Lasting Damage (32 page)

Simon was staring into the water.

Charlie thought about the last thing he’d said. He’d never used the word ‘fucking’ in a sexual context before. Never.

‘Simon?’

‘Sorry, what?’

‘You’re not listening to me.’

‘I know what I’d be hearing if I was: someone who’s addicted to suffering. Who’ll go to any lengths to create opportunities to feel bad, and make other people feel bad.’

Charlie tried to push him into the swimming pool. He grabbed her wrists to stop her. She gave up; he was far stronger. A few seconds later, it was as if it had never happened. She sat down on the steps beside him. ‘You’re not listening because you’re thinking about bonkers Connie Bowskill, with her stupid SatNav and dead body stories,’ she said. ‘You might as well be in Spilling.’

‘I’ve got a theory.’

Charlie groaned.

‘Not about Connie Bowskill – about you.
You’re
the one who wants to go back. You want Liv to find out via your mum and dad that we sacked it after four days. That way the symbolism’s clear: one day she rings up, next day the honeymoon’s dead – unambiguous. A romantic dream in tatters, a high-concept disaster . . .’

‘Oh, shut up!’

‘A lifetime of guilt for your sister.’

‘Can I ask you something?’ Charlie’s voice was brittle. ‘Why did you marry me if you think I’m such a bitch?’

Simon looked surprised. ‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘You’re human, that’s all. We all have shitty thoughts, we all do shitty things.’

Charlie wanted him to say that there was a clear distinction between her shittiness and Liv’s, that Liv’s was a hundred times worse. From many years of experience, she knew that the thing you wanted Simon Waterhouse to say was never the thing he said.

His eyes narrowed. He squinted at Charlie, as if he was concentrating on memorising her face. ‘Categories of people – that’s where we start. You post the image of a dead body on a website, you’re either the killer . . .’

‘I don’t believe this,’ Charlie muttered. She walked down the steps of the pool into the water and started to swim. Her dress clung to her; her sandals were like bricks tied to her feet.

Simon stood up and walked along the side, keeping pace with her. ‘If you’re not the killer or an accomplice, who are you? The person whose house it is? Course, the owner might
be
the killer. The estate agent selling the house? I can’t see how that would work, can you? Or maybe someone interested in buying. Nothing better for lowering the price than blood and guts all over the living room floor.’

‘Fuck off, Simon, fuck off, and thrice fuck off.’

‘If you’re the killer and you post a picture of the body online, you’re advertising your work. If you’re not the killer—’

‘There’s no dead body apart from in Connie Bowskill’s mind,’ Charlie shouted over him.

‘Didn’t I tell you?’ said Simon. ‘Someone else saw it too, and contacted Cambridge police.’

‘
What?
’ Charlie stopped swimming. ‘Who? Connie Bowskill’s best friend? Her mum?’ It had to be a lie.

‘If you’re not the killer, were you there when it happened? Were you watching? Hiding? Did you know it was going to happen? Were you waiting with a camera? Or did you only come along afterwards and find the body?’

Charlie hauled herself out of the pool. Now she was weighed down by the water trapped in her clothes; moving quickly in the heat was even harder.

‘Where are you going?’ Simon asked her.

‘Where am I going?’ she echoed his question. ‘Where could Charlie be going?’ Let the speculator speculate, she thought, hurrying towards Domingo’s wooden house. She was going to ring the airline, find out how soon they could fly home.

Sam understood, finally, something Grint had said in passing earlier: that he’d asked Lorraine Turner for the names, addresses and phone numbers of everyone she’d shown round 11 Bentley Grove so far, as well as anyone who’d enquired about it, even if they hadn’t followed up with a viewing. Sam had put it down to thoroughness, a desire to cover all bases, but he saw now that it had been more than that. The woman who had assumed Selina Gane’s identity and put her house on the market without her permission might have decided to pose as a prospective buyer. The psychology was consistent. This was someone with form for gaining entry under false pretences, someone who was known to have lied about who she was. Sam could see that it might amuse her to deceive yet another member of Lancing Damisz staff.

And then?
What would the woman who wasn’t Selina Gane do next? Make an offer? Buy the house? Was that the aim, all along? It was pointless speculating, Sam decided, with so few solid facts available.

‘Couldn’t make it up, could you?’ Jackie was chatting to him now as if they were old friends. ‘There was me standing there like a lemon, and the poor Frenches, who’d have bought that house, guaranteed, except I had to tell them it wasn’t for sale after all, it was a mistake. Embarrassed doesn’t even begin to cover it! The Frenches were gutted. It’s the worst part of my job, having to deal with the emotional fallout when things go wrong. It must be the same with your job.’

It was a pity Jackie Napier wasn’t more intelligent; a cleverer person would have known which parts of the story were important and which weren’t. Sam had an awful feeling he would shortly be hearing all about Jackie’s saving of the day – the even better house she found for the Frenches, with its sunnier garden and superior garaging facilities – if he didn’t take active steps to avoid it.

‘I need to clarify this,’ he said. ‘You’re saying the woman you met at 11 Bentley Grove the first time you went there wasn’t Selina Gane? The woman who told you she wanted to sell the house, the one who proofread the brochure and gave you a key?’

‘She was nothing like Dr Gane,’ Jackie said angrily.

‘So the real Selina Gane was the one you met when you turned up with the Frenches a few days later?’

‘Exactly a week later,’ said Grint. ‘Wednesday 7 July.’

