Too Close For Comfort (16 page)

Too much fun. I texted him. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t, but I wanted the extra buzz on top – that fizzing feeling deep inside of me. A natural high.
Knowing he doesn’t just want me, he craves me.

When my phone beeped, I hid in her en suite, even though I knew she’d flip her lid if she found me there, and read what he said again and again. The fact he was trying
not to say it was a bigger turn on than if he’d just put it out there.
I keep thinking of you too. In fact it’s getting hard to think about anything else X
I
put some of her lipstick on, stared at my pink face in her big round mirror. My eyes looked so bright, so alive. I knew right then that I was beautiful. Then the high went really low. Cos
it’s not enough, is it? It’s not enough for him. The fact I’m more beautiful and it’s still her he wants must mean there’s something wrong with me. I felt so angry I
just pocketed the stupid lipstick. She won’t miss it.

Had to put the whole of the start of the night on that new credit card (thank FUCK they said yes and thank you, Mum, for letting me pretend I still live there). Dinner,
drinks, the lot. You can’t say anything when you’re out with them. You can’t say, I live in a big house but can I just have a starter? You can’t say, please, miss, can we
have Prosecco and not champagne? I looked over at Lysette and I knew she felt the same way, but all we could do was make a weird face at each other. If it wasn’t for her, I’d feel like
a right skank, like I was a teenager again, and not in a good way.

That was the other thing that happened in the bathroom – I came up with a plan. It’s going to change things up a bit, level the playing field. Something good can
come out of the badness, at least for me. No, for us. I reckon Lysette will go for it. She needs it as much as I do.

I woke Max up when I got in, I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t flying any more: all I felt was guilty. He’s part of me, and he’s so perfect and innocent,
the purest piece of me that no one can harm. He moaned at first, pushed me away, but then he woke up a bit more and really saw me. He reached up his little arms, pulled me down so I was lying next
to him. We snuggled so close it was almost like he was back in my tummy, really part of me again. Then I wondered if my plan was such a good one, if it could hurt him. Couldn’t think about
it. I reached into my bag, my hand creeping so slowly he didn’t wake up, and took one of Kimberley’s pills.

Sometimes I think I could sleep forever.

Too much coffee makes me twitchy. I’d foolishly ordered a second cup as I waited, the caffeine pin-balling around my system, my eyes constantly flicking towards the door
of The Crumpet. It was a couple of days after the disastrous dinner party, and Krall had requested a catch-up via one of his underlings. I’d been all ready to head into Peterborough, but
he’d sent word that he’d come to meet me in Little Copping. Apparently it slotted perfectly into his day, a justification I was deeply suspicious of – I know better than most that
you can observe far more about an animal when you see it in the wild. I sucked up the last dregs of my now cold cappuccino. He might be good at catching serial killers, but he was clearly no great
shakes at using a watch.

Jake was working today, his eyes trained on the steaming coffee machine, obsessively polishing the already gleaming pipes with a cloth and avoiding any eye contact. The café was silent
and still, only a couple of tables occupied, which made the sudden clang of the bell sound like a fire engine. There was Krall, framed in the doorway, his hair dishevelled by the gusty day, a
stylish Crombie coat flapping around his neat form. He pointed at me, hurried over.

‘So this is the fabled Crumpet?’ he said, sticking out a firm hand. ‘I’m sorry I kept you waiting.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, standing up. ‘I’ve been seeing people all morning, so a bit of time to myself was no bad thing.’

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ he said, conspiratorial. ‘It’s actually a relief to escape the incident room for a couple of hours.’ His dark eyes were rapidly
scanning the room, adding to that sense of perpetual motion. Jake stayed resolutely still, but a twenty-something waitress I hadn’t noticed stalked out from behind the counter. She had
jet-black hair tied in tight bunches, heavy eye make-up, a fierce-looking nose ring that pierced the centre in a way that looked deeply painful. Krall wasn’t remotely fazed.
‘Hello!’ he said. ‘So, if this is The Crumpet, what do you have in the way of cakes?’

‘Well . . .’ giggled the girl, her face immediately transformed by Krall’s warmth. ‘People say the carrot cake’s nice, but I don’t much like
carrots.’

‘Luckily I do,’ said Krall, ‘so I’ll be having a slice. How about you, Mia?’

