Strangers (22 page)

‘That would be great. Thank you.’

She went into the kitchen, glad of something
to do to distract herself. She put a heavy pan on the burner and turned the flame up high, then she cut some tomatoes and put them in to roast with a drizzle of oil and a sprinkling of dried herbs. When she and Joe lived here, she always had fresh herbs growing in pots along the window sill and spices waiting to be ground into whatever she was making. There was always good cheese from the deli, fresh bread, fresh fruit. Now, the shelves were empty.

She dug around in the cupboard, looking for some pasta, keeping her mind focused on what she was doing. While she was waiting for the water to come to the boil, she made a salad with the rest of the tomatoes and some oil and basil. The fragrance of the herbs filled the kitchen with the smell of summer.

When the tomatoes were done, she crushed them into a thick sauce and spooned it over the drained pasta. She put the salad into a dish, put everything on to a tray and took it through to the other room. He jumped to his feet to help her set the table, then produced a bottle of red wine from his bag and poured them both a glass, though she noticed he hadn’t finished the glass of wine she’d given him earlier.

They talked about casual, easy topics while they ate. ‘This is good,’ he said. ‘I’m out of touch with European food.’

‘I enjoy cooking.’ It was something else she missed. She’d always taken trouble to cook, even
when it was just for herself, but since she’d come back, she’d lived on bread, cheese, fruit–things she could just grab and eat. Cooking had seemed like too much trouble.

‘Are you going to stay in the UK?’ she asked. ‘Do you have family here?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m just here to sort out some business. I’m going to France tomorrow for a few days, then I’ll be back to finish some things off. I need to think about what I’m going to do.’

‘Are you going back?’ To her, it seemed inconceivable.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe not to Saudi.’

He told her a bit about the other Gulf states: about Kuwait, that still bore some of the scars of invasion and war; about the glittering opulence of Dubai, which he dismissed as Blackpool in the desert; about how much he liked Oman–the only Gulf state, in his view, that hadn’t been damaged either by Westernization or by excessive wealth. He wanted to live in an Arab country. ‘A lot of the ex-pats think that the Arabs are cold and distant. They aren’t. They’re among the most friendly and hospitable people in the world. The Saudis aren’t so easy, I’ll grant you that. I like them fine, but they do have…I don’t know what you would call it–a superiority complex, I suppose.’

Roisin thought about her meetings with Souad, the barely disguised contempt with which she
reacted to both Roisin and her views. But Yasmin hadn’t been like that. Nor had Najia. ‘Not all,’ she said.

He shook his head. ‘No, not all.’

She didn’t want to talk about Riyadh, so she turned the conversation back to him. The level of wine in her glass was barely falling, but she was starting to feel more relaxed. ‘Where were you born?’

‘In Lancashire–in a village that’s probably part of Greater Manchester by now.’

‘Your family–are they still there?’

He shook his head. ‘My parents are dead.’

‘Brothers? Sisters?’

‘No.’

‘Do you have any children?’ She knew she was pushing. ‘I don’t know you at all, and I feel as though I should.’

‘There’s no great mystery about me. I grew up in England. I went to Oxford to do my degree and then I worked for the diplomatic service in France and Germany. I left Europe when I was twenty-seven, and I’ve worked overseas ever since. I’ve been married, but it didn’t last. I have no children. I’m just another ex-civil servant carving out a living.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’

He grinned. ‘Really, this is all there is. What you see is what you get. OK, my turn. Tell me about yourself. Where do you come from?’

She found herself being more forthcoming than
he had been, telling him about her family, her adoption, her lack of memories of her early life, her worries about her mother, the way she missed her father.

He listened quietly, topping up her wine glass from time to time. ‘And do you have brothers? Or sisters?’

She shook her head. ‘No.’ She thought about the gap that had always been there in her life. ‘I had a sister, but she died when my parents were killed. I don’t remember her. I had a friend, once, who was almost like a sister.’ She realized that all these weeks, she had been waiting for Amy to get in touch, but there had been nothing but silence. It had been the same all those years ago when Amy had gone to London and never come back.

It was as if he’d read her thoughts. ‘Amy?’

