Sister: A Novel Part 10

'Simon lied about meeting Tess at the Serpentine Gallery. I have to tell DS Finborough.'

Todd's reaction, or rather lack of it, should have prepared me for DS Finborough's. But just then DS Finborough came onto the line. I told him about Simon.

He sounded patient, gentle even. 'Maybe Simon was just trying to look good.'

'By lying?'

'By saying they met at a gallery.' I could hardly believe DS Finborough was making excuses for him. 'We did talk to Simon, when we knew he'd been with her that day,' he continued. 'And there's no reason to think that he had any involvement in her death.'

'But he lied about where they were.'

'Beatrice, I think you should try to-'

I flipped through the cliches I imagined he was about to use; I should try to 'move on', 'put it behind me', even with a little flourish of clauses 'accept the truth and get on with my life'. I interrupted before any of these cliches took verbal form.

'You've seen the place where she died, haven't you?'

'Yes I have.'

'Do you think anyone would choose to die there?'

'I don't think it was a matter of choice.'

For a moment I thought he had started to believe me, then realised he was blaming mental illness for your murder. Like an obsessive compulsive who has no choice but to repeat the same task a hundred times, a woman with post-natal psychosis gets swept along by her mental tide of madness to inevitable self-destruction. A young woman with friends, family, talent and beauty who is found dead arouses suspicion. Even if her baby has died there's still a question mark about the end of her life. But throw psychosis into the list of life-affirming adjectives and you take away the question mark; you give a mental alibi to the killer, framing the victim for her own murder.

'Somebody forced her into that terrible place and killed her there.'

DS Finborough was still patient with me. 'But there was no reason any one would want to kill her. It wasn't a s.e.xual crime, thank G.o.d, and there was no theft involved. And when we were investigating her disappearance, we couldn't find anyone who wished her harm, in fact quite the reverse.'

'Will you at least talk to Simon again?'

'I really don't believe there's anything to be gained by that.'

'Is it because Simon is the son of a cabinet minister?'

I threw that at him in an attempt to make him change his mind, to shame him into it.

'My decision not to talk to Simon Greenly again is because there is no purpose to be served by it.'

Now I know him better I know that he uses formal language when he feels emotionally pressurised.

'But you're aware that Simon's father is Richard Greenly MP?'

'I don't think this phone call is getting us very far. Perhaps-'

'Tess isn't worth the risk to you, is she?'

Mr Wright has poured me a gla.s.s of water. Describing the toilets building made me retch. I have told him about Simon's lie and my phone call to DS Finborough. But I have left out that as I spoke to DS Finborough Todd hung up my coat; that he took the cards out of the pockets and neatly laid each one out to dry; and that instead of feeling that he was being considerate, each damp card smoothed out felt a criticism; that I knew he was taking DS Finborough's side, even though he could only hear mine.

'So after DS Finborough said he wouldn't interview Simon you decided to do it yourself?' asks Mr Wright. I think I detect a hint of amus.e.m.e.nt in his voice; it wouldn't be surprising.

'Yes, it was getting to be something of a habit.'

And just eight days earlier, flying into London, I'd been someone who always avoided confrontation. But in comparison to the murderous brutality of your death, confrontation with words seemed harmless and a little trivial. Why had I ever been daunted by it before, afraid even? That seemed so cowardly - ludicrous - now.

Todd was going off to buy a toaster. ('I can't believe your sister had to grill her toast.') Our toaster in New York had a defrost function and a croissant warming mode that we actually used. At the door he turned to me.

'You look exhausted.'

Was he being concerned or critical?

'I told you last night you should take one of Dr Broadbent's sleeping pills I got for you.'

Critical.

He left to go and get the toaster.

I hadn't explained to him why I couldn't take a sleeping pill - that it would have felt cowardly blotting you out, even for a few hours. Nor would I tell him now that I was going to see Simon, because he would have felt duty-bound to stop me being 'so rash and ridiculous'.

I drove to Simon's address, which I'd found on a Post-it in your address book, and parked outside a three-storey mansion in Kensington. Simon buzzed me in and I made my way up to the top flat. When he opened the door I barely recognised him. His soft baby face was ridged with tiredness; his designer stubble grown into the beginnings of a spa.r.s.e beard.

'I'd like to talk to you about Tess.'

'Why? I thought you knew her best.' His voice was snide with jealousy.

'You were close to her too, weren't you?' I asked.

'Yeah.'

'So can I come in?'

He left the door open and I followed him into a large opulent drawing room. It must be his father's London pad when he isn't in his const.i.tuency. On one wall, running along the length of the double drawing room, was a vast painting of a prison. Looking closer, I saw that it was actually a collage; the prison made from thousands of pa.s.sport-sized photos of babies' faces. It was engrossing and repelling.

'The Serpentine Gallery is closed until April, you couldn't have met Tess there.'