‘I’m OK for cake,’ I said, measured. What was he trying to invoke between us? This wasn’t the Krall I’d encountered at the police station. ‘Just an Earl Grey
is fine.’

‘Very restrained,’ he said. ‘I’ll also have an espresso. The strongest your friend over there can get it to come out of his impressive machine.’ He swung back to
face me. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Where were we?’

‘Roughly at hello.’

Krall smiled at me: touché.

‘How have the past few days been?’ he asked.

My gaze dropped towards the table, fixed itself on the sugar bowl before I forced it back up. The aftershock of the dinner party was still reverberating through me, almost forty-eight hours
later. Kimberley’s mouth on mine would have been shocking enough, but I kept playing their whispered words back to myself, aware that they were muddled in my mind by alcohol. Had my
heightened state meant I’d woven a significance into them that wasn’t even there? One thing I know from my work is how dangerously prone we are to create a story of our own making from
random facts.

‘It’s been tough,’ I said, a little too heartfelt. I’d tried to gently broach another conversation with Lysette, but her distress meant that any spare capacity she had
was rightly directed towards her children. I’d toyed with talking to Patrick, but something had stopped me, a shaming echo of Lysette’s words in the cab. Had I somehow incited that
situation with Kimberley? I felt like I couldn’t explain it to him without seeing him face to face. The person I’d really wanted to talk to – the person I knew would understand
– was Jim, and I was resolutely ignoring his suggestions of another meeting. ‘I’ve mainly spent time with the teachers, trying to help them to understand what to expect when the
kids come back. How they can hold them.’

Krall paused a beat too long. ‘So not so much time spent with the mums? Or has that been more of a social thing?’

A swish of unease ran straight across me, a piano scale played too fast. What had he been told? Before I could formulate a response, the waitress sailed up to us, her chrome tray landing on the
table.

‘Espresso for you,’ she said, putting a tiny china cup in front of Krall, ‘tea for you,’ she said, unloading a mug, ‘and a slice of Bugs Bunny’s favourite in
the middle!’

‘Perfect!’ said Krall, effortlessly charming. As she bustled off, he changed tack. ‘So how did you get into your line of work? When you were slaving away at your A levels, did
you think, I just really want to know what makes people tick?’

I knew enough to be wary of him, but the sight of him sitting there, a mouthful of cake halfway to his mouth as he waited for my response, made it hard to maintain chilliness.

‘I came to it later – I started out thinking I was going to be a journalist, but it didn’t suit me.’ An understatement – I did the first couple of months of a
postgraduate course, then crashed and burned to spectacular effect, the quicksand of the years preceding it sucking me under for a few hellish months. ‘I had a difficult start . . . my Dad
– let’s say he was eccentric.’ Jim flashed up in my mind as I said it, so very much a symptom of that first impossible love for a man who could never love me the way I wanted.
‘Therapy saved my bacon. I wanted to pay it forward, I suppose.’

‘What a stellar motivation,’ said Krall, dark eyes studying me.

‘How about you?’ I countered.

‘Nothing so spiritual,’ he said, knocking back a slug of espresso. ‘Three brothers, too much time playing cops and robbers. I’ve always liked the good guys winning, and I
seem to have a talent for making sure it happens.’ He tapped the table with a flourish. ‘Touch wood.’

‘So I hear.’ I’d Googled him now, seen his string of high-profile murder convictions. I understood why Patrick had questioned his presence. Was it the proximity to the
Farthings that meant they’d rolled out the big guns, or was there more to this case than I yet realised?

‘Which is what I aim to make sure happens here. How do you think your friend Lysette Allen is coping? You’re staying with her, no?’

He knew full well how discombobulating it was, the zigzags he was forcing us to take. He wanted to make me dizzy.

‘She’s very sad.’

‘She obviously cared deeply for Sarah,’ he said.

Krall paused, his slim fingers steepled in front of him. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, I noticed. The thought crossed my mind that he might be gay, but his studied campness felt more like
a certain type of good breeding. Or perhaps it was neither of the above: perhaps it was his version of plain clothes.

‘Of course,’ I said, ‘she’s a very loving friend.’ The words felt metallic in my mouth, cold somehow.

‘Which is why I’d expect her to want to do anything she could to help answer the many, many questions surrounding Sarah’s death.’ He paused again. I paused longer.
‘But – and I may be wrong – it doesn’t feel that way.’

