Elizabeth George - This Body of Death

Well, of course she could. That was what he expected her to say, so she said it. She added that her dearest and oldest friend had been murdered in London recently and that was causing her to be preoccupied, but she would pull herself together.

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry about that,” Mr. Hudson said abruptly, as if he was already in possession of the facts surrounding Jemima’s death, as indeed he likely was. “Tragedy, it is. But life continues for the rest of us, and it’s not going to continue if we let the walls collapse round our ears, is it.”

No, no, of course. He was right. She was sorry she’d not been pulling her weight round Gerber & Hudson, but she would resume doing so the very next day. That is, unless Mr. Hudson wanted her to remain into the evening to make up for lost time, which she would do except that she had a five-year-old at home and-

“That won’t be necessary.” Mr. Hudson used a letter opener to clean beneath his fingernails, digging round industriously in a way that made Meredith feel rather faint. “As long as I see the old Meredith back here at her desk tomorrow.”

He would, oh he would, Meredith vowed. Thank you, Mr. Hudson. I appreciate your confidence in me.

When he dismissed her, she returned to her cubicle. End of the day, so she could go home. But to leave so soon on the heels of Mr. Hudson’s reprimand would not look good no matter how he’d concluded their interview. She knew that she ought to spend at least one hour longer than usual with her nose to the grindstone of whatever it was that she was supposed to be doing.

Which, of course, she could not remember. Which, of course, had been Randall Hudson’s point.

She had a pile of telephone messages on her desk, so she fingered through these in the hope of finding a clue. There were certainly names and there were pointed questions and ultimately she reckoned she could start looking a few things up since most everyone seemed to be concerned about how the designs for this and for that were coming along, according to the messages. But her heart wasn’t in it, and her mind would not cooperate at all. She had, she concluded, far more important subjects with which to be concerned than the colour scheme she would recommend for the advertisement of a local bookshop’s new reading group.

She put the messages to one side. She used the time to straighten her desk. She made an effort to look industrious as her colleagues called out good-byes and faded into the late afternoon, but all the time her thoughts were like a flock of birds circling a food source, lighting upon it briefly and taking flight again. Instead of a food source, though, the flock of birds circled Gina Dickens, only to find out that there were far too many places for them to land without a single one offering either a decent foothold or safety from predation.

But how could it actually be otherwise? Meredith asked herself. For in every matter that touched upon Gina, Meredith had been outmanoeuvred from the first.

She forced herself to consider each of her interactions with the other young woman, and she felt every which way the fool. The truth of the matter was that Gina had read her as easily as she herself read Cammie. She had no more sense and even less art than a five-year-old, and it had likely taken fewer than ten minutes for Gina Dickens to work that out.

She’d done so on the very first day, when Meredith had taken that stupid, melting birthday cake to Jemima’s cottage. Gina had claimed knowledge of nothing relating to Jemima, and Meredith had believed her, just like that. And hearing a claim that the programme for young girls at risk was merely in its embryonic stage, she’d believed that as well. As she had also believed that Gordon Jossie-and not Gina herself, which, let’s face it was far more likely-had gone into London on the very day that Jemima died. As she had also believed that Gordon Jossie-and not Gina herself-had caused the bruising on Gina’s body. As to everything Gina had claimed about a relationship of some sort between Chief Superintendent Whiting and Gordon…Gina could have announced they’d both landed as conjoined twins from Mars and Meredith probably would have believed her.

It seemed that there was only one alternative now. So Meredith rang her mother and told her she’d be just a bit late coming home because she had a stop to make. Fortunately that stop was on the way, so she needn’t worry. And give Cammie a kiss and a cuddle please.

Then she went for her car and headed for Lyndhurst. She put on an affirmation tape to accompany her on the A31. She repeated the sonorous declarations of her ability, her value as a human being, and the possibility of her becoming an agent of change.

The usual rush hour tailback slowed her progress on the Bourne mouth Road as she approached Lyndhurst. The traffic lights in the high street didn’t help matters either, but Meredith found that the repetition of her affirmations kept her centred, so that when she finally reached the police station, her nerves were steady and she was ready to make certain that her demands for action were well understood.

She expected to be thwarted. She reckoned that the special constable in reception would recognise her and, with much eye rolling, would tell her she could not see the chief superintendent on the spur of the moment. This wasn’t, after all, a drop-in centre. Zachary Whiting had more important concerns than to meet with every hysterical woman who happened to call in.

But that didn’t occur. The special constable asked her to be seated, disappeared into the station for less than three minutes, and returned with the request that she follow him because although Chief Superintendent Whiting had intended to leave for the day, once he heard Meredith’s name, he remembered it from her earlier visit-so she had given her name, she thought-and asked that she be ushered to his office.

She told him everything. She gave him A to Z and then some on the topic of Gina Dickens. She saved the very best for the end: her own hiring of a private investigator in Ringwood and what that private investigator had turned up about Gina.

Whiting jotted notes throughout. At the end, he clarified that this Gina Dickens was the same woman who had accompanied Meredith to the police station here in Lyndhurst with evidence suggesting that one Gordon Jossie had been in London during the time his former lover had been murdered. This was that woman, was it not?

It was, Meredith said. And she realised, Chief Superintendent Whiting, how that looked: that she herself was a nutter of the first water. But she’d had her reasons for delving into Gina’s background because everything Gina told her had been suspect from the first and wasn’t the important bit the fact that now they knew every word the woman spoke was a lie? She’d even lied about himself and Gordon Jossie, Meredith told him. She’d said he-Whiting himself!-had paid more than one mysterious call upon Gordon.

Had she indeed? Whiting frowned. This would be looked into, he assured her. He said he would handle the matter personally. He said that there was obviously more here than could be understood by merely skimming the surface, and since he had access to a far better set of investigatory tools than were had by any private investigator, Meredith should let the matter rest with him.

“But will you do something about her?” Meredith asked, and she even wrung her hands.

He would indeed, Whiting told her. There was nothing she needed to worry about from this moment forward. He recognised the urgency of the situation, especially as it had to do with a murder.

So she left. She felt, if not lighthearted, then at least moderately relieved. She’d taken a step towards dealing with the problem of Gina Dickens, and that made her feel somewhat less foolish about being seduced-there was no other word for it-by Gina’s lies.