Caught in the Light (22 page)

"Took her in as a lodger this time last year. It's not easy to make ends meet, especially when that bastard Niall .. . Anyway, Eris answered my ad in the paper. She suited me. Quiet, reliable, a good payer. She said she was doing some sort of part-time photographic course at the university. Must have been very part-time, though, because she was forever going up to London, and not just for the weekend."

"When she wasn't quizzing you about your ex-husband's family, you mean?"

"Yen. Well, she said it was an unusual name, see. Said there was an early photographer called Esguard who she'd come across in her studies. That's why I sent her to see Milo. He'd have known if anyone did. But she can't have got much out of him before he died. It was round the same time I heard he'd snuffed it."

"When you were married to Niall, did you ever visit Bentinck Place?"

"Once or twice. To see Niall's mum, when she was still alive. And Milo, of course. He was living there then."

"Did Eris ask you about the house? Its history? Its ... design?"

"She might have done."

"And this is Eris, is it?" I showed her the photograph from the Nymanex security video.

"That's her, yeh."

"This her writing?" I held out the envelope containing the postcard for her to see.

"Could be. She wasn't exactly in the habit of writing to me. Hold on, though. She did send me something." Dawn crossed the room, leaned over the back of the couch, poked around in the sideboard, then lifted out a small cardboard box. "A slice of wedding cake," she announced, bringing the box back with her for me to see. "I kept this for pins and stuff. But the label's still on it. My name and address, in her writing."

"It looks the same."

"Does, doesn't it?"

My eye drifted from the label to the stamp and its distinctive motif. "This was posted in Guernsey," I said, almost as much to myself as to Dawn.

' Yeh. Well, that's where they went to live after the wedding. Eris never said what this fiance of hers, Conrad, actually did. But, just from the way she talked about him, I got the impression he was in the mega bucks league. And Guernsey, well, that's a ... what d'you call it?"

"Tax haven."

"Right. And who needs a haven if they don't earn it in the first place? Some girls get all the luck."

"Did Eris leave a forwarding address?"

"No. She didn't. And, in case you're wondering, I haven't been invited over to Guernsey for a posh weekend. I was never really Eris's type. You know?"

"I suppose I do."

"I haven't seen or heard from her since before Christmas. Sorry."

"Me, too. But thanks anyway." It was clear she wanted me to go and equally clear I'd learn nothing by staying. I walked slowly out into the hall and turned towards the front door. As I did so, I noticed a copy of the local evening paper lying on the telephone table, folded so that a headline running across the bottom of the front page was visible. BATH BOOKSELLER FOUND STRANGLED ON LONDON TRAIN. I stopped beside the table and glanced down at it.

"Montagu Quisden-Neve, respected and popular proprietor of the noted Bath antiquarian bookshop, Bibliomaufry, was found dead this morning aboard .. ." My eye raced ahead. "It is not yet clear how Mr. Quisden-Neve met his death. The results of a postmortem are expected tomorrow. Police are, however, treating his death as suspicious, and are particularly anxious to contact one of the two men who discovered the body and who left Chippenham station prior to the arrival of investigating officers." There was no description. That was one mercy. But there was an ominous closing quote. '"It is vital we eliminate this man from our inquiries," said a police spokesman. "It is in his own best interests to come forward."

"Take it if you want," said Dawn. "I never have time to read the thing."

"No. No thanks. That's all right." I turned to look at her. "Your ex-husband, Mrs. Esguard. Niall."

"What about him?"

"Would you say he had a ... capacity for violence?"

"Yeh. I would. Lots of capacity."

"Do you think, in certain circumstances, he might be capable of murder?"

"Why do you think I left him? Of course he's capable of it. I've known a bloke come up behind Niall in the pub and tap him on the shoulder and get a glass shoved in his face just for surprising him. It's what I always tell people. Don't ever push your luck with Niall. The truth is, see, you won't have any to push. Know what I mean?"

"I think I do. But, just supposing I wanted to prove your point, which pub would I be likely to find him in?"