I sounded defensive. ‘She doesn’t
know
what happened.’

‘I’m sure she doesn’t, and don’t get me wrong, it’s
our
job to find that out. But what I also suspect is that she’s sitting on
information that would make that job a good deal easier.’

‘She’s furious at the world for taking her friend away from her,’ I said, my voice rising. ‘It’s possible your detectives are mistaking anger for obstructiveness.
She loved Sarah. Of course she wants her killer caught.’

He was in, quick as a flash. ‘Her killer? Has she talked about the death in those terms from the start?’

‘I’m not saying that.’

‘So what
are
you saying?’ His tone was coaxing. ‘I’m fascinated by how you read the situation. You understand the subtleties in a way that
I’m not trained to do.’ He smiled at me, his craggy face softly handsome. ‘Help me out here, Mia.’

‘I appreciate the compliment, but I’m not sure it’s deserved.’ I thought of Lysette in the cab home – cardigan wrapped tightly around her skimpy dress, her arms
crossed, her gaze turned away. I found it humiliating how little I knew about what was going on inside of her. ‘And I’ve been very clear that it’s inappropriate for us to discuss
her. She’s my best friend, not my client.’

‘Of course,’ said Krall, conciliatory. ‘And I’m sure it must be very hard to be so close to that overpowering grief. She seems utterly destroyed by it.’

Destroyed: the word made me flinch. ‘I’m just happy to be able to comfort her,’ I lied.

‘She seems to have a very strong friendship group – well, Sarah’s group. They’re a tight knit bunch, aren’t they?’

A flash of it – Kimberley advancing across the bathroom, the lipstick clenched in her hand like a Disney Princess weapon. I was so stupid, not bolting there and then.

‘Aren’t they just?’ I said, too quickly. We smiled at each other, and he scooped up another moist forkful of cake, thick icing dripping off it. ‘I thought cops were meant
to go in for doughnuts?’

‘Only hard-bitten New Yorkers,’ he smiled. ‘Are they cake bakers, do you think?’

‘I’m sure Kimberley could knock out a Victoria sponge on a Bunsen burner without breaking a sweat,’ I said. ‘But I bet she wouldn’t so much as nibble it.’

‘Interesting . . .’

I felt safer now we’d strayed away from the topic of Lysette. Too safe perhaps.

‘She’s a classic queen bee, isn’t she? She does everything with aplomb.’ Did I sound bitchy? Of course I sounded bitchy. ‘It’s very impressive,’ I added
hastily.

‘And you’ve had the chance to observe this particular gang close up, I gather. Coffee mornings. Dinner parties.’

I was determined not to let him rattle me. ‘You’ve obviously been doing your homework.’

‘I didn’t really have to. Kimberley Farthing’s been very forthcoming. Much more than any of the others, in fact.’

It made perfect sense – I thought of the way her voice cut across them, in total command. If she was the one deciding what information got out, she kept control. But what was the
information they seemed so desperate to keep under wraps?

‘If you’ve got Kimberley on side, I’m sure you’ll have no problem getting the others to open up,’ I said.

‘I see what you mean. The queen bee controls the hive,’ he said, cocking his head. ‘But you’re not under her spell as yet?’

‘She’s also very close to Ian,’ I said, ignoring his aside. It had the very real potential to make me paranoid. I made my voice low and authoritative, one professional to
another. ‘He’s someone I’m determined to help. He’s got a huge task on his hands, trying to put the pieces back together.’

‘Absolutely,’ agreed Lawrence. ‘And he has to shoulder his guilt about making the decision not to suspend Peter Grieve.’

‘I’m sorry?’

He smiled, weighing out his words. I could see the cogs turning, behind all that sugar and icing and charm. ‘There was a complaint made. Inappropriate messages, late-night calls. He
hasn’t told you about it?’

He knew full well it was a revelation, was milking the effect.

‘What, Peter was harassing Sarah? I mean I suppose that makes sense . . .’ He flashed up in my mind’s eye, the look on his face as he swooped down to the playground tarmac.
Even through the haze of sadness he’d felt attuned, gentle.

‘No. Not Sarah.’ He watched me. It’s a technique I use myself: stop short and see where the client goes. I wasn’t falling for it.