Under My Skin (19 page)

“Right,” said Grant, slipping in to help his partner out. “So we can pick them up from you, can we?”

“Be my guest. I’ve only ever seen myself as a guardian until someone more worthy comes along,” I said, in a blatant attempt to get farther up their noses.

“When did you last see her?” And I must say, with Rawlings, I was certainly succeeding.

“Who?”

“The Queen of Sheba. Your client, Mrs. Marchant.”

“Er … Sunday morning. She dropped the files off to me at my home.”

“And that was the last communication?”

“No, she called me Tuesday morning to ask how it was going.”

“Where was she then?”

“I have no idea, I didn’t inquire.”

“What about her husband?”

“What about him?”

“Did you meet him?”

“Yes. I saw him yesterday lunchtime.”

“Did you indeed? Did you ask him about the threats?”

“No. No, I … er … went as a patient.”

And of course he couldn’t resist it. “What was your problem?”

“I was working undercover,” I said patiently. “You must have heard of it. You go in and pretend to be someone else, take the drugs, break the law, and then bust the others for doing it.”

“God, I don’t know how Frank stands it,” he said under his breath to Grant. Then to me: “Listen, lady, any trouble you give me, I’ll triple it back, understand?”

“Understood,” I answered meekly. Come off it, Meredith, don’t you know girls just want to have fun?

“What did you make of Marchant, Miss Wolfe?” The nice guy again.

“Confident, successful. Your average cosmetic surgeon, I presume.”

“Attractive?”

I shrugged. “Not like his wife, if that’s what you mean.”

“Did he strike you as at all nervous or frightened?” Rawlings in there with his fists up.

“No. On the contrary. But then he wouldn’t be, would he, not if he didn’t know he was being targeted?”

“Was he the kind of man that a woman might take a violent dislike to, would you say?”

God, Rawlings, it’s called fishing. You use a little hook because the fish can recognize a club. “I suppose it depends what he’d done to her,” I said. “Women can be very picky about their appearance.”

The phone rang. Grant picked it up, grunted into it a couple of times, then handed it over to his partner.

“Rawlings,” he said, just in case they didn’t know. He kept looking at me while he listened. And then he said, “Is he sure?” He kept on looking.

Oh God, I thought. This is just like “NYPD Blue.” I was so excited I could hardly breathe. Somehow I managed to contain myself.

“I’ll be there,” he said tersely, then put down the receiver and leaned over to say something to Grant. They both looked very pleased with themselves. He got up.

“Well, thanks for your er … help, Miss Wolfe. And give my regards to Frank. Detective Grant will accompany you back to your office to get the files. I’ll see you there, Michael.”

I waited till the door closed. Then I said. “He’s marvelous, isn’t he? It must be a privilege to work with him. Is that an arrest, then?”

And I could tell from the way his mouth quivered that he thought it funny, he just didn’t have the balls to laugh.

S
till, he liked my company so much he wouldn’t leave me alone. In fact when he discovered that the files were at my flat rather than my office, he insisted on accompanying me all the way home. Even took me in the squad car. I must say, it was a blow realizing they didn’t trust me to deliver them myself, but then in my line of work you get used to being disappointed in people.

The traffic was terrible. If I hadn’t been there, he probably would have put on the siren. I told him it was all right with me, but he just smiled. In the end I had to talk to make sure I didn’t fall asleep.

“So Rawlings is your partner?”

“I work with him, yes.”

“How long?”

“Just under a year.”

“How’s it going?”

He pursed his lips. Funny gesture, almost like a girl’s. In profile the face looked better. On a desert island would I sleep with him? Or would I, given recent revelations about myself, prefer Sue Lawley?
^*
Give it a break, Hannah. Do try and keep your mind on the job. He still hadn’t answered, but then I hadn’t expected him to. “How about you?” he said instead. “How long you been with Frank Comfort?”

“Three and half years.” And I only came for a temp job, I thought.

“You like it?”

Do I like it? “I can’t do anything else,” I said.

“Why don’t you join the police?” and once again the line between irony and ignorance was too slender for me to be sure.

I shrugged. “It used to be the uniform. Now I think I’ve got an attitude problem. I’m surprised you haven’t spotted it by now.”

“Rawlings tells me you were the woman who was with that kid when she was blown up by the animal-rights nutter last year.”

