The Corpse with the Silver Tongue (3 page)

Let's be honest, the world was unquestionably better off without Alistair Townsend. As I lay wriggling in my blanket I wondered if he'd “retired” from the ad agency world but had maintained his interest in “secret brokering.” That sort of habit is hard to break—and a skill set it must be difficult to put aside. Boy, thinking of it that way made Alistair sound like a character from one of Chuck Damcott's secret agent books. I wondered if that was why they'd become friends. Maybe Chuck was using Alistair as a model for a forthcoming tome. Maybe the world wasn't rid of the man after all—maybe he would be immortalized in print. I shuddered at the thought.

The policeman hadn't been very illuminating when he told me we'd all been affected by the same toxin. Had we all been victims of an intentional poisoner, or of an accidental one? Had we breathed in the toxin? Eaten it? Drunk it? Touched it? There'd been ample opportunity for all those alternatives. And he'd said nothing. Maybe they didn't know. Yet.

I began to seriously consider whether Alistair might have continued in his old ways, even while living his new life in France. After all,
someone
had poisoned him . . . me . . . all of us . . . Or maybe I was jumping the gun and we were all exposed to the same toxin by accident.

Some psychologists are very science oriented, while others stay mainly out of the lab and concentrate on the observations they can make, and the lessons they can learn, in the real world. I've never liked dissection or mathematics very much, so I guess I'm an example of the type of psychologist who believes that understanding human beings is as much of an art as it is a science.
Why
people do what they do is what fascinates and drives me. And
why
they might have become a victim has turned out to be my main area of focus.

While I'm no scientist, I know that tests take time: a lot longer than the thirty seconds they take on all those
TV
shows. Sometimes they take days. Given the number of times they'd stuck a needle into me and drawn blood, I was pretty sure that the hospital's pathologists would have their work cut out for quite some time before they knew exactly what had happened to me, or the rest of group.

Or maybe they
did
know already, and the policeman was holding back the information. If so, why would he do that? To keep us all off guard, I suspect.

My thoughts went back to Bud Anderson in Vancouver. I had a feeling that by the time I got out of the hospital Bud would be fast asleep and snuggled up to Jan and Marty (yes, they even have a set of steps to allow him to waddle up onto the bed). I'd have to wait, and then wait some more, until I could talk to anyone I knew or trusted. Bugger!

In the meantime, there was no reason why I couldn't still treat this as though it were a “proper” case. The way that I'd done for Bud in the past, and the way that I teach my students to do it.

The victim (let's call him that for now), Alistair Townsend: rich, relatively unhealthy, retired (from work at least), and living in the lap of luxury on the Cote d'Azur. If what I knew about him from his past was anything to go by, then he'd have accumulated a few enemies here, in his new life. Those people who worked at his snail farm, for a start: imagine showing up and telling the French how to farm snails! Then there was the swimming pool issue: I'd have to find out more about that. If Alistair had been the moving force behind digging up the gardens at the Palais to install a swimming pool, it might not just be the oldtimers Madelaine and Gerard who were against it; there could be dozens of other residents who didn't like the idea. Promising. And what on earth was his wife bleating on about when she said that a Celtic collar had been stolen? No one had mentioned such a thing at dinner, at least, not within my hearing. Or had they?

Maybe I should start by trying to work my way back through everything that had happened that evening, in detail. Maybe I'd missed some clues.

One of the great things about having what most people call a photographic memory is that I can sit quietly and recall certain things, or events, in detail. Now, being a psychologist I
know
that there's no such thing as a photographic memory, and that even the proper term, “eidetic memory,” has not been “proven” to the satisfaction of many scientists. To be honest, I certainly cannot explain what I can do, nor, frankly, do I want to. I mean, can you imagine being studied and tested for years and years like a rat in a laboratory? Terrible. And that's what they do if you claim to have a special memory. Me? I
use
what I can do, but certainly don't advertise the fact that I can do it, nor do I mention it at all if I can avoid it.

I've always been able to recall things in an unusual way. As a child I thought that everyone could remember things the way I did. I used to get quite cross in school when a teacher would ask me to explain why I was contradicting something they said or did. I quickly found out that you get a detention for answers like “Because you said something/did something different two weeks ago.” It can certainly be a curse (everyone's seen things in life they wish they could forget), but it
can
be useful. If used with care.

