The Button Man: A Hugo Marston Novel (4 page)

“It didn’t happen in jail,” Hugo said gently. “It happened after she was released.”

“Happened? What happened? Didn’t she come here?”

“No. That was the plan, but . . .” Hugo spread his hands. “Someone screwed up. They just let her go without telling us.”

Harper looked up at Hugo, his eyes wet, his face still showing confusion and disbelief. “What . . . what happened?”

Hugo sat in the chair opposite him. “We’re not sure exactly, not yet. But she was found in a graveyard.” Hugo took a deep breath. “She was hanging from a tree.”

Harper’s hand flew to his mouth, the brandy glass falling with a thunk onto the rug. “Oh no, no.” He started to shake his head, eyes fixed on Hugo. “She did it . . . herself?”

“We don’t know yet, but it’s possible.”

Harper rose to his feet and Hugo saw that his knees were shaking. The actor walked slowly to the large windows where streaks of rain blurred the view, and Hugo watched as Harper put his forehead against the glass. A moment later his shoulders started to shake, and he sank to his knees. He banged a weak fist against the window and then wrapped his arms around himself, mumbling his wife’s name over and over. Hugo watched, helpless, as Harper rolled onto his side and curled himself into a ball on Christine’s polished hardwood floor, his body wracked with the desperate sobs of a small child.

CHAPTER FOUR

T
he doctor had come and gone, and Hugo sat watching cricket highlights as a sedated Harper slept in the spare room. Occasionally Hugo flicked through the channels for a good movie, but there was something about the game of cricket that entertained him. The slow pace was hypnotic, like a ballet at half-speed, and he enjoyed the challenge of figuring out the rules without looking them up.

During the game’s lunch break, Hugo channel surfed again, pausing on the national news when he heard a familiar name. A once-infamous murderer called Sean Bywater had been found dead in a halfway house in Liverpool. A burgeoning serial killer, Bywater had been caught after three murders, but his “signature”—carving his initials on the victim’s back and his surgically clean use of a chisel to kill—had made it to the FBI training grounds at Quantico, Virginia, decades later. Hugo had himself tried to get access to Bywater to interview him, but the man had rebuffed every approach. Hugo hadn’t been surprised because after the killer’s sentence, he’d lapsed into silence, which he broke only a few times, mostly while stabbing other inmates.

At the time of his trial, Bywater had been the poster boy for the reinstatement of the death penalty: his crimes had been committed in 1965, just weeks after abolition. According to today’s news account, and a little ironically, Hugo thought, just two weeks after being released he’d hanged himself in the halfway house, ill-health and forty years of institutionalization too much for even a serial killer to deal with. He’d left behind no money, no friends, no family, and not even a note; just the word SORRY chiseled into the wall of his tiny room. A nice touch, considering his former MO, Hugo thought. The newsreader concluded the story by noting that another infamous killer, the former model June Michelle Stanton, was due to be released in three days into the care of her twin sister and her daughter, who’d been just two years old at the time her mother was sentenced to forty years for killing a policeman during a botched robbery. He switched back to the cricket match before the news story ended—not the kind of thing Harper needed to be seeing, should he wake up and wander in.

An hour later, at two o’clock, Harper was still in his room when the phone rang. Hugo answered to hear the ambassador’s voice.

“All safe and secure, Hugo?”

“Sleeping like a baby.”

“Good. I would have called before, but you know how it is.”

“No, but I’ll take your word for it.”

“Good enough.” The ambassador chuckled. “What’s he like?”

“He’s like one of those wedding cake decorations, but with bright, blue eyes. About the same height, actually.”

“Be nice Hugo. How did he take the news?”

“The way you’d expect a married man to react when you tell him his wife was found hanging from a tree.”

“Poor bastard.”

“Yes.” Hugo cleared his throat. “So, without meaning to sound callous and just out of curiosity, how long do I have to babysit this poor guy?”