She looked at him in surprise. ‘How did you know? You know Amy?’

He smiled. ‘I know just about every ex-pat in Riyadh. Yes, I know Amy, and she told me she knew you.’ He topped up her glass again.

‘She was my best friend.’ She stared into the deep red of the wine. She told him about how she and Amy had met, the plans they had shared. ‘She told me she’d lost her family, like I had. I used to pretend we were sisters–we were close enough, or so I thought. Then…I didn’t know at the time, but Amy really
did
have a sister–a half-sister, and her stepfather took her away.’ She looked into the distance, remembering Amy sitting
on the settee, talking about what had happened to her. She told him about Amy leaving, about the brief trip to London that had swallowed her up for fifteen years. ‘I don’t know what happened. Except that she found her sister. That’s why she left Riyadh. Her sister was going to have a baby, in Paris. Amy trained as a nurse in Paris. She told me.’

‘And her sister’s there?’

She looked at him. She was having trouble gathering her thoughts. Her glass was still full, which was odd because she could have sworn she’d been drinking it. She took another swallow of wine. ‘Paris. Amy was going to Paris to be an aunt.’ If her sister had lived, maybe she would be an aunt by now.

‘What’s the sister’s name?’

‘Nell. She was…Oh, you mean Amy’s sister. Jassy. She’s called Jassy.’

‘Jassy?’

‘Jesamine for short. I mean–shit–Jesamine for long.’ For some reason it struck her as funny and she started laughing.

He was smiling as he watched her.

‘What?’ she said.

‘You look better. Better than you did before. More wine?’

‘I think I’ve had enough. Jesamine for short…’ She wanted to start laughing again.

‘Have you heard from her since you left?’

‘No.’ And just like that, the laughter stopped. ‘I
thought she’d get in touch, after…She must have heard. But it’s like last time. She’s gone. She was like my sister, and then she went away. I didn’t see her again until she came knocking on my door in Riyadh.’ Amy had said
I’m not going to lose touch again
. ‘She said she’d keep in touch and then she didn’t. And now I don’t know where she is.’

She was having trouble enunciating her words and she could hear the wobble of self-pity that had come into her voice. The wine bottle was empty and so was her glass. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up on a crying jag. ‘Oh, God, ignore me. I’ve had too much to drink. I’m sorry.’

‘No,’ he said. I’m the one who should be sorry. It’s OK, Roisin. Listen, it’s getting late and I’m a bit jet-lagged. ‘I’ve got a trip to make tomorrow. Can I call you when I get back?’

‘Of course.’ They both stood up and she forced her eyes to focus.

‘Will you be all right?’

She dismissed this with an airy gesture that sent her off balance.

He steadied her with one hand on her arm. ‘Careful.’

‘I’ll be fine. I’m not as bad as I look. You go. Have a good trip.’ This came out rather garbled, but he seemed to understand her.

‘If you’re sure.’ He let go of her, watching her assessingly. She kept herself determinedly upright and gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

‘Call me when you get back,’ she said.

‘I will,’ he agreed, brushing his lips against hers.

When the door had closed behind him, she went back to the living room. Unsteadily, she piled up the plates and carried them through to the kitchen, but she was too tired, and too drunk, to do any more.

As she wove her way into the bedroom, she reflected that she’d at least have a good night’s sleep–she must have drunk enough to guarantee oblivion. But as she lay in bed trying to still the sway of the mattress, the orange light from the street glowed through the blinds, and her dreams were filled with visions of flames in the darkness, of a path leading to the creeper-hung wall where a pale face glimmered in the shadows, the face serene, the eyes closed.

But as she drew closer, the dead eyes snapped open. They were wide with terror and somewhere in the shadows the red glow of a cigarette burned, then faded.

Damien flagged down a taxi and headed back towards the flat he’d taken for the next month, uncertain how long his stay in the UK would be. He wasn’t pleased with himself. He’d gone to see Roisin with an agenda–to find out more about the night when Joe Massey had died, and to get as much information as he could about Amy. And instead of just asking her, he’d pushed the conversation until he could introduce Amy’s name, then
he’d let her talk, nudging her with questions as he refilled her glass before the level sank too low so she wouldn’t notice how much she was drinking.

