Mark Mills - Amagansett

He was driven into the chair behind the desk by the weight of the realization: any investigation that existed was entirely of his own invention. He had brought it into the world, breathed life into it through an act of sheer will. He had wanted it to exist, and it had duly obliged.

There was a light knock at the door.

‘Yes.’

It was Hartwell. ‘I swear to God,’ he said, ‘one day…’

He was angry, uncharacteristically so. Hollis stared at him, unable to match the outrage Hartwell felt on his behalf.

‘This is for you. She called while you were with him.’

Hollis took the piece of paper. Verity Brandon. The name meant nothing to him.

‘She said she’s with the Medical Examiner’s office.’

He remembered now—the nameplate on the front desk at the County Morgue, her failure to offer him a glass of water. What did she want?

‘Tom,’ said Hartwell, ‘is something up?’

‘Up?’

‘I don’t know…’

‘Nothing’s up, Bob.’

‘Okay,’ he said, then left the room.

Hollis felt a little bad. It was probably nothing to worry about, but he could still recall Hartwell watching him from afar the day of the funeral, just after his conversation with Penrose.

He reached for the phone and asked the operator to put him through to the morgue in Hauppauge. She answered on the second ring.

‘Suffolk County Medical Examiner’s Office.’

‘Mrs Brandon?’

‘Miss.’

‘It’s Deputy Chief Hollis, from East Hampton.’

‘Ah, yes. Wait a minute, please.’ He could hear her searching through some papers. ‘I have it here somewhere…a strange request…I mean, we get them sometimes, but they’re rare. I just thought you should know.’

‘What kind of request?’

‘Dash it,’ she said.

‘Miss Brandon…’

‘Someone has asked to see the autopsy report on that poor girl who drowned. A member of the public. It’s their right, you know, we can’t stop them.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘I told him he has to wait a month.’

‘Who?’

‘I have his name here somewhere.’

‘Conrad Labarde,’ said Hollis quietly.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Conrad Labarde.’

There was a silence on the other end of the phone. ‘Well, yes,’ she said, ‘I think that was his name.’

‘Best to be sure though.’

‘Of course. Like I say, I have it here somewhere.’

Seventeen

Gayle Wallace had swum in the pool, taken a bath, washed and dried her hair, and all but finished her breakfast when Manfred stepped gingerly from the house on to the terrace.

‘Christ, it’s bright.’

‘You look dreadful,’ said Gayle.

‘Thanks.’

‘Worse than I’ve seen you in quite a while.’

Manfred picked up her discarded sunglasses and put them on. ‘Better?’ he asked.

‘Much.’

Manfred dropped into a chair and poured himself a cup of coffee from the jug.

‘It’s cold,’ said Gayle.

‘It’s coffee.’ He took a gulp, grimaced. ‘Justin stayed late.’

‘I know.’

‘We didn’t keep you awake, did we?’

‘I don’t mind. You play well when you’re drunk…even if it is Dinah Shore.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with “Shoo Fly Pie and Apple Pan Dowdy”.’

‘Not if you have your head buried under a pillow.’

Rosa appeared with some fresh toast and hot coffee.

‘Thanks, Rosa,’ said Manfred, ‘you’re a life-saver.’

Rosa smiled, then left.

‘So what did you end up deciding?’ asked Gayle.

‘What do you think?’

‘It’s going ahead.’

‘Father grew pretty adamant after you went to bed.’

‘I’m not against it, Manfred. It’s just that it seems a little…’ She couldn’t find the right word.

‘I know.’

‘I understand how important it is to you. I do.’

‘It’s hardly going to be a riotous affair. It never was. Far from it.’

Over dinner the previous evening, the conversation had turned to a sensitive subject, one they’d all been dodging for the past couple of weeks: that of the house party arranged months before and set to take place the following weekend.

It had never been in question that Manfred would one day make a move into politics—that decision was taken on his behalf while he was still wet from the womb—but no one had anticipated the ease with which he would navigate the course charted for him from birth. At prep school he had excelled himself, surpassing even their father’s expectations. He was captain of the varsity soccer and baseball squads, secretary of the Student Council, chairman of the Student Deacons and editor of the school newspaper, the Phillipian. These accomplishments heaped up with little or no apparent effort on Manfred’s part, and their father used to say that in this lay Manfred’s greatest achievement. For people mistrusted overt ambition, it threatened them, obliged them to take a stand for or against you.

There was only one thing more important than winning, and that was appearing not to care about winning. It was a credo that had been instilled in them from an early age, an article of faith vigorously contested by Lillian, silently accepted by Gayle, but dutifully observed by Manfred. And it had served him well, both at Andover and Yale.

It wasn’t until he went to university that Gayle actually witnessed Manfred in action. She was present in the mahoganypaneled hall when he got to his feet as Captain of the Yale Debate Team to deliver his summation speech in defense of the resolution: An oppressive government is more desirable than no government.

He opened by stating that he was a little mystified by his rival speaker’s arguments in favor of no government, as he had it on good authority that the fellow was actively seeking a position in government on his graduation. Delivered with a sly smile, his tone devoid of any malice, this won him a large laugh and proved to be the final nail in the other man’s coffin. Manfred had already argued a difficult position with a compelling mix of conviction and crowd-pleasing humor.

When he finally stepped away from the lectern, it was Lillian, chauffeured in from Vassar for the night, who was first to her feet, applauding loudly. Shrugging off their mother’s efforts to silence her, she triggered a standing ovation. The motion was duly carried by a large majority.

In the heady aftermath of his victory, it became clear that Manfred had delivered no more or less than had been expected of him. Yes, his peers mobbed him and showered him with compliments, but only as team-mates might congratulate a star batter who can always be relied upon to pull a winning home run out of the bag. There was no mistaking the fact that he was already a figure of some considerable standing among his Conservative Party cronies, admired and respected by the sons of some of the country’s most influential men, a few of whom also happened to be present that evening.

Gayle could still recall her father’s largesse with the Champagne in the bar of the Taft Hotel afterwards, the expression on his face as he surveyed the proceedings. It was a look not so much of paternal pride as of deep satisfaction. He had invested everything in Manfred, and Manfred had more than repaid the confidence placed in him.

Bathed in his reflected glory, Gayle and Lillian had found themselves surrounded by a pack of attentive young men, until ushered to the relative safety of a corner booth by Justin Penrose, Manfred’s closest friend. At midnight, when their parents finally prized them away from the rowdy gathering, Gayle was left in little doubt that Justin wished to see her again. And her father let it be known that he thoroughly approved.

America’s entry into the war two years later, though a little inconvenient, was barely a setback to their father’s plans. It also meant that Manfred could enter the political arena with the added kudos of a sound military record.