“I’m not sure. We’re hoping for a quick resolution to his criminal case. But I’m sure you understand, Hugo, his wife’s death has complicated things.”

“Another investigation to get through.”

“Right. And the media will go ape shit when they hear about her death.”

“Have you thought about shipping him back to the United States for a while, then having him come back to face his charges?”

Ambassador Cooper hummed down the phone. “That may not be a bad idea, though the Brits would have to be persuaded.”

“Isn’t that what you do for a living?” Hugo smiled.

“So they tell me. In the meantime, you’re having a visitor this afternoon.”

“Oh?”

“Your local member of parliament. Or, more precisely, the MP for the Whitechapel area, where you found her body. Graham Stopford-Pendrith.”

“What does he want?”

“He’s former MI5, quite a big shot in the House of Commons. He’s a lord, with the plummy accent, British Army mustache, and tweeds, but he prefers to operate as an elected official and not because his daddy gave him a title.”

“Very noble.”

“Yes. Anyway, he’s been pro-America for a long time and could be helpful. So be nice to him.”

“Sure, but I still don’t understand,” said Hugo. “Why exactly is he coming?”

“Because he wants to be seen doing something, investigating the death of that poor farmer and, when the news gets out, Ginny Ferro’s death.”

“Politics, in other words.”

“You could put it that way, though I think his interest is genuine.”

“Making nice with MPs, am I now doing your job for you, Mr. Ambassador?”

“I’ll get the next shepherd’s pie.”

“That’ll do, I suppose,” Hugo said. “When he gets here I’ll make him a nice cup of tea.”

“I’ve known him for a couple of years. You might start with something stronger.”

Hugo returned to the television and watched as a giant West Indian raced up to bowl at a man encased in protective padding. The ball dug into the ground and kicked up at the batsman’s head, his arms and bat flying as he threw himself out of harm’s way. Hugo waited for the batsman to charge the bowler and throw punches, but other than some gentle applause from the crowd, nothing happened. Hugo heard a noise behind him and turned.

“You got anything to eat?” Harper stood in the doorway to his bedroom, his famously perfect brown hair sticking up every which way, as if it were trying to escape not just its reputation, but Harper’s head altogether.

“Sure. Cold pizza in the fridge. I think I’ve got eggs, bread, and cereal, if you prefer. Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” Harper walked through the living room and into the kitchen. After a few cupboard doors had slammed shut, he reappeared with a plate and two slices of pizza. He stood behind Hugo, looking at photos on a side table. “You married?”

“Yes.”

“Where is she?”

“Dallas.” Hugo put the television remote down, having settled on golf.

“Oh. She doesn’t live with you?”

“Yes, she does. Some of the time.”

“None of my business, huh? Fair enough.” Harper moved from the table and sat down. He stretched his legs out and took a large bite of pizza, watching Hugo as he chewed. “I still can’t believe this.” He shook his head. “What happens now?”

“Well, we lay low while the Brits do a thorough investigation. Then whatever they turn up, we deal with it.”

“Deal with it? Why can’t we go back to America and deal with it from there?”

Hugo wasn’t sure if he was serious, or if the sedative had screwed up his thinking. “You understand that you’re still charged with a serious crime, right?”

Harper sat forward, his elbows on his knees, and ran a hand through his hair. His bright, blue eyes looked up at Hugo. “This is fucking crazy. It was an accident. A fucking farmer got in the way, by accident, and I accidentally hit him.” He spread his hands wide. “Accident. A fucking accident.”

“I don’t think you get to decide that,” said Hugo. “And his name was Quincy Drinker. Be nice if you could use that instead of calling him ‘the farmer.’”

“It was a fucking accident,” Harper repeated. “And then my wife commits suicide. My wife, goddammit! What the fuck else do they want from me?”

Hugo sat back. “Maybe an apology would be a good start.”

“I did that already,” Harper said. “About fifty fucking times. And I am sorry that farmer . . . Mr. Drinker is dead. Jesus. It’s not like I’m a fucking serial killer or anything.”