He just shrugged, apparently unconcerned.

'Why did you lie?' I asked.

'I just liked the idea, that's all,' he replied. 'It made our meeting sound like a date. The Serpentine Gallery is the kind of place Tess would choose for a date.'

'But it wasn't a date, was it?'

'Does it really matter now if I rewrite our history a little? Make it something I want it to be? Put a little fantasy in? There's no harm in that.'

I wanted to yell at him, but nothing would be served but the brief instant gratification of expressed rage.

'So why did you meet her in the park? It must have been freezing out.'

'It was Tess who wanted to go to the park. Said she needed to be outside. Told me she was going crazy stuck indoors.'

' "Crazy"? She used that word?'

I've never heard you say it. Although you talk nineteen to the dozen you choose words carefully, and you're patriotically English about vocabulary, berating me for my Americanisms.

Simon picked up a velvet bag from a mirrored gla.s.s cabinet. 'Maybe she said she was claustrophobic. I don't remember.' That sounded more likely.

'Did she give a reason for wanting to see you?' I asked.

He fussed around with Rizla papers not replying.

'Simon . . . ?'

'She just wanted to spend time with me. Jesus, is that so hard for you to understand?'

'How did you find out she was dead?' I asked. 'Did a friend tell you? Did they tell you about the slashes to the insides of her arms?'

I wanted to tip him into tears, because I know that tears dissolve into wet saltiness the defences around what we want to keep private.

'Did they tell you she'd been there for five nights, all alone, in a stinking foul toilets building?'

Tears were welling up in his eyes, his voice quieter than usual. 'That day you found me outside her flat. I waited, just round the corner, till you left. Then followed you on my bike.'

I dimly remembered the sound of a motorbike revving as I left for Hyde Park. I hadn't taken any notice of it after that.

'I waited, for hours, outside the park gates. It was snowing,' continued Simon. 'I was already frozen, remember? I saw you come out with that policewoman. I saw a blacked-out van. No one would tell me anything. I wasn't family.'

His tears were flowing now; he made no effort to stop them. Like his art, I found him repellent.

'Later that evening it was on the local news,' he continued. 'Just a short item, barely two minutes, about a young woman who had been found dead in a Hyde Park toilet. They showed the student picture of her. That's how I discovered she was dead.'

He had to blow his nose and wipe his eyes and I judged it the right time to confront him.

'So why did she really want to meet you?'

'She said she was frightened and wanted me to help her.'

The tears had worked, as I knew they would; since that first night at boarding school when I broke down and admitted to my house mistress that it wasn't home and Mum I missed, but Dad.

'Did she tell you why she was frightened?' I asked.

'She said she'd been getting weird phone calls.'

'Did she tell you who it was?'

He shook his head. And I suddenly wondered if his tears were genuine or like the proverbial crocodile's, ruthless and without remorse.

'Why do you think she chose you, Simon? Why not one of her other friends?' I asked.

He had dried his tears now, closing up. 'We were very close.'

Maybe he saw my scepticism because his tone became angrily wounded. 'It's easier for you, you're her sister, you have a right to mourn her. People expect you to be in pieces. But I can't even say she was my girlfriend.'

'She didn't phone you, did she?' I asked.

He was silent.

'She would never have exploited your feelings for her.'

He tried to light his joint but his fingers were trembling and he couldn't get his lighter to work.

'What really happened?'

'I'd called her loads of times, but the answerphone was always on, or the line was engaged. But this time she answered it. She said she needed to get out of the flat. I suggested the park and she agreed. I didn't know that the Serpentine Gallery was shut. I'd hoped we could go there. When we met up in the park she asked me if she could stay at my flat. Said she needed to be with someone twenty-four/seven.' He paused, angry. 'She said I'm the only person at the college who doesn't have a part-time job.'

' "Twenty-four/seven?" '

'Round the clock. I can't remember her exact expression. Jesus, does it matter?' It did matter because it authenticated what he was telling me. 'She was frightened and she asked for my help, because I was convenient for her.'

'So why did you leave her?'

He seemed jolted by the question. 'What?'

'You said she wanted to stay with you, so why didn't you let her?'

He finally managed to light the joint and took a drag. 'OK, I told her what I felt for her. How much I loved her. Everything.'

'You came on to her?'

'It wasn't like that.'

'And she rejected you?'

'Straight out. No wrapping the bullet. She said this time she didn't think she could offer "with credibility" to be friends.'

His monstrous ego had sucked any pity for you, for your grief, into turning himself into the victim. But my anger was bigger than his ego.

'She turned to you and you tried exploit her need for protection.'

'She wanted to exploit me, it was that way round.'

'So she still wanted to stay with you?'

He didn't answer, but I could guess the next bit. 'But with no strings attached?'

Still he was silent.

'But you wouldn't allow that, would you?' I asked.