He told himself it had been therapeutic for her to talk, that getting drunk might help to relax the edgy tension that had marked her every move and every action. But he knew himself too well for that trick to work. He had used all the skills he brought to his professional work, and he now knew a lot of things that Amy had never told him. Like where she might be.

And it might just be enough to help him find her.

Roisin sat up, squinting her eyes against the hard light that poured in through the window. The blinds were half open. No wonder the light had kept her awake. She crawled out of bed and stood looking out at the new day. She must have drunk the best part of the bottle of wine Damien had opened. She was just glad she hadn’t made a complete fool of herself. Or she hoped she hadn’t. Her memories of the last part of the evening were a bit hazy.

The living room was still a mess from the night before: glasses on the table, the smell of cooking in the air. She cleared up quickly, noting as she did that Damien’s glass was barely touched. Not only had she got drunk, she’d got drunk in front of someone who was stone-cold sober.

She threw open the windows to freshen the air. The flowers he’d brought gleamed in a dark corner and she moved them into the light. The winter sun shone through the window, turning the petals
gold. Dust danced in the sun, and the air from the open windows smelled clean and fresh.

Her doorbell rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone. She pressed the intercom button. ‘Who is it?’

‘Mrs Massey?’

‘Yes.’

‘Police.’

She felt a lurch of alarm as she pressed the buzzer to release the lock and waited in the doorway. Her mother? Had something happened to her mother? She’d sounded fine on the phone the previous day. After a few seconds, she saw a man and woman coming up the steps. They weren’t wearing uniform. Detectives?

They produced ID before she could ask. The man introduced himself as DC Lovell, and the woman as DC Syed. ‘Can we come in?’ the woman said. She must only be in her early twenties, but she had an air of self-possession beyond her years.

Roisin led them through into the living room and faced them anxiously. ‘What’s wrong? It isn’t my mother…’

‘Nothing like that,’ the woman said, and Roisin felt the tension inside her relax slightly. ‘May we sit down?’

‘Please.’ She gestured to the armchairs.

The man remained standing, and she sat down slowly, feeling suddenly at a disadvantage. She could see his eyes make a quick sweep round the room, observing the empty bottle and the two
glasses. Her head ached, making it hard to concentrate. ‘How can I help you?’

‘We’re investigating a death that occurred last year,’ the woman said. ‘Last September. A young woman drowned in the Thames. Dr Massey was a witness.’

Roisin looked from one to the other, her sense of bewilderment growing. ‘September?’ In September, Joe had asked her to marry him. In September, they’d made their plans–ill-fated plans–to move to Saudi for a year. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘He gave evidence at the inquest,’ the man said. ‘Didn’t he tell you about that?’ His eyes weren’t friendly.

Joe had never mentioned a drowned woman, or an inquest. ‘I think you must have the wrong person,’ she said. ‘Whatever you want to know…’

‘We’re sorry about your husband, Mrs Massey.’

‘Yes. Me too.’ She heard the break in her voice, and could feel her eyes stinging. She sat very still, her head carefully erect to stop the tears spilling out. She didn’t want them to see her cry. There was a moment of silence.

‘Can I get you anything? Would you like a cup of tea?’ The woman’s sympathy had a detached professionalism that allowed Roisin to pull herself together. She excused herself to go and wash her face. When she came back, the two detectives were waiting for her. The man was studying the framed
photograph of their wedding, the only thing she had retrieved from the cases that still remained unpacked in the box room…

‘I’d rather you left that alone,’ she said sharply. He put it down without comment.

It was the woman who spoke. ‘I’d like to ask you some questions, if you wouldn’t mind.’ She paused briefly, then said, ‘Dr Massey returned from Saudi Arabia in spring 2004, is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how long had you known him then?’

‘I didn’t. We met that April.’
A tall man with dark hair, running towards her on the tow path
…

‘You got married a few months after you met?’ This was the man with the unfriendly eyes.

‘We had to be married for me to get my visa to Saudi,’ she said. But it hadn’t been like that. They’d been happy. Joe had brought champagne and forgotten to bring glasses. They’d drunk it out of the bottle, the wine foaming up out of the neck and spilling over them as they tilted it, laughing until they could barely swallow.