They say that hindsight is 20/20, but I've learned, to my cost, that my ability is far from perfect. If I haven't seen or heard something, of course I can't recall it; and those things I
have
heard and seen sometimes get a bit jumbled up. The human mind cannot help but make associations and links that might
seem
illogical, but which come from somewhere deep inside our psyche. I have to be careful with the “knowledge” that I have, because it might be something I have misremembered, or which I have imbued with my own values or judgements. That's why I'm fascinated by the reasons humans do what they do. The human mind is a wonderful thing—imprecise, complex, often inexplicable. I love the idea that a lifetime of studying it will never allow me to know everything. Though the thought that I might know nothing does alarm me!

One thing I have learned, however, is that focusing sooner rather than later on recalling things I've experienced helps me recall them more accurately. I decided to give it a go. I couldn't sit totally upright, due to my “attachments,” nor could I lay down properly, nor wiggle my ample rear until it was comfy; I had little else to do but lay as I was. I screwed up my eyes to the point where everything goes fuzzy and started to hum softly (I don't know why that helps, but it does). If anyone had seen me lying there like that, they might have sought the attention of a doctor on my behalf, but I was still all alone, and even the distant clattering of efficient activity had fallen away. I could do my thing in private.

This time I would question everything. There might have been a look that was significant, a conversation that dripped with new meaning. This was my chance to ferret out possible clues to what had happened. I forced myself to revisit that evening, and experience it as though it were happening again . . . the sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and even my thoughts and feelings at the time . . . I would go back . . . 

THE CAB STOPS OUTSIDE THE
tall, black wrought-iron gates. The driver is cross that he has to wait while I get out to push the little button to announce my arrival. Apartment 33. I push, and Alistair's crackly voice asks, “Who is it?”

“It's me, Cait Morgan,” I shout. Even as I announce my presence, I acknowledge what I'm feeling:
I hate being here, but I want to be thought of as a good person.

“Come to the front door and buzz again.” Alistair is abrupt. The intercom squeals as his voice cuts out.
I want to run away. Alistair is a horrible person.

The gates begin to open, soundlessly, and I jump back into the cab. We drive into the delightful, lush garden that sits in front of the fabulous Belle Epoque building. The pea-gravel crunches beneath the wheels.
I like that noise. I have always liked that noise.
The tall palms provide shade to the front facade, which is magnificent: plaster moldings, pilasters and curving iron balustrades adorn the front of the tall, shuttered windows that fill all six stories. The entire building is painted a rich cream. Yellow and cream awnings stretch out to offer shade to the apartments where dove grey shutters have been thrown open.

I pay the cab driver and climb the wide stone steps to the huge front door of frosted glass encased in more black wrought iron. I can feel the dead heat of the early evening sun on my back. I press number 33. Immediately the door buzzes and the lock releases. I walk into to the cool, cream and grey entrance hall. It smells of wax polish and moist soil.
That's a very curious thing to smell indoors.
The ceiling soars twenty feet above me. Palms in massive pots look glossy, well-tended and welcoming.
Now I understand smelling soil.
Ahead of me there's a winding stone staircase, but to the left there's a cage-like elevator. Just like the ones in the French movies.
I love these things—redolent of romance and stolen moments of passion.
I pull open the ironwork door and slide back the concertina inner gate. Pushing the button for the third floor, I feel the elevator jerk as it stirs to life. There's a slight smell of oil.

As I emerge onto the third level I see only one door. Dark, heavy wood. It opens slowly, and first Alistair's head, then large body, appears. I walk toward him, crossing cool marble, my heart sinking at his beaming smile. I sense a hug from those open arms.
Oh no, he's going to suck me in and suffocate me in his folds of flesh!
He's wearing a pink and white striped shirt and white linen pants. His clothes are tight on his flabby body. I'm caught with three revolting, wet kisses: left cheek, right cheek, left again.
Oh YUK! Shoot me now!

“Three kisses in Nice! What! What!” he shouts into my still-close ear. He smells strongly of heavy, sickly cologne.
I cannot vomit on this man!
On his shoulders I can see specks of dandruff from his carefully styled, thinning, more-salt-than-pepper hair. “Come in, come in! You're bang on time.”