You show about as much remorse as one, Hugo thought. His wife’s body barely cold and he’s worried about his own neck. “There’s an MP coming over in an hour or so. You should get cleaned up and put on your friendly, I-love-Brits face. You know,” Hugo said, standing, “act nice. I hear you can act.”

Harper stood, too, and his blue eyes flashed with passing indignation. “You ‘hear’ I can act? Funny.” He patted his pocket. “It’s a craft for me, you know. Right here I carry a notebook to write down little moments, thoughts, that I can use for my characters. Writers do it, but I don’t know any other actor who does. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen one of my movies.”

“Sure, I’ve seen one. Something about a murder in Rome.”

“
Seven Hills
.”

“Sounds right. I don’t really remember your performance, sorry.” Hugo smiled, unable to resist. “Now, the female lead, her I remember. Phenomenal.”

“Yeah, she was good,” Harper muttered. He sank back into the chair. “I met Ginny on the set of that movie. That Italian chick had the tits and ass, sure, but Ginny was class. Did you know she was born here, in England?”

“I didn’t know that. And you’re from Texas, my home state.”

“Born in Utah, though my family is all from Texas. Ski trip for my father while my mom had me in the nearby hospital, somewhere outside Park City.”

“When did Ginny move to the States?”

“When she was fifteen. Came from a good English family, well-bred, you know. She lost her accent, but never her class.” He shook his head again. “The opposite to everyone else I ever met in Hollywood. All image. Nothing there; it’s all about image.”

“I can imagine,” Hugo said dryly.

“No, you can’t.” Harper shook his head, earnest, as if explaining something truly important. “The prissy prima-donna actresses who spend their days ordering people to bring them purified water and organic grapes, then spend their nights snorting coke and chugging gin. There are directors, ones you would know, who hire a succession of pretty assistants, each one younger than the last, each one looking more and more frightened than the one before her. And those action heroes, flexing their muscles on screen for the ladies and then experimenting with their understudies when the lights go off.”

“Gay leads? I thought we were past caring about that.”

“You may be, but not the powerful people who rule my world, especially not for the male leads.” Harper looked at Hugo with amusement. “You really think they’d hire a gay actor to play Spiderman or James Bond? No chance, because every time he kissed the girl the audience would be chuckling. Image is everything, absolutely everything. Know who makes more money in Hollywood than anyone else? The image consultants. You think politicians know how to spin things, you should see those guys at work.”

“I had no idea,” Hugo said truthfully.

“Those guys make millions,” Harper said, with a rueful smile. “But then they’re also the only ones in Hollywood who really work for their money. Trust me, it’s all about the image.”

“And you? I suppose you’re a beacon of morality and goodness.”

“Me? No. That’s the thing. Everyone on the planet has something they don’t want the world to know about. I’m no different.” He gave Hugo a sharp look, then smiled. “And no, I’m not gay, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Hugo shrugged. “Wouldn’t mind if you were.”

“No. Me and Ginny, we’re for real.” Harper’s voice fell off. “Were for real. Jesus, I can’t believe she’s gone.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Hugo felt a twinge of guilt for needling him. Harper’s self-absorbed behavior didn’t justify Hugo’s own insensitivity, and he needed to remember that even actors had feelings.

“Can I see her? I feel like it’s not real, like I need to see her to believe it. And to say . . . good-bye.”

“I don’t know,” Hugo said. “I honestly don’t know, but I can ask.”

Both men looked up as the phone rang. Hugo picked it up and nodded as the security guard told him that a Graham Stopford-Pendrith was there to see him.

“Sure,” said Hugo. “He’s early, but send him right up.”

Hugo went to the television and turned it off.

“Who is it?” Harper asked.

“Our visitor.”

“Who?” Harper stood, visibly nervous. “The police?”

“No. You’re on US soil, remember. The cops aren’t going to just come and take you away.” Not yet, he wanted to say.