Louise Welsh - A Lovely Way to Burn

‘I don’t think there was anything personal about it. His wife said he was torn between old loyalties and an urge for justice.’

Buchanan let out a guffaw that made her sit back in the driver’s seat.

‘You’re right. He was torn, but not for those reasons. It used to make me laugh when I saw his column in the newspaper, his “good man” image, a crusader for the forces of justice in an unjust world. Oh, I daresay Frei did some good, but the man was a congenital liar. His whole life was predicated on deceit.’ Buchanan took a deep breath, as if considering what to say next. ‘Frei was a rather old-fashioned creature, a closeted, married homosexual with children. He and Ahumibe may have had an on-off dalliance; there were certainly rumours to that effect when we were at school. It was the source of some of the bullying. I don’t care what people get up to in their private lives. But I do know Frei had a weakness for casual pickups. When I read the news of his death, I couldn’t help wondering if it was the result of a brief encounter that had gone awry.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘Ms Flint.’ Buchanan’s voice was exasperated. ‘I am getting rather tired of being called a liar. If you don’t believe anything I say, there doesn’t seem to be much point in our having this conversation.’

‘Please, don’t hang up.’ An army lorry passed her, headed in the opposite direction. Its sides were dusty and mud-spattered, as if it were in the middle of some campaign. Stevie stared at the road ahead, determined not to make eye contact with the other driver. She heard Buchanan breathing on the end of the line and wondered what was keeping him there. She said, ‘If there’s no truth behind Summers’ allegations or Frei’s investigation, why would anyone want to murder Simon?’

‘Let me ask you a question. How did you and Simon meet?’

It had been an Internet date. A week of late-night flirting online, that had led to a drink in Soho and ended in the bed of a hastily booked hotel room.

Stevie said, ‘We were introduced at a party.’

‘Did he tell you much about his background?’

‘Bits and pieces.’

‘I’ll interpret that as not much. Didn’t it strike you as funny that he never introduced you to his family or friends?’

‘Not really. I didn’t introduce him to mine.’

‘In that case perhaps it was a marriage made in heaven.’

‘We weren’t married.’

‘No, Simon wasn’t really the marrying kind. None of us were, although I had a disastrous attempt at it. Our little gang were the lost boys, the ones whose parents boarded them through the holidays because it was too far to fly us to wherever they were. None of us found it easy to make relationships, but we became some kind of family. Later we shared a flat and then, later still, we worked together. Simon was best man at my wedding. When my son was born I asked Simon to be his godfather, and when I got divorced he let me move into his apartment for a while.’

‘Where did Frei fit into all this?’

Stevie was driving along an avenue of trees, sunlight strobing between the leaves, turning her progress into a cartoon of alternating bright and dark. She wondered if the journalist really had been gay. His wife had made a big thing of his gentleness, but that meant nothing. Some of the gay men Stevie had met had been laddish, some of the straights fey.

‘I told you, Frei went his own way.’ Buchanan’s voice was too tired for impatience but she sensed his frustration. ‘What I’m trying to say is, the three of us shared a history. We looked out for each other.’

‘You also shared a business.’

‘Yes, we had a shared endeavour, to help sick children.’

‘You still haven’t told me why you thought Simon might have been murdered.’

An old man in a dressing gown and slippers was shuffling along the pavement, slow and determined, like a corpse making its own way to the grave. Stevie glanced in the rear-view mirror as she passed and thought his eyes had been blackened, though it may just have been the effect of shadows, settling in the hollows of his face. Buchanan’s sigh seemed to carry into the car, so close she could almost feel it against her skin.

‘I’m telling you this because it’s obvious you’re not going to give up easily. But it’s important you know that, if Simon was killed, trying to uncover the reason why could put you in danger.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘Quite the opposite. I’m warning you.’ Perhaps Buchanan realised that his answer sounded like intimidation because he sighed again. ‘Lots of boys envied Simon at school. He was handsome, good at sports and managed to excel in his studies without being a bore about them. I’m repeating myself.’ The doctor paused as if picturing his friend’s gilded youth. ‘I’ve already mentioned how popular Simon was. He made the most of his time there, worked hard, gained excellent grades, went up to Cambridge, but deep down he hated it. Simon always felt that there was something more real beyond the bourgeois confines of our world. He wasn’t fool enough to throw away his advantages, but he became a social tourist. He sought out interesting company.’

‘Like salesgirls.’

‘That was unfair of me.’ Now that he had started, Buchanan seemed keen to get on with his story, like a university don aware of the ticking of the lecture-theatre clock. ‘At first it was people in the arts: musicians, poets, writers. He even dated a rock singer for a while. A strange-looking girl, all skinny legs, multicoloured hair and black eyeliner; like an angry parrot. I got the impression it was the world these people inhabited, rather than the work they did, that attracted Simon. After a while, unfortunately, their exoticism seemed to fade. I suspect Simon discovered that most of the arty crowd were hard-working and middle class, rather like him.’

Stevie asked, ‘Why unfortunately?’

A car was travelling slowly on the road ahead, its rear window jammed with bags, as if heading for the start of a family holiday. She overtook, and caught a glimpse of the car’s occupants. An elderly white lady was at the wheel, a small Asian boy in the passenger seat. Their mouths were moving in a song, the boy waving his arms in accompaniment.

Buchanan said, ‘When their appeal started to wane, Simon drifted towards an edgier set.’ His voice softened and Stevie realised that he had reached the point her ex-editor had called ‘the golden axis’, the moment when the story took over and the interviewee needed to go on. ‘We were at a school reunion when it struck me for the first time how deep Simon was in. It was the kind of boozy all-male affair you’d probably imagine: black tie, nursery food, lots of back-slapping and blue jokes. Simon regaled us with stories of his expeditions into the seamier side of society.’

‘The sex industry?’ Stevie touched a foot to the brakes, not trusting herself to steer the Jaguar straight. ‘Do you mean he slept with prostitutes?’

‘I very much doubt it.’ Buchanan spoke slowly, as if weighing his words. ‘Simon may have met people who were involved in the sex industry. If you turn over a stone you have no control over what crawls out, but that wasn’t what I meant. Surgeons need to be able to cope with risk. Not everyone can take a knife and cut into someone else’s body. Simon was cool under pressure and fascinated by people who had the same ability. No doubt that was what attracted him to you.’

‘My job isn’t dangerous.’

‘Perhaps not, but you present a show on live television with only the barest of scripts. Most people would find that impossible. And look at the way you’ve responded to this crisis. You could have run away, but instead you ran towards it. I’d give odds you’re the kind of person who undertakes extreme challenges for charity.’