I step into a small area with a coat rack, telephone table, and hat stand. Ahead of me I can see into a tiny kitchen with blue ceramic tiles and white everything else, beyond which glows the searing light of the sun on a stone patio. To my right is a bathroom, to my left the open expanse of a sitting room. Alistair's arm, still resting heavily on my shoulders, steers me toward the sitting room.
Impressive.
Dark wood floor; cream walls, ceiling and paintwork; grey shutters; creamy wicker furniture, cream upholstery and a large cream-painted dining table; subtle yet impersonal artwork is strategically placed both high and low on the massive walls; small tables are laden with Indian, Chinese, Indonesian, and Japanese trinkets.
Whoever planned this decor, it wasn't the people who live here—professional job.

Two stories high, the room's windows must be fifteen feet tall; there are six of them, all with their shutters open and their gay striped awnings opened out. Four at the front of the building offer a magnificent view over the garden, to the Old Town and the sea beyond; the two on the right offer views of the curve of the Baie des Anges, out toward the airport a few miles away and the pretty buildings that nestle in the shadow of this wonderful old building. The smell of incense hangs in the air, mixed with cigar smoke, polish, and garlic.
It smells bizarrely pleasant.

Tucked into the lefthand corner of the room, which extends farther into the building than the position of the front door, is a narrow, winding wooden stairway. Above it is a gallery, its balustrade hung with shawls and scarves of intricate patterns. Leaning over it is a young woman who seems to be swathed in a similar manner.

“You must be Cait! Hello, I'm Tamsin, the birthday girl,” she squeals.
She's got one of those Minnie Mouse voices. Oh sweet Lord, no! It takes me about thirty seconds before I want to strangle your type.

“Bull's-eye!” I say aloud.
I can be a complete idiot sometimes!

“Champagne, Cait,” says Alistair. It's clearly not a question, as he's handing me a glass.

“Thank you,” says polite little me, as I flash a weak smile at him and look back, in horror, to see the Tamsin person literally bouncing her way down the stairs toward me. She's about five feet tall, must weigh all of one hundred pounds, is barefoot and brown-limbed, has a little beaded lariat tied around her long, sun-bleached blond hair, and is wearing a flowing chiffon something or other topped with a couple of long silk scarves and a shawl.
All very “child of the sixties” but a twenty-first-century version . . . Clean, healthy looking. Almost sterile. Fake. I wonder if the deception is carried through—maybe she's even a vegan.

“Champagne for my little darling, what!” Alistair hands her a glass too.

“Oh, just a sip or two, darling,” she replies, gushingly.

Maybe she doesn't drink
, I think. It seems that Tamsin's idea of a “sip” is my idea of a great big glug, and her glass is finished in two mouthfuls.
Okay. Maybe she's a lush!

Having drunk the champagne, she holds her glass for Alistair to take, which he does, smiling. An interesting insight into their relationship. She flings her little arms around me and gives me the three obligatory kisses. She barely touches my cheeks with her lips, but her hair fans my face. She smells of patchouli.
I remember wearing that back in my teens . . . At the time it seemed very cool.
Now the smell hits my gag reflex.

She's tiny.
I'm a big, lumbering giant in her fluttering embrace. I hate myself. I hate my weight. I immediately try to rationalize. I'm about five-foot-four, on a tall day, but I'm what my mum used to call “well covered.” About thirty to sixty pounds overweight according to those devilish Body Mass Index things they've invented. Never been thin. Never will be. My boobs are too “fulsome.” And my hips too naturally rounded. An ex-boyfriend of mine once said I looked as though I'd been made in the Rachel Welch mold, but they'd turned me out before I had set properly, so I'd spread. I'm pretty sure he'd meant it as a compliment. It was early on in our relationship, after all. No, I'll only ever be slim if I manage to give up everything I love. I love all the bad things too much. It doesn't stop me being on some diet or other, pretty much constantly, but
 . . . 
well, you know how it is, right? So tiny people make me feel
 . . . 
well, disproportionate is one way of putting it. I have no thin friends. Thin people make me nervous. Like they'll snap if I touch them. Much the same feeling I have around babies.
I feel all this as Tamsin stands back and giggles, like a child.