The Corpse with the Silver Tongue (29 page)

Of course! It was the spare key to Madelaine's apartment that we had got from Daphne, the cleaning lady. I must have automatically dropped it into my purse after I'd unlocked Madelaine's door. I recalled that her apartment number was eleven, though the police notice and the wax seal on the door announcing that it was a crime scene and not to be entered by unauthorized persons was a bit of a give-away too.

I ignored the notice, broke the seal, put the key into the lock, and entered the apartment of the late Madelaine Schiafino. I closed the door behind me and dared to let out a deep sigh of relief, though I didn't turn on a light. Luckily, having been there before and remembering the layout of the apartment, I was able to do what I needed to do most at that point—find the bathroom! With the bathroom door shut tight, and feeling pretty secure, I flicked on the lights. I managed to not let the sight of myself in the mirror frighten me.

I pulled out my phone and the card that Moreau had given me, and dialed his number. I could picture the phone sitting on his desk, in a dark room, ringing out for all it was worth. I hoped that if he wasn't there in person at—I glanced quickly at my phone's glowing panel—a quarter to twelve on a Sunday night, there would be some system in place for his calls to be forwarded to a human being. It seemed that there wasn't, because all I got was the chance to leave a message.

“Captain Moreau—it's Cait Morgan. It's almost midnight on Sunday. I need your help. I know who killed Alistair and Madelaine, and I believe they would now like to kill me. It is too difficult for me to explain in French. You have my number. My battery is low. I am hiding in Madelaine Schiafino's apartment. Please come and get me.” I hung up. Should I dial the emergency number and ask for help? I wondered what I would say? How I'd explain myself? Then I had a thought.

I turned out the lights, crept out of the bathroom, and emerged into the main sitting room. Moonlight streamed through the window in front me, showing me the way to the laptop in the corner. I figured that, if I shuttered the window and kept the screen facing the wall, I'd be able to use it without any light being visible from outside the apartment. I rearranged the room a little, got myself settled, turned everything on, worked out how to create a document, and began to type.

I type quite fast for someone who never had a typing lesson in her life. I attended a school for girls where they seemed to assume that useful life-skills, like typing, cooking, and sewing, needed to be taught to only those who weren't up to Latin, physics, and chemistry. I was self-taught when it came to computers, and while I might have been able to read and memorize all the manuals ever written, it didn't mean that I was a whizz with a keyboard.

After about half an hour, I'd written a fair summary of what I'd seen, heard, and worked out. I saved the document, then opened the internet browser and accessed my own e-mail at the university. I carefully typed in Moreau's e-mail address, attached the document, and sent it. I did the same to myself, and, for good measure, Bud. It couldn't hurt. When I pressed the Send button I felt a tremendous release: I still wasn't sure how I was going to keep myself safe until I was rescued by Moreau and his men, but at least I'd told my story, in full. Writing it down had helped me confirm my thinking. I
knew
I was right about it all. I realized I was by no means out of danger, but I felt relieved, as though I'd achieved something very important.

Just before I exited the internet I thought I'd quickly check to see if there was any news about a big police operation in Delta: maybe I could put my mind at rest about Bud.

I opened the news page and there it was: a photograph of two guys flat on the ground, their hands cuffed behind their backs, and masked men in Kevlar police vests standing over them, holding semi-automatic weapons.

“Gang Busters Swoop Down on Suspects,” read the headline. Good, Bud had got them! Had there been trouble? Was he okay? The full story wasn't likely to mention him by name (all the guys on his operations tried to keep their identities secure), but they would be unable to keep any injuries a secret.

I scrolled down to read the full story, eager to know what had happened:

Residents of a quiet Delta neighborhood woke in the early hours of Sunday morning to hear shots ringing out, as the
BC
Gang Investigation Team arrested two men suspected of the targeted shooting of a woman at Crescent Beach, South Surrey, some eighteen hours earlier. No one was injured during the take-down, though the suspects were attended to by paramedics before being taken into custody.

