The Sleeper (29 page)

‘Sure.’ I took a piece of the hotel’s paperwork out of my bag and read it to him.

‘But Iris?’

‘Yes?’

‘When you’re back, you have to come and see me. Right? Please?’

I squirmed with guilt. ‘Of course. Promise.’

‘Bring your boyfriend if you like. I mean, don’t think I’m being creepy or anything.’

‘Oh, that’s OK. My boyfriend’s …’ I inhaled deeply and was surprised at how calmly my voice came out. ‘My boyfriend’s not really around any more.’

‘Sorry to hear that,’ he said dutifully, and as he was drawing breath to ask something else, I interrupted him.

‘Look, Sam? You know Leon Campion?’

‘Unfortunately.’

‘Someone was talking about him the other day.’

‘Lara’s godfather. Hates me, always has done. He’s all over her. If you see him, don’t send him my regards. Tell him to fuck himself. In fact if anyone’s done away with her, he’d be top of my list of candidates. Him and Olivia.’

‘Oh.’

He hung up, promising to post the diary. I hoped he actually would: I was not holding my breath.

Lara’s parents’ house was large and ugly, a big block of property, and more intimidating than I had expected it to be. My head was still swimming in the toxic residue of martini and Prosecco, a drink I was certain I would never look in the face again.

Where there must once have been a garden, now there was tarmac, and two cars were parked on it. One (her father’s, I presumed) was a huge Jeep, ostentatiously and unnecessarily equipped for all terrains and eventualities, and wholly ridiculous in so suburban an environment. The other looked like the run-around, the wife’s little Peugeot.

It was odd to think that this was Lara’s origin. As far as I knew, she had grown up here, though I was not completely sure. It was an unremarkable house, unstylish, moneyed and boring. I tried to picture a teenage Lara, blonde and gorgeous and bursting with potential, arriving home in school uniform. I imagined Olivia, sulking stroppily in her wake.

She was shifting in my mind, becoming elusive. Sam was right: I did not know this woman at all. I had only met her four times and I had considered her to be a lovely potential friend; I’d never so much as guessed at her dark side.

The doorbell played ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ audibly inside the house. I stood on the doorstep with no idea what I was going to say, and after a while, I heard the sounds of someone approaching. Whoever it was undid what sounded like many locks on the inside, and then the door was pulled open, and Lara was standing in front of me.

It was not her. Of course it was not Lara. But she was so like her that for what felt like a very long time I could not say a word. It occurred to me, in slow motion, that this woman, with her blond hair, her green wrap dress, her strong bone structure, was Lara’s mother. She, too, was not what I had expected. This woman looked so ethereal that she could not possibly have given birth once, let alone twice.

She was looking at me with narrowed eyes, questions on her face, but she said nothing.

‘Um, hello,’ I managed in the end. ‘Mrs Wilberforce?’

She gave the wariest of nods.

‘My name’s Iris. I’m a friend of Lara’s. From Cornwall. I just …’

Words deserted me. I had no idea why I was here.

‘Hello.’ Her voice was faint, quiet. She did not invite me in, or move at all. She was a pale ghost of a woman.

‘I’m sorry. You look like Lara.’

She nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘I don’t know if Olivia’s mentioned me? We had a drink together the other day. I’m …’ And then I found I couldn’t say it. How ridiculous to announce that I had come from Cornwall to do some sleuthing and prove their missing daughter’s innocence. I could not announce to this woman that her daughter might have stolen my passport and flown to Bangkok. The words, in my head, were beyond implausible. It would sound insulting, and she would think I was mad.

I drew in a deep breath. ‘I’m in London and I was thinking of Lara and I just wanted to come and see you and say I don’t believe what everyone’s saying about her. I’m sorry. I should have called.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Maybe you should come in, dear, since you’re here?’

She opened the door a little wider and I saw a man, Lara’s father, approaching from across a wide, thickly carpeted hallway. He was enormously fat, balding, and he was sizing me up.

‘What can we do for you?’ he said. His demeanour was utterly, flatly hostile.

Lara’s mother shrank away. He took her place, filling the doorway. I stuttered out my story again.

