The Other Side of the Door by Nicci French (13 ebook reader .TXT) 📗

confess, and the case has to be made against you, it starts to look more like premeditated murder.’

‘I don’t care what it looks like,’ I said. ‘I didn’t kill him. Of course I didn’t. Why would I confess?’

‘Listen, Ms Graham. You’re only a fingerprint or a hair or a fibre away from being charged. And let me tell you that I wouldn’t be satisfied with a charge of manslaughter. I’m interested in the lengths that were gone to in disposing of the body. I’m interested in the fact that we can’t identify a crime scene. We don’t even know where he was killed. I’m especially interested in what happened with the car. I’m interested in why someone would take the car to the airport car park and then that person or maybe another person would drive it away a week later. That’s the puzzle we need to solve.’ He reached a hand across the table and put it on my forearm. ‘Was your boyfriend in trouble?’

‘He wasn’t my boyfriend. I told you. I was with Neal Fenton. You can ask him.’

‘We’ll come to your alibi later.’ He put the word in quotation marks, staring at me, and I tried to hold his gaze. ‘But let’s turn to the question of where he was killed.’

My heart was hammering so loudly I felt sure he must be able to hear it.

‘The first place to look at was where he was staying—your friend’s flat. Let’s see: Liza Charles, at present travelling and unreachable.’

I couldn’t speak, couldn’t even make a small assenting noise.

‘We have, of course, done a forensic examination of the place. You’d be amazed by the things you can pick up. One hair, one spot of blood.’

I thought of Hayden’s body, face down on Liza’s rug. The blood puddling out beside his battered head. But we’d thrown away the rug.

‘So what did you find?’ I made myself say.

‘Well, of course, the difficulty was that he was living there. There are traces of him everywhere. It makes things harder.’

‘You mean you found nothing?’

‘Oh, no. I wouldn’t say that. I’ll tell you one thing we discovered.’

‘What’s that?’ I dug my fingers into the soft skin of my palms and waited.

‘For a feckless musician who lived on other people’s floors, your friend cleaned up very well.’

‘Oh.’

‘Odd, wouldn’t you say?’

Before

‘Guy, the rehearsal’s over!’ I said in surprise, but Guy was already in mid-sentence—he must have started speaking as soon as he’d rung the doorbell.

‘—so if you could please let us come in,’ he said, with icy courtesy, and, not giving me time to reply, swept past me, leaving me face to face with a tall, thin woman who I imagined usually was calmly elegant but today was brittle with miserable fury.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘You must be—’

‘I’m Guy’s wife, Celia. Joakim’s mother.’

‘Which is why we’re here,’ said Guy, from the foot of the stairs.

‘Hello, Celia,’ I said. ‘I think we’ve met at parents’ evening.’ I held out a hand, but she didn’t take it, and I realized that she was holding back tears. ‘Please. Come in. It’s a bit of a mess—the others have all just gone and I haven’t cleared up. And I’m decorating.’ I made myself stop babbling.

‘He was here, was he?’

‘You mean Hayden? Yes.’

‘What about Joakim?’ asked Celia.

‘Yes, he was here as well.’

‘Of course he was.’ Her mouth tightened as if she’d sucked a lemon. ‘He wouldn’t miss a chance of spending time with his beloved Hayden Booth.’

‘Celia’s a bit upset,’ said Guy.

‘Yes, I can see that,’ I said cautiously. ‘Can I offer you anything? Tea? Coffee?’

‘I’m not a bit upset. I’m very, very, very upset.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I sat down in the chair but they remained standing, so I got up again.

‘Very,’ she said again.

‘He has a place at Edinburgh,’ said Guy.

‘Yes, I know.’

‘But he’s not going.’

‘He’s so rude to me.’ Celia’s voice caught on a sob. ‘He treats me as if he had contempt for me.’

‘Teenagers . . .’ I began, without knowing what was going to come next.

‘What have I done to deserve that?’

‘What I want to know,’ said Guy, ‘is what you’re going to do about it.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve been there for him his whole life and a few days with this—this sleazeball . . .’

‘I don’t understand, Guy. Obviously I know you’re disappointed—’

‘You’re his teacher.’

‘I was his teacher. He left school a couple of months ago.’

‘You’re his teacher and you roped him into your wretched band, and now this second-rate musician has lured him away from everything he’s worked for.’

‘It’s like a cult. A cult and he’s been brainwashed.’

I stayed silent.

‘Hayden says this and Hayden does that and I’m going to dress like Hayden and talk like Hayden and lie around all day like Hayden. I’m losing him.’

‘Celia, let’s try and keep this rational, shall we?’

‘That’s all very easy for you to say. I’m his mother!’

‘I’m his father, you know.’

It was as if I’d blundered into a private argument. Guy seemed to notice my presence once more. ‘He’s a con-man,’ he said. ‘And he’s conned my son and you’re responsible.’

‘Joakim is eighteen years old,’ I said.

‘You don’t have any children. How can you be expected to understand? I knew she wouldn’t understand.’ Celia regarded me with distaste so that all at once I felt acutely conscious of my spiky hair, my nose stud, my ripped shirt.

‘I just don’t know what you expect me to do about it. Joakim’s an adult.’

‘He’s not an adult. He doesn’t know what he’s doing—he doesn’t understand the consequences.’

‘Have you tried talking to him?’

‘We’re not here to ask your advice about him, thank you,’ said Guy. His voice was tight with fury and a small vein ticked in his forehead. ‘We’re here to say that you have to undo the harm you’ve done.’

I was getting irritated. ‘Don’t you think part of the problem is the way you’re thinking of your son?’

‘No,’ he roared. ‘I do not think that is the fucking problem. The problem is Hayden Booth. You sort this out before I do. Got it?’

After

I left the police station,