Frozen (14 page)

Free to do what? Jump off a cliff? I bridled inwardly. I've always found the idea of meddling with people's thoughts and emotions disturbing, and I'd assumed Verity would have felt the same. I had obviously been wrong—or else her need was so strong that it overcame her resistance. And she never told me. She preferred to tell a stranger.

“Occasionally, patterns of behaviour are linked to events in the client's past, events they have buried,” Kate continued, staring hard at me. I didn't like it. “The client doesn't consciously remember what happened. They may have built all sorts of barriers around the memories to prevent them ever surfacing. Those repressed memories frequently generate problematic constructs—those destructive patterns of behaviour I was telling you about. My job is to tease them out. Different things work for different people and problems. In extreme cases, where the memory is too painful for the client to face, hypnotherapy is the only answer.”

“Is that what you were doing with—” Sam started to ask, before Kate interrupted her with a gesture and continued.

“I'm talking about psychotherapy in general, Sam. I'm not going to tell you what problems Verity did or didn't have, or how we worked on them. Verity's was a long-term case; she wasn't going to be cured overnight. That's all I shall say.

“Where was I? Yes, repressed memories. The long and short is, getting at what happened in the past and helping a client deal with it can be difficult and slow. And until it's done the person is vulnerable because they've opened up painful areas of their life, but have not yet worked through them. They may get powerful mood swings—be buoyant and energetic one minute, full of despair the next.”

She frowned.

“We hadn't got to the bottom of Verity's troubles. I had a pretty good idea where we were heading, though, and so did she. So I was worried when she rang to cancel. I warned her. I thought she might be stopping because we were getting close to something. She said it was because she had this show coming up.”

“She did,” Sam and I both said. Sam laid her hand on my knee.

“Yes...” Kate agreed. “But our sessions had been difficult. I was worried. And, by the sound of it, I was worried about completely the wrong thing.” She sighed. She looked up at us both and her eyes were a little misty. To me, she seemed suddenly frail. Her shoulders sagged. She continued, “Sometimes, when a client uncovers what they have been repressing, it causes them the most terrible pain. And they simply cannot cope. We have to work very hard and very fast to help them come to terms with it. But once you start searching for those buried memories, the process can continue by itself—with or without the psychotherapist's help. A face might spark it off, or a phrase, or an old photograph. Sometimes when they find the memories, when the pain starts, they don't know where to turn. They'll do anything to make it stop.”

She straightened herself again, and gave a dignified sniff; smiled at us, a little helplessly. “I may be wrong—and I do assure you that there was never anything that I or anyone could have done—but it is possible that Verity found exactly what she had been looking for, and that when she found it, she just couldn't cope. I know it seems unlike her, but whatever she had buried, I suspect it was a powerful and painful experience. That is all I can tell you.”

Silence, except for the nervous patter of the clock on the mantelpiece.

I tried to imagine Verity in that much pain, pain so intense that she only wanted it to stop. Dragging herself to Beachy Head, regardless of her prejudices—because who cared? She had wanted to end it all, and that had overwhelmed all normal thought and feeling. Verity leaping, just to be free of whatever demon was riding her. Verity, who hadn't come to see me, not even to say goodbye.

“What was it?” I grated. This was a hard question to ask. “Her mother dying? Moving house? Something at school? A family thing—she was adopted, abused? What?” My heart was thumping in my ears. The truth was that I didn't really want to know. This felt all wrong; it was scaring me. But I had to ask. It was what we had come for.

Kate Fullerton's brown eyes were, once again, expressionless. “Harry, even if I knew, I wouldn't tell you.” She stood and reached for my cup and Sam's.

“Could she have been seeing someone else?” I blurted. “She cancelled her sessions with you. Could she have changed to someone else?” It was a desperate question. I felt so close to... something. Verity, perhaps. I didn't want this to be the end.

Kate's smile combined kindness and ice. “Very unlikely, I'm afraid, Harry. From what you've said it sounds to me like she was going it alone. I'm sorry, Harry. I really am.”

The sadness in her voice was genuine. It startled me to realise that she might be as rattled as Sam and I were.