The suspects' names have not yet been released, but neighbors say that they were used to seeing the police in attendance at the property. One local man claimed that the house was a center for gang activity.

This action follows on the heels of the release of the name of Saturday's shooting victim. Jan Anderson, 54, was the wife of the newly appointed head of the
BC
Gang Investigation Team, Bud Anderson. The couple had been married for eleven years. They had no children, but the family dog was also injured in the attack on his owner. Commander Anderson was not available for comment, and it is not known if he was personally involved in the operation that led to the capture of the two men suspected of killing his wife.

I was looking at a picture of Jan. She was smiling. At me. I'd taken the picture. Last summer. In my kitchen.

I felt giddy. I couldn't focus on the screen in front of me because my eyes were welling up. I held onto the table to steady myself. Hot tears rolled down my cheeks and plopped onto the keyboard.

I didn't want to believe it—but it was there in front of me.

Why hadn't Bud said anything? Wait—what
had
he said? I ran through our last conversation in my head. This time it meant something very different to me: of course, he
thought
I'd read the news releasing Jan's name . . . he
thought
I knew. I'd only read the headline. I hadn't put Crescent Beach and South Surrey together . . . except, maybe, in my wakeful dreaming exercise, which also suddenly made sense. What had Bud thought I'd meant when I'd asked him to give my love to Jan? Or maybe he'd hung up by then? My God, he'd taken the time to phone me to say he couldn't help
me
when he was on his way to try to find the men who had killed his
wife
. Oh, bless him! What the
hell
was he thinking!?

I wiped my eyes and sniffed. Oh, bugger—I'd just sent him that e-mail about all this necklace stuff. What would he think? I could have kicked myself! “Selfish cow” was what he'd think—and he'd be right. I mean,
Jan
was dead.
Dead.
I still couldn't really wrap my head around it.

I had to e-mail Bud again—or call him . . . No, not call him—he wouldn't want to be bothered with me. Yes, e-mail was best. What if he wasn't bothering to check e-mail? Oh good grief—I didn't know what to do for the best. In an ideal world I'd have been able to run up to Bud and give him a big hug and hold him and let him cry, if he wanted to. Well, no, in an ideal world Jan would be fine . . . but . . . oh, you know . . . 

I decided that an e-mail was best, but when I reached the empty Subject field, I ran out of steam. I didn't know what to write. What
do
you write at a time like that?

In the end, following the title, “I'm so sorry,” I typed,

Bud, I don't know how it feels for you. I don't have any words that will help. I don't know
how
to help you. I don't know when I'll be there. I don't know if you'll have time for me when I am. I do know that I loved Jan and I will miss her. Everyone who knew her loved Jan—she was a truly unique woman. Have the strength to trust those around you who love you. All my love and sympathy, Cait.

Once again I pushed the Send button. This time there was no sense of elation. Just misery, a sense of inadequacy and loss, and more tears.

I held my head in my hands. Oh Bud . . . poor, poor Bud. What would he do without her? They'd been real soulmates. He'd be devastated. I knew
I
was, and she was only my friend, not my spouse. I wanted to sob. I wanted . . . Oh, I wanted everything to be back the way it was before I'd come to this wretched place . . . I wanted Jan and Bud to be fine—and poor Marty too—and I wanted
me
to be fine . . . and I wasn't. I was alone, and sad, and frightened, when I wanted to be at home, safe and warm and with the people I loved.

I suppose I might have stayed there until Moreau came to get me, but before I'd even had a chance to turn off the laptop, I heard a voice outside the window.

“I tell you, she's gone! Why on earth would she hang around here? She's probably in a taxi on her way to the police station right now. It wouldn't have taken her long to get to the taxi rank at the bottom of the gardens, and there are always taxis there—it's where they all hang about to smoke and chat until the clubs turn out.” It was the same voice that I had heard in the cellars. I shut the laptop and tried not to breathe, or sniff, or sob.

