Nicci French - What to do When Someone Dies

‘We got on well,’ I said. ‘She thought of me as a friend. I felt bad about deceiving her. I meant to tell her but…’

‘So you’re sticking to your story that you didn’t know about your husband’s affair and you had no problem with Frances Shaw…’

‘I didn’t say no problem.’

‘Nothing that would be a motive for violence, I mean.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Although you accuse her husband of having an affair with your husband’s lover.’

‘He did have an affair with her – and she wasn’t Greg’s lover. And his wife was also having an affair, don’t forget.’

‘Hmm.’ He scratched the side of his nose. ‘You can see why we’re so confused, can’t you? The problem is that it’s all these negatives, proving that someone didn’t know something, that they didn’t have a motive. I’m not clever enough for that. A knife with blood and fingerprints. Preferably caught on CCTV. That’s what I like.’

He looked around. ‘Do you ever make new furniture?’ he said.

‘I have, as a sort of hobby. It’s more expensive than old furniture.’

Ramsay seemed disappointed. ‘I can’t afford either on my salary. I’ll stick with Ikea.’ He paused and appeared to remember something. ‘You’re not playing any more of your games, are you?’

‘Like what?’

‘Pretending to be someone else.’

‘No.’

‘It wasn’t even funny the first time.’

‘I’ve got an alibi.’

‘Ah, yes. It seems we’re going to have to look into that.’

I told him about the delivery on the day of Greg’s death. I even went into the house, found the name of the solicitors’ office, then wrote out the address and the phone number for him. ‘You can check yourself.’

‘I will,’ he said.

When Detective Chief Inspector Ramsay came to see me on the Monday morning it wasn’t anything at all like his previous visit. Even his ring at the door sounded different, more insistent and uncompromising. A younger colleague had come with him, awkward in his shiny new suit, as if Ramsay needed someone to protect him from any hint of flirtatiousness, of informality, of special treatment. There was no jovial suggestion of watching me work. He insisted on going through to the living room, where I felt out of place in my smelly, dusty work clothes. Worst of all was his expression, closed off, almost glassy-eyed, as if we hadn’t met before, as if he was only going by a first impression and it wasn’t good. When I offered them tea, he began speaking as if he hadn’t heard.

‘I thought you might be interested to know. We sent an officer round to Pike and Woodhead to check your alibi. Unfortunately they didn’t have the receipt.’

He stopped and looked at me, his expression still and unyielding, as if waiting for some justification.

‘I’m sorry about the waste of time,’ I said. ‘I remember signing for it but they must have thrown it away.’

‘No, they didn’t,’ said Ramsay. ‘But someone had collected it and taken it away before we got there.’

‘Who?’

‘You.’

For a moment, my vision went dark, dark with little golden speckles, like it does when you’ve looked at the sun by mistake. I had to sit down. I couldn’t speak. When I did, it took an immense effort. ‘Why do you say it was me?’

‘Are you serious?’ said Ramsay. He took out his notebook. ‘Our officer talked to an office manager at the firm. A Mr Hatch. He checked the file, found the piece of paper was missing, but there was a note saying it had been taken by a Ms Falkner. By you.’

For a vertiginous moment I let myself wonder whether it was possible that I really had gone over to the office, collected the docket and suppressed the memory of it. Perhaps this was what being mad was like. It might explain everything. Part of my mind had known about Greg’s infidelity, had been responsible for other terrible things and had hidden them behind a mental wall. Hadn’t I heard about that? About people who had suffered traumas and buried them so they wouldn’t have to confront the implications? People who had committed crimes, forgotten them and truly believed they were innocent? It would almost have been a relief to yield to that, but I didn’t.

‘Where is it?’ said Ramsay.

‘I don’t have it,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t me.’

‘Stop,’ said Ramsay. He held up his right hand, the tips of his first finger and thumb almost touching, as if he was holding an invisible match. ‘I’m this close – this close – to arresting you now. Ms Falkner, I don’t think you realize the trouble you’re in. Perverting the course of justice is not like crossing the road when the little red man is showing. Judges don’t like it. They see it as a kind of treason and they send people to prison for a surprisingly long time. Do you understand?’

‘It wasn’t me,’ I said.

‘Of course it was you.’

‘It doesn’t make sense in any possible way,’ I said. ‘If it was me, why would I tell you about the company, give you the address and then take away the evidence before you got there?’

‘Because it didn’t say what you said it said.’

I stopped for a moment, confused. ‘But getting rid of the evidence doesn’t help. It just makes it worse. Why would I do that? And give my name while I was at it?’

Ramsay gave a snort that was almost a laugh but then his expression turned serious and when he spoke it was quietly and deliberately. ‘If a jury was informed of everything else you’ve been up to, I don’t think they’d have difficulty swallowing one extra piece of insanity.’

There was more before the two of them left and none of it was very pleasant. Ramsay said that in the near future I would be interviewed under caution, which meant there was the possibility of an imminent criminal charge, and that I ought to have a lawyer present. He also muttered about having a psychological evaluation and that it might be my best hope. As they were about to leave he regarded me with a mixture of bafflement and pity. ‘I felt sorry for you,’ he said, ‘but you don’t make it easy. I don’t understand what you’re up to. But we’re on your case. Don’t piss us around.’

As soon as they were gone, as soon as the car had pulled away, I changed into more businesslike clothes. Half an hour later I was at the office of Pike and Woodhead, whose entrance was in a small road, almost an alley, just off Lincoln’s Inn Fields. A middle-aged woman was sitting at a desk just inside the door. I asked her if a Mr Hatch was in.

‘Darren? Yes, he’s around somewhere.’

I asked if I could see him and a few minutes later he appeared, not, as I had expected, in a pin-striped suit but in jeans and a Fred Perry T-shirt. I hadn’t met him when I had delivered the chair. I had left it at Reception, signed a piece of paper, taken a copy and left.

‘You deal with deliveries?’ I said.

‘You got one?’

‘Not today. My name’s Eleanor Falkner. I delivered a chair here a few weeks ago.’

His face became suspicious. ‘A policeman was here about that this morning.’

‘I wanted to check up on it.’

‘What for?’

‘When I delivered the chair, I signed a receipt. They said I collected it from you. But I didn’t.’

He walked over to a filing cabinet against the wall and pulled open the top drawer. He took out a file and flicked through it. ‘We have a slip for everything that’s collected or delivered. Here we are. It’s just a note saying, “Docket retrieved for Ms Falkner”.’

‘When?’

‘That would be yesterday.’

‘I don’t understand. Who wrote it?’

He examined it more closely. ‘Looks like my writing.’