‘I should have known as soon as I saw that bloody passport photo,’ said Jackie, tight-lipped. ‘Selina Gane’s blonde and pretty. The other woman was dark and . . . sort of severe-looking, but you don’t think, do you? Someone shows you a passport photo and says, ‘‘I used to dye my hair blonde,’’ you believe them, don’t you? You don’t think, ‘‘I wonder if they’re pretending to be someone else.’’ I had no reason to be suspicious of her. She had a key to the house, for God’s sake – she was
in
the house when I went to meet her there. Of course I assumed it was her passport and her house – who wouldn’t? Who puts someone else’s house up for sale? I mean, why would anyone do that?’

Why would anyone put a photograph of a murder victim on a property website?

‘How did you come to see the passport?’ Sam opted to ask an easier question.

‘We have to see ID for anyone whose house we’re selling. So we know they’re who they say they are.’ If Jackie was aware of the irony, she was hiding it well.

‘You say she was dark, the woman who wasn’t Selina Gane. What was her body shape – small, tall, fat, thin?’

‘Small and thin. Petite.’

Sam felt something click into place in his mind before he realised why. Then it came to him: petite. Connie Bowskill had used the same word. A dark-haired petite woman . . .

Some bloody woman had only gone and put her house on the market without telling her
. That’s what Jackie had said.

Some bloody woman . . .

‘Jackie, the woman you saw on the virtual tour, lying face down – could she have been the woman who met you at 11 Bentley Grove and pretended to be Selina Gane?’

Jackie frowned. ‘No. I don’t think so, no. The dead woman – you could see the backs of her legs. She had darker skin. The woman I met was pale. And she had a wedding ring on, but a really thin one – not much thicker than a ring-pull from a can. The dead woman was wearing a thick wedding ring.’

‘You’re sure?’ Sam asked.

Jackie tapped her finger against one of her earrings – the same one she’d used to pick her nails. ‘I always notice jewellery,’ she said proudly.

Even when there’s a butchered woman in the same photograph, competing for your attention?
Sam noticed that Jackie wasn’t wearing a wedding ring herself, and felt sorry for the unfortunate man who might one day put one on her finger.

‘The real Selina Gane doesn’t wear a wedding ring,’ Jackie added. ‘She’s not married. I think she might be the other way – it was just a feeling I got.’

Pale skin. Thin wedding ring
. Sam turned to look at Grint, saw that he was hunched and frowning. Connie Bowskill was petite, with pale skin and a very thin wedding ring. Sam shivered involuntarily. Why would Connie Bowskill pretend to be Selina Gane and put 11 Bentley Grove up for sale? Because she thought Selina was living there with Kit? Sam didn’t like that as an explanation – the logic of it was too hazy. It was hardly the first thing you’d think to do in that situation. If Connie was the dark woman Jackie met at 11 Bentley Grove, how did she get hold of a key?

Grint had stood up, and was making his way across the room, hobbling. ‘Foot’s gone to sleep,’ he said. ‘Jackie, do you reckon you’d know her face if you saw her again, the woman who impersonated Selina Gane?’

‘Definitely. I’m good with faces.’

Sam thought that was debatable, given that she’d fallen for the passport photo. When he looked up, he found her staring at him, her face frozen in a mask of dislike. It gave him a shock; what had he done wrong?

‘You think I should have known it wasn’t her, from the passport. Don’t you? How stupid must I be, that I didn’t clock it was a picture of someone else? She’d thought of that. “I used to dye my hair blonde,” she said. “It suited me too. Admit it, I look better there than in real life. Most people’s passport photos make them look like serial killers – mine makes me look like a film star. Sadly, the reality falls way short.” ’

‘That was what she said?’

‘Not exactly that,’ said Jackie. ‘I don’t remember her exact words. It was over a month ago. But she gave me some flannel about not looking like her photo. She definitely said the serial-killer-film-star bit. Oh, she was clever. She knew all she had to do was talk about people not looking like they do in their passports. If she made me think about all those other people, she wouldn’t have to convince me – I’d do all the work myself. It’s one of those things everyone says, isn’t it? ‘‘He looks nothing like his passport photo, I’m surprised he’s ever allowed back into the country.” ’

Sam had to concede she had a point.

‘What if we were to introduce you – here, today – to the woman who passed herself off as Selina Gane?’ Grint asked Jackie.

‘I’d ask her what the hell she was playing at.’

Grint nodded. ‘I’ll ask her the very same. Between us, we might get an explanation out of her.’

Sam didn’t like what he was hearing. Jackie hadn’t yet identified Connie as the woman she’d met; why was Grint acting as if she had, offering her his support? Was it a tactic? If he seriously planned to put Jackie and Connie in a room together, Sam didn’t want to be there too. Plus, there was something else worrying him, something that wasn’t any of the things he knew he was worried about. He’d suddenly become aware of a dragging anxiety beneath the surface of his thoughts. What was it? It hadn’t been there a moment ago.

‘I’d like to hear the end of Jackie’s story,’ he said. ‘There you were at 11 Bentley Grove, with the Frenches and a frightened, confused Dr Gane – what happened?’

‘The Frenches scurried off home to ring my boss and complain.’ Jackie rolled her eyes. ‘Ungrateful sods – nothing like giving someone the benefit of the doubt, is there? They assumed I’d cocked up. I haven’t spoken to them since. I wouldn’t.’

So, no superior garaging and sunnier gardens for the Frenches, Sam thought, not if Jackie could help it. Hadn’t she described herself as loyal, at the beginning of the interview? In Sam’s experience, people who extolled their own loyalty often sought to impose reciprocity, by coercion if necessary. Almost always, there was an unspoken caveat:
but if you cross me, or let me down . . .