‘You’re what? Lara’s friend? Well, I appreciate your coming by, but to be honest, we’ve had so many journos turning up making that claim that I’m not prepared to risk it.’

‘But Olivia …’ I started.

‘I don’t care what Olivia says,’ he said, and as he closed the door in my face, I heard him shout: ‘You were going to let her in! You were, I heard you! Fuck’s sake, Victoria!’

I stood there for a while, hoping that Lara’s downtrodden mother might reappear and talk to me in secret, but she didn’t. In the end I walked away, back to the mainline station. I bought a Ginsters cheese pasty at a convenience store, had it microwaved to a state of scalding sogginess, and set off back to the city. On the way, I told myself, I would read Alex’s messages, and I would hope that the right words might come to me, so that I could reply.

chapter twenty-four

Leon Campion’s office was on the third floor of a grand building near Liverpool Street. The building was one of those huge white-fronted ones that in some parts of London would be broken up into mansion flats, but in the City housed office after office.

I had not planned anything. My head was still aching gently, and I could feel the alcohol throughout my system. I hoped I didn’t smell boozy. My shoes clipped and clopped across the floor to the reception desk. I wanted to call Alex and apologise. I was nearly ready.

The thing about today was that I did not care at all. I didn’t care if Leon Campion swore in my face. Lara’s dad’s dismissal of me would have left me humiliated and angry coming from anyone else, but I was utterly untouched by it.

‘Hello?’ asked a bored young woman. At least she didn’t look me up and down in horror.

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I have a meeting with Leon Campion at Campion Associates.’

‘Sure. If you sign in here.’

I wanted her to finish the sentence. What would happen, were I to sign in here? The answer was not forthcoming, but at least she was not challenging me. I had not really expected to get past this point. My plan B was to hang around outside the building and hope he came out for lunch at some point.

I signed in, using my real name, got in a small mirrored lift, and pressed the button with the ‘5’ on it, as instructed.

I stepped out into a large reception area and saw an intimidating woman behind a desk, on the phone, fiddling with paperwork, not looking at me.

She was groomed like a horse, her thick mane shiny and tamed. She was wearing so much make-up that it was impossible to imagine what she really looked like, and her gold earrings were pulling her ears down so hard that the hole in the ear that was not pressed against the phone was elongated and looked close to snapping point. I winced in sympathy. I had never managed to wear earrings.

There was a thick carpet on the floor, an expensive air of polish and luxury permeating the place, but this, I realised, was actually a small company. Only one door opened out of the reception area, and I could not imagine it leading to an enormous suite of offices or a huge space crammed with desks and activity. It felt more like a one-man enterprise.

The woman smiled at me and signalled that she would just be a moment.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but we’ll need more than that, I’m afraid, sir. We’ll require detailed inventories of all of it before Mr Campion is able to commit himself even to a preliminary discussion … Yes. Those terms absolutely stand … I’ll look forward to hearing from you then. Goodbye.’

She hung up without waiting for the reply to this.

‘Hello?’ She had attached a professional face with a smile that did not come anywhere near her eyes. ‘Can I help?’

This was the crucial part. I had to get it right. I had spoken to this woman on the phone, but she did not need to know that. I could not begin to guess whether she remembered every conversation she had or not.

‘Good afternoon. I’m wondering whether I could have a word with Mr Campion,’ I said as an opener.

She did not betray a thing.

‘I’m afraid he’s not available. Is he expecting you?’

‘I’m a friend of Lara’s. I’d really like to have a word with him. It’s personal business.’

Again she did not react.

‘Well, as I said, Mr Campion is unavailable. He’s out of the country, in fact. If you’d like to leave a note or something, I can certainly make sure he gets it.’

‘Thank you. I’ll maybe write down my number and my email address.’

‘As I said, it may be a while before you hear from him.’

‘He’s Lara’s godfather, isn’t he?’

‘That would be his personal affair.’

She turned her attention to her keyboard, aggressively tapping away with fingers flat enough to preserve her long and immaculate nails. I took the hint, and went to sit on the little sofa in the corner, with the sheet of paper and the pen the woman had handed me. I used a glossy magazine to lean on –
Management Today
– and tried to decide what to write. It would have to be good enough to grab the attention of the person who seemed actually to care about Lara.