The woman took up the questioning. ‘Do you know why he came back to the UK?’

‘Because his contract had ended.’

‘Yes, but why the UK?’

‘Because he could get work here.’ Joe had never said exactly why he’d come back–just that he didn’t want to stay.

‘His decision to go back to the Middle East was very sudden.’

Roisin looked at them both, wondering how they knew that. ‘He’d applied for a job in Canada. He didn’t get it, and they made him a good offer to go and work in Riyadh. It was just a year’s contract.’ She realized she was starting to sound defensive. ‘Why are you asking?’

The woman flicked through some papers she was carrying. ‘After Dr Massey gave us his statement, he told us that his plans would involve him leaving the country in the near future. He gave us a contact at McMaster University in Ontario in case we needed to talk to him again. We tried to contact him there…’ She passed Roisin a letter.

Roisin looked at it. It was on headed paper from McMaster University, and it said that Dr Massey had been offered an appointment starting in October 2004, but he had turned it down as his commitments made it impossible for him to take up the post. She kept her head bent over the paper so that the two detectives wouldn’t see her face. Her head was spinning with confusion. Joe had wanted that job. It had meant everything to him. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

‘It’s quite clear.’ The man had moved closer and was standing above her as he spoke. ‘Your husband turned this job down in favour of one in Saudi Arabia.’

‘Doug…’ The woman said.

Roisin looked at him. ‘What does it matter now?’

‘He never mentioned it to you? That he saw a woman drown?’

‘No.’ But Joe knew about drowning in the river. He’d talked to her about the bodies brought to the mortuary at the hospital where he used to work.
She’s dead if she does
…And she was by the river on a cold spring day, standing on the embankment with Joe watching a tour boat go past.

DC Syed consulted her notes. ‘We don’t know the woman’s identity, but we do know she was working as a prostitute. We’re working on the assumption she was an illegal immigrant.’ Her gaze met Roisin’s for a long moment. ‘When Dr Massey gave us his statement,’ she said, ‘he told us he saw the woman standing on the wall by the river walk. He said he called out to her, and then she fell. Or jumped. The problem is, a witness has now come forward who says she saw Dr Massey walking along the river path with an Asian female whose description matches the woman who drowned. She said the woman looked upset, or possibly frightened. We’d very much like to know why Dr Massey didn’t tell us that. Can you shed any light on it?’

Roisin felt as though all the air had been knocked out of her. There was nothing she could say.

DC Syed put a sheet of paper on the table in front of her. ‘Do you recognize this?’ It was a photograph of a ring. It was metal, and looked heavy. Underneath the photo, there was an inscription in Arabic, and beneath that, a translation:
Take what is here now, let go of a promise. The drumbeat is best from far away
.

Roisin looked down at the photograph, glad of the chance to hide her face. Her mind was spinning. She made herself focus on the inscription. It was tantalizingly familiar, and then she realized what it was.
‘“Ah take the cash and let the credit go, nor heed the music of a distant drum.’”
The two detectives looked at her, and the woman tilted her head in query. ‘It’s from the
Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam,’
Roisin said. ‘I only know the Fitzgerald poem–it was translated in the nineteenth century. But that text must be from the original.’

Roisin couldn’t tell if the woman knew this already. ‘And the ring–do you recognize that?’

‘No. No, I don’t.’

The man chipped in. ‘It was part of a collection of jewellery that was stolen from a family in Riyadh, about eighteen months ago. Whoever stole it probably thought it was gold, but it isn’t. It’s just brass. Sentimental value. Your husband would have been on his first contract then, wouldn’t he?’

‘Yes.’ It came out as a whisper. Her mouth felt stiff and frozen.
There is a girl who is missing–we want to know where she is, but we haven’t been able to find her
. She couldn’t trust her voice. She waited, dreading what he was going to say next.

But the woman stood up. ‘Well, thank you for your time, Mrs Massey. And I’m very sorry about your husband.’

As he stepped through the door, the man turned
and looked at her. ‘Did you know that Saudi Arabia doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the UK?’

Before she could respond, he turned and followed his colleague along the walkway.