The Black Dog wasn't the sort of pub a Bath tour guide would be likely to recommend to foreign visitors. The decor was a baleful mix of bottle-brown and ash-grey, the clientele were either grim-faced and narrow-eyed or loudly drunk, and the barman, addressed by all as Darren, looked as if he'd just fought the losing half of a boxing match. I'd banked on there being some degree of safety in numbers, but, glancing round at this band of potential witnesses to my brutal murder, I reckoned it would be pretty minimal. Perhaps it was just as well there was no sign of Niall. Nor had there been all day, according to Darren.

"You expecting to find him here, were you?" he added gruffly.

"Sort of. A mutual friend said he uses the place."

"Yeh, well, he does. But not tonight." Darren smiled as broadly as his split lip allowed. "He's out of town."

"Who's the mutual friend?" enquired the thin, greasy-haired occupant of the nearest patch of bar.

"Quisden-Neve," I replied, deciding to be provocative just to see what came of it.

"Neasden-Quiff? Bloody hell. I heard he'd '

"Why don't you shut it, Albert?" Darren cut in. "Do us all a favour."

"I expect you were about to say you'd heard he was dead, Albert," I said, turning my back on Darren as best I could. "Is that right?"

Albert shrugged. "It was in the paper."

"Did Monty use to come in here?" I asked, trying to make him sound like an old friend of mine.

"Off and on. You'd not forget him in a hurry, would you?" Albert loosed a chain-smoker's laugh at me.

"Did he drink with Niall?"

"When he came, yeh. No secret, is it?"

"Not to me, no. What with them being business partners in a manner of speaking."

"Thought as much." Albert leaned confidentially towards me. "Ever since that Neasden-Quiff came on the scene, Niall's had .. . more calls on his time." He winked. "That's what all this travelling's about, ain't it? Hobnobbing. Greasing palms. Taking a cut. Niall's going up in the world. I cottoned on to that long before these dozy buggers."

"I think you're probably right."

"No wonder he's always hopping over to the Channel Islands. Salting away the proceeds, ain't he? It'll be bloody Switzerland next, I shouldn't '

"Which island?"

"What?" Albert seemed confused by my sudden urgency.

"Which Channel Island does he visit?"

"Well, I don't '

"Guernsey?"

"Could be." Albert summoned the considerable effort required to think. "Yeh, that's the one. Guernsey."

The ground floor and basement of 6 Bentinck Place were in darkness. Niall Esguard was off on one of his regular jaunts to Guernsey, where his ex-wife's former lodger, Eris Moberly, was supposed to be leading an affluent married life. And Guernsey had other connotations, too, which my mind was too weary to do more than reach towards. A haven could be a hiding place. And a hiding place could be a prison.

The truth was that I still didn't know enough to understand what the things I'd discovered meant. I needed more to go on. And the only place left to try was inside Eris's head. I had to hear the third tape.

I walked back to the car and phoned Daphne from there. She was, as I'd anticipated, angry. But not angry enough to make me doubt that, secretly, she was willing me on. She'd evidently not heard about Quisden-Neve. She'd have been frightened as well as angry if she had. As it was, reluctantly but inevitably, she yielded to my pleas.

"Let's just put back our appointment by twenty-four hours, Daphne. Nine o'clock tomorrow morning, at your practice. I can be there."

"Why weren't you there this morning?"

"Problems with my daughter."

"Are you sure you didn't go to see Quisden-Neve?"

"Of course not."

"All right. But don't let me down again. I've been worried about you all day."

"There was no need. I've had a really quiet time of it. See you tomorrow."

I drove back to London. The motorway was empty and I made it to Chiswick by eleven o'clock. All the way, I'd told myself to head straight for the flat and get some sleep. But something -curiosity, conscience or some collision of the two prompted me to take the North Circular to Finchley, then drive cautiously up through Whetstone to Barnet. It was a route I'd not followed in five years. I'd have expected to feel more, to be assailed by chilling memories, as I passed the very spot on Barnet Hill where I'd struck the shadow that turned out to be a flesh-and-blood human whose life ended in that moment. But Eris's disappearance had laid a dead stranger's ghost. I could remember now, without flinching.

It was late to be paying calls, social or otherwise. But I knew Nicole's habits. Pushing midnight was actually a good time to find her awake and alert. It was one of her feline characteristics, along with physical grace, claws that could sink in without warning and inexhaustible self-sufficiency.