I could hear a mumbled reply, but couldn't catch what the other person said. All I could hear was the posh English voice replying, “I say, you're not serious, are you? I mean, that wouldn't be sporting!” It seemed to be an odd comment, but I was glad he'd made it because it gave me a chance to hear that his voice was moving farther along the back of the building. He and whoever was with him were walking away. I didn't dare move. I sat still for what must have been five minutes, gathering my thoughts, trying to decide what to do.

Should I wait where I was or risk trying to get a taxi to the police station? Would I get through the gardens, undetected? I might run into the very people I was desperate to avoid.

Suddenly I felt my telephone jiggle in my pocket: at least I'd had the sense to set it to vibrate and put it somewhere I could feel it do just that. I moved quickly into the bathroom again. Without bothering to check the display, I answered the phone in a whisper.

“Hello, Moreau?” I hoped it was him.

“Cait—it's me, Bud. What the hell is going on?”

I felt myself suck in my breath—and then I just fell apart. Crying and sobbing, I tried to tell Bud how sorry I was about Jan, but I could hardly form the words for lack of oxygen. I kept repeating “I'm sorry . . . I'm so sorry, Bud . . .”

Eventually Bud told me I had to put down the phone, blow my nose, and pull myself together. I did as I was told. When I picked up the phone again, I managed to form a sentence, though my hands were shaking.

“Oh Bud—I just read the news about Jan. I am so, so sorry. How are you doing?”

Using his “calming” voice, which I'd heard on many occasions before, Bud replied, “Cait—believe it or not, I'm fine. I've done everything I can at this stage for Jan. I can't bring her back. My life has changed forever. I know that. But I don't know how, yet. I read your e-mail—too fast to get all the details, but I
do
know you're in real trouble, and that maybe I can help
you
. Have you reached Moreau yet? Are you with the police? Where are you, and what's happening, Cait?”

I decided that, rather than rant on about Jan, I'd answer his questions. “I'm hiding in the apartment of the dead woman, Madelaine. I heard the voice of the man from the cellars outside the window here a few moments ago, but I think he's gone. I really don't think it'll occur to them to look for me here. I haven't been able to reach Moreau. I've been wondering if I should just call the police and get them up here to bring me in. What do you think?”

“Cait—listen. When I go, you call the police and get them, somehow, to come to you with a fast car and get you out of there. Give them a password to use when they arrive, and do not open the door to anyone who doesn't use that password. In the meantime, I'll get hold of Moreau. You call me back as soon as you're in the protection of the police—right?”

“Yes, Bud, right. And Bud?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you . . . and I'm so sorry.”

“Shut up, hang up, and dial,
now
—there's plenty of time to be thankful and sorry when you're safe!” And he was gone.

I punched 112 into my phone. As soon as I heard a voice I began my request in my best French. I finally ended up speaking to Bertrand. What a relief. I explained that I was in danger, where I was, and that I needed help. He promised to be with me as soon as possible, and we agreed on the password “Laurent,” as he was unlikely to forget his mother's maiden name.

I hung up. There was nothing to do but wait, and I'm not very good at that, so I tried to tidy myself up a bit: I didn't think of it as vanity, but as a politeness to those who would have to see me.

I brushed the muck from the cellar off my clothes, combed and re-tied my hair, wiped my face with a wet wipe I'd picked up at the restaurant where I'd eaten the
moules
with Beni, and blew my nose a few times. Then I took my first real chance to examine the infamous Collar of Death that was clamped around my neck. Even in the stark bathroom lights the gold from which it had been fashioned all those centuries ago had a deep, warm glow. I'd expected the workmanship of such an ancient relic to be rudimentary, but it was finely chased with raised oak leaves, mistletoe berries, and vines. It was beautiful. And, apparently, to be feared. I pushed such silly ideas aside and had one last go at trying to get the thing off my neck, but gave it up as a bad job.

Now all I could do was sit and wait. And wait. I checked my phone. It had been twenty minutes. Where the
hell
was Bertrand? Finally I heard a knock at the door of the apartment. I turned off the bathroom light and opened the door, listening intently. What if it wasn't Bertrand?