She stood by the door, clearly waiting for us to leave. We filed out, Sam first, into the dark corridor lined with books and joyless prints. Sam opened the flat's front door. As I left, Kate called out, “Harry?” I turned. “She did care for you, you know. She talked about you a lot. There was nothing you could have done.”

And that, of course, hurt more than she could possibly have imagined.

Sam sensed it and grabbed my hand, swinging it a few times before releasing it. “There's still the key, remember, Harry?” she said. The key she had found at the studio, a gentle reminder that there were still stones unturned, small puzzles to be solved. She stretched up and pecked me on the cheek. “We'll get there, you'll see.”

I was not sure that I believed her, or that she believed it herself, but it helped, and that was the point. There were things to do still, leads to follow. What did that key fit, if it wasn't for anything at the studio? “Verity's flat, then,” I said. “Let's go.”

And as we walked back towards the car, my step felt a little lighter, and for a while the sun was less harsh in its bitter-blue sky.

VERITY'S FLAT HAD been wrecked.

I stood in the doorway and gaped. Sam was a few steps behind me. She bumped into me, and then she, too, stared. I could feel her breath on my neck; it was warm, but it made me shiver.

“Oh...” she said softly.

Pictures had been ripped from the wall; they lay in puddles of shattered glass. The cupboards were all open, and their innards had been spilled into the room. Chairs had been overturned. In places the carpet had been shredded and rolled back. The curtains had been torn down, leaving dark holes and dribbles of brick dust where the rail had ripped out of the wall. I could see the door to the kitchen, and beyond it was more of the same. Verity's precious white sofa had been slashed; folds of material hung from it, and I could see the hollow spaces and its wooden frame. It had been burned too; some of the curtains had been piled on it, and there was a dark smoke stain running neatly up its back. There were several crumpled beer cans on the floor. The place stank of burned plastic and piss. The stench seemed to be coming from a puddle of damp carpet just inside the door.

The black wooden stand that held the television and video was broken and on its side. The machines had gone.

I jumped over the puddle. Sam followed, treading carefully through the detritus. Glass crunched under my shoes and I looked down. The photo of Verity at the seaside with the lollipop. The glass had scratched her face. I headed down the corridor towards the bedroom. I heard Sam ringing the police.

The wardrobe had been gutted, the clothes and bed-linen had been torn and scattered. The drawers had all been yanked out of the chest and emptied on to the floor. The locked drawer had been forced open and thrown into a corner. There was a small pool of slips of paper, beer mats, matchbooks, and plastic trinkets. Absently I took the key from the drawer and compared it to the one Sam had given me. They did not match. I put the key back into its hole, and picked my way out into the corridor.

They had even kicked in the wooden panel on the side of the bath.

There was nowhere to sit, and nothing we could do until the police came. We opened the windows, and went outside to wait. We sat side by side on the doorstep, dazzled by the sunlight and relieved to be breathing the dust and fumes of London, instead of the toxic air of the flat. The traffic washed past. Our knees were touching lightly, both of us glad of the contact. She lit a cigarette and offered it to me. I took a drag, with no thought to the fact that I don't smoke. It made me dizzy and sick—but I was feeling that way already, so what the hell?

*

Two police officers came. Both were sympathetic—no PC Bastards this time, thank goodness. One explored the flat, while the other took our statements outside. He was kind and supportive, and he tried gently to explain to us that there was almost nothing they could do. They would take some photographs, and they would take some of the beer cans to check for prints, but we shouldn't expect results. He was very sorry, but these things happened. The neighbours below had heard nothing, but they had been away for part of the weekend. I suggested analysing the piss-soaked carpet for DNA, and got a lecture on the limits of police resources, and the vanishingly small chance of success. He continued his questions. I had no idea of the serial numbers for the TV and video, or even what make they were, so there was no real prospect that they could be recovered.

And I finally cracked. I was too frustrated to speak, so I shouted: “You can't be serious! Verity's found at Beachy Head less than a week ago—and I do
not
believe it was suicide, whatever you lot say—and now you're trying to tell me this burglary's a coincidence? Come on!”

At the mention of Verity's fall, the policeman perked up. “You mean the owner, do you, sir? Verity Hadley? Are you saying she's been involved in another incident?”