Rawlings certainly knew his stuff. Yes, I was that woman. But she was much more than just “that kid.” She was Mattie, fabulous, fierce Mattie, so gloriously alive that there are times when I think she still is—just hasn’t chosen to be in touch for a while. Hmm. Not the time to dwell on failures.

Instead I thought of all the places I could be but there. “If you’re going to be going through my list again,” I said, “you might get yourself a trip to Milan.”

“Milan?”

“Yes, some Italian woman had a face-lift that slipped. Was very upset about it.”

“But you crossed her off?”

“Just a feeling. She didn’t seem like the one,” I said, keeping her alibi to myself.

“Well, I don’t think we’ll be doing much traveling on this one.”

“Really?” I let the pause run. “I could always ask Frank, you know. They tell him everything, anyway. The old boys’ network.” He looked at me. “Go on. If it’s a male thing, you could tell Rawlings I tortured you.” And this time he actually cracked a smile. Not bad. Almost human. “Well?”

“What do you think of her?”

“My ex-client, Mrs. Marchant, you mean?” I said, to make it easier. “I don’t know. I was still making up my mind.”

He grunted. “She’s fifty, you know. Amazing. She looks at least ten years younger. How much work do you think he did on her?”

“A lot,” I said. “Why? Does that make her a suspect? I thought she was one of the happy ones.”

He smiled. “Apparently she saw him yesterday late afternoon.”

“Yes, I know. She told me.”

“They had a row. Did she tell you that?”

“Um … no, not really,” I said, putting down my two of clubs when I could have played the ace.

“The receptionist had stayed on to do some extra filing. She overheard bits of it.” The receptionist, of course. That’s what they’d be doing while I was twiddling my thumbs in the police waiting room. I was lucky they bothered to come back before solving the crime. “And?”

“It was about some other woman he’d been seeing.”

“Oh,” I said, trying to sound suitably impressed. “Really?”

“It turned into quite a shouting match. Each accusing the other of ruining the business. She stormed out crying, very upset.”

I left a pause. “Did the receptionist hear a name?”

“No, but when Marchant realized she was still there he got very rattled. Told her his wife wasn’t well, and asked her to forget everything she’d heard.”

He paused. And it struck me that Rawlings wouldn’t be too pleased to hear him giving away trade secrets. Or maybe he was trying to solve the plot on his own. Earn a few brownie points. “What do you think?” he said. “Was he the kind of man to play around?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “He spent most of his waking moments with his hands on other women’s bodies. But he seemed pretty straight to me.”

“Hmm.”

“What did Olivia Marchant say about it?”

“Nothing. She told us it was nothing, just a tiff about business.”

Oh, dear. Cooperating with the police. It clearly wasn’t Olivia’s strong point either. I was going to have to have a word with her about it. Still, it was hardly what you’d call conclusive evidence. “So they had a row. On the strength of that you’re throwing up a trip to Milan?” I said after a while.

The way he didn’t answer told me there was more, but that this time I wasn’t getting it. I glanced at him. He noticed me looking. “Rawlings said that after the animal-rights girl died you didn’t tell the police everything you knew.”

“Did he?” I said in mock horror. “Well, I must say that one really hurts. And here I am about to hand over all my files to you without a murmur.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve been wondering about that.”

After such an unwarranted attack on my ethics I didn’t, of course, invite him upstairs with me. Well, we’d only just been introduced and it’s a lady’s prerogative not to go any farther on a first date. Even the police would agree with that. Also, I couldn’t be entirely certain where I’d left my dope stash.

It was a drag not to be able to duplicate everything, but I managed to get the most relevant stuff through the fax copier and back into the files before he had time to get suspicious. The anonymous note was so crumpled that the copy came out looking like a Jocasta Innes idea for wallpaper design, but at least I could still make out the writing. I was packing the files into a box, good as gold, when I did something so evil that I could hardly believe it myself. At
the last moment I took one of them back out again. To make myself feel better about it I let it slide down behind the kitchen table, as if it could all have been some terrible accident. Withholding evidence. Immoral and illegal. Even the police only do it sometimes.

“Is this it, then?”

“You’ve got it,” I said, smiling, as I leaned over the passenger window to wave him off. He had offered me a lift back into town, but I refused because I didn’t really want him to know where I was going. He opened the box and thumbed through a few of the files. “I think you’ll like the photos,” I said as a particularly gross back view fell into his lap. He gave a little grunt. “Men do it, too, you know. It’s supposed to make them more attractive to the opposite sex.”