She answered the door in a maroon silk bathrobe and looked strangely unsurprised to see me. "Funny how you can tell people by the way they ring a bell, isn't it?" she said by way of greeting. "Even after five years."

"Can I come in?"

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"It's important."

"So's my guest. He isn't going to be impressed by you blundering in."

"Ah. Right."

"To be honest, Ian, no-one would be. You looked a mess at lunchtime. Now you're more of a wreck."

"About lunchtime .. ."

"Get to see Nyman, did you?"

"Yes."

She seemed genuinely surprised. "Really?"

"Yes. That's why I'm here. Would Nymanex have interests in Guernsey?"

"I expect so. Plus Jersey and the Isle of Man. Probably the Cayman Islands, too. A lot of their clients are tax exiles."

"Is Nyman himself likely to go to Guernsey a lot?"

"I don't know. Probably not very often."

"But sometimes?"

"I suppose so. What of it?"

"It's a connection."

"With what?"

"I'm not sure."

"And I'm not sure I want to stand here listening to you explain why you're not sure." Her surprise had subsided now. "If you'll '

"There's something sinister going on, Nicole. I'm trying to warn you to be on your guard."

She looked at me in mild puzzlement. "Sinister? What the hell does that mean?"

"It means you should be careful. Somebody murdered Quisden-Neve. They mightn't stop there."

"I only have your word for it that he was murdered."

"Don't you believe me?"

"I believe you're speaking the truth as you see it." She sighed. "And I believe you're right. I should be more careful. Especially about who I answer the door to late at night. Good night, Ian. And thanks for calling. Next time, phone first. It'll save you the journey."

During a sleepless stretch of the night, a troubling thought came to me, keeping its distance like a wolf beyond the campfire's glow, but impossible to ignore. If the search for Eris was driving me mad, I'd be the last to know. I alone would believe the events I'd experienced. To Daphne and Nicole, to Faith and Amy, they'd just be a jungle of delusions I'd marched off into, never to return.

The thought recurred as I sat in Daphne Sanger's consulting room next morning and recounted what had happened since I'd listened to the second tape. She had to be told about Quisden-Neve, about Conrad Nyman and Dawn Esguard, about all the teeming uncertainties I'd prised out of the blank wall of Eris's disappearance. But would she believe me? Or was she already doubting me, just as she'd doubted Eris?

A shriller complaint about my irresponsibility would ironically have done something to set my mind at rest. Instead, she was almost philosophical about my broken promise and the avalanche of events it seemed to have triggered.

"You should have come to me first, Ian. You really should."

"I know. I'm sorry. I just... reacted."

"And why didn't you tell me any of this last night?"

"I didn't want to worry you."

"Well, I am worried. With good reason. Most of all because I haven't a clue what's going on. Quisden-Neve. Niall Esguard. What in God's name are they up to?"

"Were, in Quisden-Neve's case. Either way, I don't know. Any more than you do. Except there's more to it than the dissociative disorder you thought you were treating."

"Obviously," she snapped, lighting a cigar to calm herself. "You mean to go to Guernsey?"

"After I've heard the third tape."

"Ah. The third tape. I wondered when we'd come to that."

"I have to know what I'm dealing with."

"It won't tell you."

"I still have to hear it."

"Yes. I suppose you do." She stood up and paced the room, puffing at the cigar, then turned to face me. "I shouldn't be encouraging you, of course. You've given me ample proof of your unreliability. And now a man's died. I ought to be telling you to go to the police and give them as much help as you can. I ought to go to them myself, come to that."

"Why won't you?"

"Because they wouldn't believe me, let alone you. The whole business is too .. . tenuous, too .. . bizarre. Besides, I feel partly responsible for what's happened. If I'd told you everything from the start, you'd have been wary of Quisden-Neve when you first encountered him. Then he might still be alive. Even though we don't have any way of knowing why Niall should have wanted to kill him."

"To shut him up. Why else?"

"I don't know. But there may be other reasons. There may be ramifications to this we have absolutely no appreciation of. I can assure you the third tape doesn't answer any of the questions you've succeeded in raising."