“Well, if you call falling off a two-hundred-foot cliff an incident—”

“Harry.” Sam put her hand on my arm. When she had my attention, she turned to the policeman. “I'm sorry, Officer. This is a little difficult for us. Verity fell off Beachy Head on Wednesday last week.” I wanted to scream,
No
—and inside, I did.

Sam went on, “It was a terrible shock. We were both close to her. And now there's this...”

“Perfectly understandable, Miss, er... Mandovini.” The officer had to consult his notes for her name. “If you'll give me the details, I'll make sure we cross-reference the files. Suicide, I assume?”

I was about to answer—angrily—but another squeeze from Sam forestalled me.

“We're not sure,” she said. “That's what it looked like, and that's what the police recorded...” She looked to me for confirmation. I mumbled something. “But Harry's not convinced. It seems odd to me too.”

The policeman's eyes flicked between us, and then focused on me. “May I ask what made you suspicious?” He seemed almost eager.

“Beachy Head's not her style,” I said lamely.

“Anything else, sir?”

“She'd arranged to meet someone nearby that afternoon. They didn't show up.”

“Who, sir?”

I shrugged. “No idea. She didn't write their name down.”

The policeman's face settled back into blankness. “I see.” He sounded disappointed. “I'm afraid none of that really constitutes evidence, sir. Meeting people is hardly unusual, even if they don't turn up.” As if I needed telling; last Wednesday wasn't that long ago. “And as to your opinion of Miss Hadley's style, sir… well, I'm afraid that's not much to go on either. Suicidal people do very strange things, Mr. Waddell, believe me.” He gave me the kind of look that made sure that I was aware that he knew all about it.

“Well, what about the flat?” I snapped, exasperated.

“The burglary, do you mean, sir? Well, as I said, there's not much more we can do.”

“But surely that proves something's going on.”

The policeman folded up his notebook and crossed his arms. “Sir, do you have any idea how many burglaries there are each day in London?” I didn't feel like another lecture, but it seemed I was in for one.

“Well, loads. But—”

“
Loads
,” he mimicked. “In the last two days, I have personally attended six. And that's just one officer in just one station, if you see what I mean. Any flat that's left unattended is fair game, I'm afraid. And by the look of it, your lot here were just a bunch of hooligans out for a laugh. These weren't serious criminals. All they did was smash the place up. They nicked the easy stuff, of course—the telly and that—but for them this was just a night on the town. No offence, Mr. Waddell, but Miss Hadley's flat was a prime target, what with her being away. We see it all the time. It's gangs. It's what they do.”

Well,
someone
had certainly done it, but I found it impossible to accept that it was a gang. It was too unfair, the coincidence too brutal. This was personal—at least, it was to me. But if it hadn't been a gang, then who? Who would hold her in such contempt that they would rip her flat to shreds when she could never return to it anyway? Did they care at all? Did they even know? That was when the answer hit me.

“Wait!” I yelped. “I know who did it!”

The policeman looked at me attentively, pencil at the ready. I felt like bouncing up and down. I was so sure: that thin face, the sneer, the fag ash on Verity's calico sofa, the spite.

“Karel,” I said firmly. “Karel... shit, what's the bastard's name? Karel...”

“Novak?” Sam sounded startled. “The little runt Verity was seeing? What makes you think he did it?”

I explained about my encounter a couple of days before. Knowing that Sam was listening made me go red. I wished I had been able to tell her earlier—the embarrassment of revealing it now was far worse.

The policeman earnestly took notes. “And you know where we could find this Mr. Novak, do you, sir?”

I was about to reply, probably something unhelpful about whose job it was to track down criminals, when Sam stepped in.

“I do,' she said, “but honestly, I can't see it being him. He's a poisonous little worm, but he's too lazy for this kind of thing. He's a sponger, not a burglar. All that ripping and banging around... and what's he going to do with a telly, for goodness' sake?”

I was torn. I was secretly pleased that she shared my opinion of him, but her scepticism was annoying—particularly because I half-suspected she was right; trashing Verity's flat was taking malice a little far.

