyone ever told you that you sound like a social worker?'

‘Yeah, all the time. So, d'you wanna talk or just sit here and drink? And if I were you I'd watch that frown. You're going to get wrinkles if you're not careful.'

He sighed. ‘A lot of it was above board. Medical bills, physios, that kind of thing. But if you want to believe the rumours, she probably would have been doing some stuff when she was with Left Feet First. Coke, maybe a little speed. But she was clean by the time she got to Cherubim. Contrary to what you guys read in the tabloids there are a number of drugs that you can stop taking. It's just you can't pay back the money they cost.'

Boy, I must be looking my age. Either that or this was just his form of revenge. ‘And she couldn't?'

‘We didn't talk about it.'

‘So what
did
you talk about, Scott? Or did you just invite me here because you've run out of late-night drinking companions?'

I got another scowl, then he sat back in his chair and said, ‘I don't know for sure, but I think she might have gone to Paris.'

‘To Paris?' And I must say, it's good he mentioned it, because I never would have guessed.

‘It was a long time ago, right? So I only remember bits of it. I think it must have been a month or so after she arrived—which would make it some time in February—she saw this ad in one of the papers. And before you ask me, I don't know which paper and I can't remember the date. All I know is what she told me. It was for some job in France. I don't even know what it was doing, exactly, except that it was a temporary post with very good money. Well, she was pissed off with Cherubim, pissed off with not earning enough, pissed off with everything really. I think she thought maybe if she went away, did something different, cleared her debts, got Miss Patrick and her bleeding obligations off her back for a while…Anyway, she told me she'd applied for it. And then a week or so later she got an interview. I know because it meant going to Paris and I covered for her, her classes I mean. When she got back she didn't say much about it. Just told me it had been some kind of personal assistant business job and that she hadn't got it. I asked her a few more questions but she shrugged them off. I figured she was just disappointed. Then a couple of weeks later she went off again without telling me, just called in sick one morning. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but then the same thing happened a bit later. And I knew it was Paris this time, because I saw the ticket in her handbag. I suppose I wondered then if it might be a guy. I even made some joke about how expensive it was, joining the highfliers' club, and maybe she should just invite him back to her place. But she didn't find it very funny and when I pushed a bit further she clammed up on me. I guess I was a bit surprised. I mean we were quite tight in our own way. I suppose we had some things in common, like we both should have been doing better but couldn't get the expectations off our back. Anyway I figured she just didn't like talking about her love life and I let it ride. Then some time at the end of April I caught the flu. I was off for a week. She never called round or even checked me out. When I got back she had gone. She left me a note wishing me love and luck, but no forwarding address.'

‘Just like that?'

‘Just like that.'

‘And you think she went to Paris?'

‘I dunno. All I know is that she was doing a lot of commuting around the time she got pregnant and that Paris was the place she was going. Maybe when he found out he offered to look after her and she accepted.'

‘So how come she didn't tell you?'

He made a face. ‘Could be she didn't think I'd appreciate the maternal instinct. Or perhaps she thought it would spoil her image. Carrie liked to see herself as more independent than she really was.'

I gave it some thought. Paris? Why not? Except what about the six months of postcards she kept sending to Miss Patrick, all franked ‘London'? One thing at a time. I looked at him. He was drawing on the tablecloth with his fork, etching spellbound lines in unconscious homage to Hitchcock. I took it as a sign. ‘And that's it? I mean you didn't hear from her again?'

He shook his head. But he still didn't look at me.

‘And how much of all this did you tell the police?'

He kept making ski runs in the snow. ‘They asked for facts, not opinions. So I told them. I didn't know where she'd gone. They weren't that interested anyway. They'd already made up their minds. Suicide passed off as accidental death to keep the old bat happy. Either way, she was just one poor fucker less to claim the dole. She was her own witness, they didn't need anyone else.'

‘And if they had asked the right questions? Is there anything else you could have told them?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I mean you're sure she didn't get in touch with you again?'

‘No, I mean yes, of course I'm sure. Shit.' He slammed the fork down on the cloth and you could see he was suddenly very angry with himself. I let him stew in it for a bit. He finished off the rest of the glass and looked around for the waitress, but she was busy with someone more glamorous. He turned to me. ‘Anyway, it was your job to find her. You're the one who blew it.'

‘Oh yes. And when was that, Scott? At what exact point did I blow it? In the café outside Cherubim on Friday afternoon? Or maybe in the dressing-room with you on Saturday? What was it I should have asked you then that would have got me the information I needed?'

He shook his head in a fury and made as if he was getting up to go, but thirty seconds later he was still there. Behind that gorgeous façade something was crumbling, eaten away by the acid of guilt. I just hung on to the other end of the line. He brought himself in eventually.

‘All right. So she rang me,' he said at last, his eyes on the tablecloth. ‘Before she died. It was on the Friday, in the morning. She said she was sorry to get in touch so suddenly, but she needed a place to stay, that night or over the weekend.' He paused, then closed his eyes up tight. ‘I offered her my flat.'

‘And,' I said at last when it was clear he wasn't going to.

‘She never turned up.'

So he'd known all the time. Even that Friday afternoon in the café. I saw again the look on their faces when I mentioned her name. And I felt the kick with which Scott had silenced little Miss Motor Mouth.

‘Why didn't you tell me?'

‘Because she made me promise not to,' he said with a blast of fury and pain that caused eyes to flicker. ‘She said it was absolutely vital that no one knew where she was. And that if anyone got in touch looking for her, I was to tell them I hadn't seen her since May.'

‘You mean she knew somebody would come looking?'

‘I don't know. I think so. When you turned up that afternoon I was sure you were the one she'd been talking about.'

But how could it have been me? She didn't even know I existed. In which case who else could she have been worried about? The father of the child? The same guy who called her flat that evening at 10.00 p.m.? Despite the crushing irony of it all I was beginning to feel better.

‘And what did you arrange with her? Were you going to meet her or what?'

‘No. She said she didn't know when she'd arrive. I told her I was working and that if it was the afternoon or evening I'd leave the keys at the stage door for her.'

No wonder he'd been so desperate to get me away from the entrance that Saturday after the matinée. She could have turned up at any time. Except she didn't.

‘And she didn't say anything about where she was or where she'd been?'

‘No.'

‘And no mention of the baby?'

He shook his head, more in sorrow than in anger this time.

‘How did she sound?'

He didn't need to think about it. ‘Anxious. A bit freaked out.'

Even though I could cheerfully have strangled him ten minutes before now I felt sorry for him. ‘Listen, Scott. It wasn't your fault. You did what you could. If she'd really needed you she would have got in touch again. In the end people who commit suicide make their own decisions.'