Leon
, I began, attempting a self-assured tone.
I’ve been trying to reach you on the phone and in person. My name is Iris Roebuck and I’m a friend of Lara’s from Cornwall. I’m …

At this point I ground to a halt. How could I make it sound right? I scribbled out the ‘I’m’ and wrote:
Like her family, I am desperately concerned about Lara and convinced she did not do this horrible thing. I have a very good idea of what happened to her, and this is something I would like to talk to you about, because it’s connected to her past, to Asia. Olivia …

My flow was interrupted by the lift doors opening. I looked up and knew at once that it was him. I tried to sit as unobtrusively as I could in the corner in the hope that he would speak to the receptionist without noticing me, but he stared right at me, straight away.

I already knew what he looked like, with his longish grey hair and his long nose, but I had expected someone far more intimidating. This man looked friendly, and sad. I liked him at first sight, more than I had expected to.

He looked at me, half smiling, for a second, then turned to the woman.

‘Anything I need to know?’ he asked, and I was unsure whether he meant me or in general.

She reeled off a bland list of calls and messages, some of which were from journalists, and added, ‘And this lady, Miss Roebuck, is a friend of Lara Finch’s. I told her you were unavailable and she was just writing you a note.’

‘Thanks, Annie.’

My heart pounded as he came closer, but his manner disarmed me.

‘Miss Roebuck,’ he said, smiling politely as he sized me up. I stood, hating the disadvantage of being on the sofa.

‘Mr Campion,’ I replied, and he offered a hand. His handshake was firm and warm.

He was reading my note. ‘You’ve come from Cornwall?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was I terribly rude to you on the phone? I do apologise. Sincerely. It’s been a difficult time. You know that.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘No, it’s not. You see, I look at you now, and I know that Lara had talked about you. You’re the friend who rides a bicycle and has long hair. You were pictured climbing over the gate to see Guy Thomas’s poor widow.’

‘Yes. Yes, I was.’

‘What were you doing there?’

‘Conveying sympathies from Sam.’

‘And I see,’ he said, glancing back at my part-written note, ‘that you know something of her past in Asia, which I agree may be key here. Come into the office, my dear. Though I’m afraid I am a little paranoid, and I’ll have to check a couple of things. You understand?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’ve always felt responsible for Lara. And it’s shattering that …’ He looked at me, unable to finish the sentence. ‘Annie,’ he said instead. ‘Some coffee?’

‘I’ll bring it through now.’

His office was huge, with massive windows on two sides that must once have offered panoramic views across London, and that now looked over a rooftop or two to the side of the nearest taller buildings. Nonetheless, the place was flooded with light. Buses ambled and taxis scrambled below, but there was no sound at all. The air in here was layered with upmarket smells, from expensive paper to wood polish; from coffee to Leon’s cologne.

He ignored the huge wooden desk piled with paperwork, and led me to a couple of semi-comfortable chairs in the corner.

‘Now,’ he said, when we were both sitting down. ‘Tell me about Lara. I don’t mean to test you, because I do believe in you, but I can’t risk not running through the basics. How do you know her?’

I was surprised by his businesslike tone. ‘Right,’ I said, taken aback. ‘Well. I’ve lived in Cornwall, just outside Falmouth, for nearly five years.’

He took an iPhone out of his inside pocket.

‘Just outside Falmouth? Where, specifically?’

‘Near Budock. It’s a village, but a big one, and you can walk to the edge of Falmouth easily from it. I’m outside the village, though. Pretty remote, but it doesn’t take long to get to places.’

He was locating my house on Google Earth. I directed him to it, and then he passed the phone over.

‘So you live here? Alone?’

There was our house. It was my house.

Laurie’s ghost might still be around: he had been there so long that he could not evaporate, just like that. I wondered if, when I went back, I would feel his lingering presence, even for a fraction of a second. I hoped I would. I would cling to the last vestiges of him, if I could.

I missed my wood burner and my cats and my static life away from the world. I missed Laurie more than I had ever missed anything.