“Well, how come the door wasn't kicked in?” I asked petulantly. “He's the only other person with keys.”

“Probably picked the lock, sir,” the policeman said helpfully. “Kicking a door down makes a lot of noise.” He was staring around him distractedly. He'd lost interest. “Well, we'll have a word with Mr. Novak, sir, just to be sure. But gangs is more likely, I'm afraid.”

And with assurances that they would do everything they could, and yes, they would keep us informed, the police left.

“Down to us,” I said to Sam.

She shrugged. “We'd better get going, then.”

I nodded but didn't move.

She added, “Come on, Harry. It's not going to be any easier tomorrow.” She gave my arm a quick rub. I was frowning at my watch. I was trying to figure something out, but I couldn't find a place to start. I was caught in an endless loop of irrelevant thought—four-thirty, best get going, four-thirty, best get going...

“Harry?” When, again, I didn't respond, Sam disappeared into the building.

I looked along the street. Hot red brick, and a grubby breeze that puffed grit and dust at me. The place was quiet. There were only a few parked cars and no people, as though some apocalypse had removed everyone, and left only the buildings, mouldering slowly in the wind and dust.

But there was no time for self-indulgence. There was some bastard's piss to clean up. Sam was waiting. Reluctantly I followed her upstairs.

She had already found the cleaning materials, and was zipping efficiently from place to place armed with some kind of spray, wearing Marigolds and an apron. There was something foamy on top of the carpet puddle. It already smelt a little better. She had set the table straight and the chairs were upright in a neat row against it.

I hopped over the foam pool and gaped around vaguely. Sam stopped and appraised me, and then bustled into the kitchen and came out with a plastic sack, dustpan, and brush.

“Cans. Curtains. Glass.” She pointed with her spray canister. “Anything that's broken. Those burnt cushions. There's newspaper for the glass over there.”

And she was off again. She didn't stop moving for a second. I pottered. I swept a bit of glass, stared at the wall for a while, emptied the dustpan, maybe picked up a crumpled beer can, stared at the wall again. I couldn't even blame my misery; happy or sad, I'm just crap at cleaning. Still, I was trying. Sam worked around me as best she could. By the time my bag was full, the flat was looking better, small thanks to me.

“Coffee,” I said. She nodded.

I headed off towards the kitchen, but she caught me by the shoulder and twirled me back to face the living room. “I'll make it. I'm not sure I trust you.”

She pressed past me. Her body was cool and firm, an odd counterpoint to the strange sensation of my shoulder being squeezed by a yellow rubber glove.

“If you're done with the glass and stuff, try to find a number for the insurance company,” she called.

I hadn't even thought of that. I scanned the room. The cupboards had been stripped, and the mounds of stuff on the floor had all been sorted and stacked. Sam had covered the table with orderly piles: CDs, instruction manuals, ornaments, mostly broken. No papers, though. I started going through the cupboards. They were all empty; the burglars had pulled everything on to the floor, and Sam had tidied most of it up.

She was clattering around in the kitchen while the kettle boiled. I leaned against the door, my chest against the jamb, the side of my face pressing against the door itself. While the kettle boiled, she was cleaning the kitchen surfaces.

“Sam?” She stopped and looked at me. “I'm really grateful, Sam. This must be as bad for you as it is for me.”

She straightened and pursed her lips at me. “Insurance,” she said sternly, and waggled a canister at me.

I headed reluctantly back towards the piles of paperwork. On one corner of the table was the answering machine, its cable stretching dangerously across the room to the wall socket. The table it had been on was splintered and unstable and had been consigned to a corner, along with the support for the television, several ripped cushions and curtains. The machine's display showed four messages.

Vaguely I remembered that when I had come here to collect the zoetrope there had only been three, and I hadn't wanted to play them. Now they seemed more appealing: the alternative was to keep rummaging through the remains of Verity's life. I hit the button.

First message. “Verity, dear, it's Erica.” An old woman's voice, deep and throaty—too many cigarettes, I thought. She didn't say anything else. There was a long silence, followed by a few rattles and then a click.

The next message was just a dialling tone.

The third was short as well: “Where were you?” My own voice, muttering indistinctly.