He looked up at me. And it was clear he didn’t know what to make of the comment. See, I told you. I’m useless at courtship rituals. Just as well I wasn’t trying. “It’s a shame he’s dead, actually,” I said brightly. “He did a great line in tummy tucks. Maybe Detective Inspector Rawlings should ask Mrs. Marchant to recommend someone else. She could probably get him a discount.”

He shook his head. “You know, I don’t mean to be rude, but why don’t you give yourself a break. Stop trying to live up to the image. It’s a waste of energy, and it just puts everyone’s back up.”

“Does it, really?” I said, but not quite jauntily enough. “And I thought it was amusing.”

“Yeah, well, maybe, but it’s also stupid, because at some point or other you’re going to need us, and we’re going to give you hell back.”

I laughed. He was right, of course. Shame I wasn’t humble enough to admit it. “Sorry. Old habits die hard,” I said. “I’ll give it some thought.”

He nodded, neither of us much convinced. “Well, I’d better be going.”

“Yep. Back to the scene of the crime?”

He didn’t answer, of course. I lifted my hand off the window just as it began to slide up. When it was almost to the top, he took pity on me. “Listen,” he said through the two-inch gap. “If we find out anything, I’ll let you know, all right?”

And it was so straight that I almost believed him.

The car drove away and I walked upstairs. I felt bereft. With him gone, my mind had the space to move from murder back to adultery. It was hard to know which hurt more. As I got to the door, someone was talking to my answering machine: “Hannah, this is Kate. I was ringing to—”

“Hi, Kate. Kate. It’s me. I’m here. Let me turn off the machine.”

I hit the Stop button. Well, here we were, then—the wronged wife and the private detective. Maybe I should have seen it as fate telling me what to do, but it didn’t quite work out that way.

“Listen, I’m ringing to let you know that I’m taking the kids away for a couple of days.”

“Away?”

“Yes. We’re going to Mum’s.”

“To Mum’s?” I echoed again stupidly. “Does she—”

“No, no. She doesn’t know anything.”

“I see. And Colin?”

“He just—” She broke off, and I heard a little voice in the background, a recognizable whining catch to it. Then Kate, exasperation colliding with sudden anger: “No, Amy, I said no, OK? Now will you go downstairs and give it back to him. No, I’ll be there in a minute. Go.” Then to me: “Sorry.”

“It’s OK. Listen, is this—?”

“It’s nothing. It’s just a visit. To give us both a bit of space.”

“Right. I see.” Of course I didn’t. “Well, can I do anything while you’re gone?”

“No. Everything’ll be fine. Hannah, I wanted to say I’m sorry about yesterday. I mean I don’t want you—”

“Kate, it’s all right. Really.”

“No, it isn’t all right, that’s the point. I don’t want you to feel responsible for anything. I shouldn’t have told you. This thing is—well, it’s between Colin and me. No one else. We’ll work it out somehow.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said.

“I don’t want you to feel—”

“Compromised? No, I don’t.”

“Good.”

I waited, but that was it. “Anyway, I’m a busy little bee now. Up to my eyes in crime. Give me a call when you get back. And give Mum my love. Tell her I’m using the new saucepans.”

“She won’t believe you.”

“No, but maybe if neither of us is telling her the truth she won’t notice quite so much,” I said, even though I knew it was mean. There was a pause. “Kate, I’m sorry—” I said. Then: “Listen, there’s something I have to tell you….”

“Yes?”

In the background I heard Benjamin let out a huge yowl of fury from downstairs. Whatever Amy had given back to him she had evidently taken away again. I could feel Kate’s attention distracted. Tell her what exactly? That I followed her husband to a basement flat in Kentish Town. Forget it, Hannah. Neither the time nor the place. “Er … nothing. Nothing. I’ll see you when you get back. Have a good time.”

I slammed down the phone. Great. First the police give me the brush-off, then my own sister. So now I wasn’t
They’ll sort it out. Yeah, well, it was a shame she hadn’t told me that earlier, before I went off doing her dirty work. Christ, what would happen if she and Colin made it up now? I’d never be able to look him in the face again. On the other hand, what would I do if they didn’t?