Nicci French - Killing Me Softly

‘From the murdered woman?’

‘Yes, Tara Blanchard.’

‘Did she sign them?’

‘No, but after her death I went to her flat and found newspaper articles about my husband among her rubbish.’

Byrne looked surprised, not to say alarmed. ‘You searched her rubbish?’

‘Yes.’

‘What were these newspaper articles?’

‘My husband – his name is Adam Tallis – is a well-known mountaineer. He was involved in a terrible disaster on a Himalayan mountain last year in which five people died. He’s a sort of hero. Anyway, there was the problem that we received another of those notes after Tara Blanchard had died. Not only that. The note was connected to a break-in at our flat. Our cat was killed.’

‘Did you report the break-in?’

‘Yes. Two officers from this police station came round.’

‘Well, that’s something,’ Byrne said wearily, and then, as if it were almost too much effort to be worth pointing out, ‘but if this happened after this woman apparently died…’

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘It was impossible. But a few days ago I was clearing out the flat and under a desk I found a scrunched-up envelope. On the paper Adam had clearly been practising writing the note that was left that last time.’

‘So?’

‘So Adam had been trying to break any possible connection between the notes and this woman.’

‘Can I see this note?’

I had been dreading this moment. ‘Adam found out about what I suspect him of. When I got back to the flat today, the paper was gone.’

‘How did he find out?’

‘I wrote everything down and put it in an envelope and gave it to a friend of mine, in case anything should happen to me. But she read it. And she gave it to Adam.’

Byrne gave a half-smile then quickly suppressed it. ‘Maybe she had your best interests at heart,’ he said. ‘Maybe she wanted to help.’

‘I’m sure she wanted to help. But she didn’t help. She put me in danger.’

‘The problem is, er, Mrs…’

‘Alice Loudon.’

‘The problem is that murder is a very serious offence.’ He was talking to me as if he were instructing a primary-school child about road safety. ‘And because it’s such a serious offence, we need evidence, not just suspicion. People quite often feel suspicious about people they know. They suspect them of crimes when they’ve had arguments. The best thing is to sort out those differences of opinion.’

I could feel him slipping away from me. I had to continue.

‘You haven’t let me finish. The reason Tara was harassing Adam was that, I believe, she suspected that he had killed her sister, Adele.’

‘Killed her sister?’

Byrne raised a disbelieving eyebrow. Worse and worse. I pressed my hands against the desk, to stop the sense that the ground was tilting beneath me; tried not to think of Adam waiting outside the police station for me. He would be standing there, quite still, blue eyes fixed on the door, which I would come out of. I knew what he looked like when he was waiting for something that he wanted: patient, absolutely focused.

‘Adele Blanchard was married and lived in Corrick. It’s a village in the Midlands, fairly near Birmingham. She and her husband were trekkers, climbers, and were part of a group of friends that included Adam. She had an affair with Adam and broke it off in January nineteen ninety. A couple of weeks later she disappeared.’

‘And you think your husband killed her?’

‘He wasn’t my husband then. We only met this year.’

‘Is there any reason for thinking he killed this other woman?’

‘Adele Blanchard rejected Adam and she died. He had one other long-term girlfriend. She was a doctor and a mountaineer called Françoise Colet.’

‘And where is she?’ asked Byrne, with a slightly sarcastic expression.

‘She died on the mountain in Nepal last year.’

‘And I suppose your husband killed her as well.’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

‘Just wait, let me take you through it properly.’ Now he thought I was insane.

‘Mrs, er, I’m very busy. I’ve got…’ He pointed vaguely at the piles of paper on his desk.

‘Look, I know this is difficult,’ I said, trying to suppress a feeling of panic that was rising in me, like a flood about to engulf me entirely. My voice came out in a gasp. ‘I really appreciate you listening to me. If you could just give me a few more minutes and I can take you through it. After that, if you want me to, I’ll just go away and forget about the whole thing.’

There was a visible expression of relief on his face. That was evidently the most hopeful news he had heard since I had arrived.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘But briefly.’

‘I promise,’ I said, but of course I wasn’t brief. I had the magazine with me and with all the questions and repetitions and explanations the account lasted almost an hour. I took him through the details of the expedition, the arrangements involving the coloured lines, the non-English-speaking Tomas Benn, the chaos of the storm, the repeated descents and ascents made by Adam while Greg and Claude were disabled. I talked and talked, gabbling against my death sentence. As long as he was listening, I would be alive. As I told him the final details, fading away into unwilling silence, a slow smile spread across Byrne’s face. I had his attention at last. ‘So,’ I said at the end, ‘the only possible explanation is that Adam deliberately arranged for the group with Françoise in it to go down the wrong side of the Gemini Ridge.’

Byrne gave a broad grin. ‘Gelb?’ he said. ‘That’s German for yellow, you say?’

‘That’s right,’ I said.

‘It’s good,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to give you credit. It’s good.’

‘So you believe me.’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know about that. It’s possible. But, then, maybe they misheard him. Or maybe he really did shout, "Help."’

‘But I’ve explained why that’s impossible.’

‘It doesn’t matter. It’s a matter for the authorities in Nepal or wherever that mountain was.’

‘But that’s not my point. I’ve established a psychological pattern. Can’t you see that, on the basis of what I’ve told you, it’s worth investigating the other two murders?’

Byrne had a hunted, cornered look by this time and there was now a long silence as he considered what I’d said and how to answer me. I clung to the desk as if I were about to fall.

‘No,’ he said finally. I started to protest but he continued, ‘Miss Loudon, you must agree that I’ve done you the politeness of listening to what you had to say. The only thing I can recommend to you is that if you wish to take these matters further you should talk to the police forces concerned. But unless you have anything concrete to offer them, I don’t believe there’s anything they can do.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. My voice sounded flat, drained of all expression. And, indeed, it didn’t matter any more. There was nothing left to do.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Adam knows about it all now. This was my only chance. You’re right, of course. I’ve got no evidence. I just know. I just know Adam.’ I was going to stand up, say goodbye, leave, but on an impulse I leaned across the desk and took Byrne’s hand. He looked startled. ‘What’s your first name?’

‘Bob,’ he said uneasily.

‘If, in the next few weeks, you hear that I’ve killed myself or fallen under a train or drowned, there’ll be lots of evidence that I’ve behaved madly over the last few weeks so it will be easy to conclude that I killed myself while the balance of my mind was disturbed or that I was having a breakdown and was an accident waiting to happen. But it won’t be true. I want to stay alive. All right?’