9

  12/1/2015

  Natalie. Charlie had a name at last – only a first name, but still, it felt like a big step forward. She celebrated with a sip of ginger beer from the can on her desk. It was warm and flat, leftover from yesterday, but she was in too good a mood to care. Ginger was a taste that nothing could destroy, especially when you’d just found a short, grainy film on the web of Nikhil Gulati giving a best man’s speech and, in it, referring to his girlfriend as Natalie.

  The film was on the YouTube channel of Philip Sier, the groom. Nikhil’s speech had made Charlie laugh twice. It was witty without being attention-seeking; it kept the spotlight firmly on Philip and Emily, whose special day it was. Best of all, it referred to ‘my better half, Natalie’, who was also present and whose embarrassed face helpfully filled the screen at the exact moment her name was mentioned.

  Charlie opened the Liv and Gibbs file on her computer and added the new information – ‘Nikhil Gulati’s girlfriend’s name: Natalie’ – to what she already had. She’d found out quite a bit about Nikhil. No criminal convictions, no history with the police – that was the first thing she’d checked. He wasn’t on Facebook, but she’d found him on Twitter and LinkedIn. He was Associate Marketing Manager for the R & T McElwee Winery in Linton, Cambridgeshire. Before taking that job in 2011, he’d had a similar role at Gallo wines in Uxbridge. His Twitter feed revealed him to be the doting owner of two pugs – Doug the Pug and Peppa Pug – as well as a member of the Liberal Democrat party and addicted to spicy foods, the hotter the better.

  Nikhil had joined Twitter in 2012. There were several references among his tweets to ‘Her Outdoors’, which had led Charlie to speculate that the girlfriend had a non-office-based career. Her Outdoors wasn’t addicted to Twitter as he was, Nikhil told one of his followers on 11 April 2013; she thought he was crazy to waste so much of his time on it. Charlie, by contrast, was glad he had, because it was his Twitter activity that had led her to Philip Sier, Nikhil’s best friend since university.

  And now, thanks to Sier’s YouTube channel, she’d been able to add the name Natalie to her notes. Everything was shaping up nicely.

  Charlie felt like doing something to celebrate. She had a sudden urge to be on the move. One minute it presented itself as excitement, the next as anxiety. Everyone was capable of doing something life-ruiningly stupid, but Charlie believed her sister to be more capable of it than most, and they were too close, their lives too intertwined, for Charlie to maintain a safe emotional distance. Not caring – taking no further action – wasn’t an option.

  The only way to kill the fear was to find out the truth.

  Charlie considered watching Nikhil’s best man speech again in case she’d missed something: a subtle but vital clue. Unlikely. She’d watched it more than ten times already.

  Don’t be crazy, Zailer. She had to be at a multi-agency Spotlight on Domestic Violence forum in Combingham in … Charlie looked at her watch. Shit. Ten minutes ago.

  By the time she got to the meeting they’d be forty minutes into it. That was unacceptable. It was better to fake a migraine, better to go somewhere else altogether, where she couldn’t be late because she had no appointment and no one was expecting her.

  Somewhere like the McElwee winery in Linton, Cambridgeshire, where Nikhil Gulati worked.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re looking so aghast. Hmm. It’s interesting.’ Sondra Halliday tilted her head to look at Sellers from another angle. Either that or she thought he’d hidden the explanation for his behaviour up his nose. ‘Are you really so disappointed to find I have an alibi? Four alibis, to be precise.’

  The news of Marion Hopwood’s murder hadn’t yet been made public, so Sellers had only asked to know Halliday’s whereabouts on the other four relevant days.

  ‘I wonder which of my attributes has you itching to lock me away forever. I’m sure it can’t be because I’m a woman with a strong opinion that differs from yours, so I’d love to hear what it is.’

  They were at the Langham Hotel again, sharing a pot of English Breakfast tea this time; no frog-bollock dim sum in sight. On the phone, Halliday had said something about needing a long spoon before she could eat in Sellers’ presence again. He’d had to look it up.

  ‘I’m not disappointed, but I think I must have misheard you,’ he said. ‘Would you mind repeating what you’ve told me?’

  ‘My alibis? Which one?’

  ‘All of them.’ If he narrowed it down for her, she’d be better able to second-guess him. She had to be lying … but then, why offer a false alibi that was so improbable? And for Josh Norbury’s murder, too: the one man, the one victim of Billy Dead Mates that she preferred to ignore.

  It probably meant nothing.

  ‘You seriously want me to repeat where I was on four separate occasions?’

  ‘Sorry. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’

  ‘Oh, to be able to say “important” as if there’s no subjectivity involved!’ Halliday sighed. ‘Okay: Linzi Birrell: I was in the Lifeworld office all day. Rhian Douglas: I was on a train in the morning, to Gobowen – nearest station to Oswestry, where I spent the afternoon interviewing a woman who’d exited the sex trade after many years being prostituted and exploited. Angela McCabe: I was in Oxford at a Focus On Femicide conference all day. Joshua Norbury: I was at home in the morning writing a piece for Lifeworld, then in the afternoon I went to Hertford to collect a painting: my mother-in-law’s Christmas present. Satisfied?’

  ‘First time round, you said more about the Christmas present.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I said, “my mother-in-law’s Christmas present” and I moaned about having to sacrifice an afternoon to pick it up. It was a painting of a boy and a cat and it was shit. Joan had seen it in an exhibition at a place called Gravelly Barn—’ Halliday broke off. ‘Do you want to know any of this?’

  ‘Not really. I’d like to know why you sacrificed your afternoon, though. Since it was a present for your husband’s mother, why didn’t he go and get it?’

  Halliday snorted. ‘Who buys your mother’s Christmas presents? And birthday, and Mother’s Day – you or your wife?’

  ‘My wife. But she’s not a radical feminist.’

  ‘Really, Conkers? I’m astonished to hear that.’

  ‘You are a feminist. An obsessive one. Which is why, for Josh Norbury, I don’t believe your alibi. No way you’d do that: go and collect a picture for a man’s mother when he could do it himself. You wouldn’t be married to the kind of bloke who’d ask you to.’

  ‘Oh, God, you’re serious, aren’t you?’ Halliday groaned softly into her tea. ‘I’m a feminist, yes. That doesn’t mean every single action I perform is a feminist action.’

  ‘Do as I say, not as I do? Doesn’t that make you a hypocrite?’

  ‘Wow! I think you might be right! Am I doing feminism all wrong, do you think? Please, advise me and let me learn from you, a misogynist shitbag.’

  ‘That one struck home, didn’t it?’ Sellers chuckled. ‘What’s the point in calling homicide “femicide” when you run errands for your husband like a skivvy? Shouldn’t you try to practise what you preach? Especially when it’s so easy. If you’d told him to sort out his mum’s present himself, he’d have done it, wouldn’t he?’

  Halliday stared at him as if she wanted him dead.

  ‘Maybe you’re too scared to rock the boat at home, and all that fighting talk in Lifeworld’s just a way to vent your frustration. It must be easier to assert yourself in print than in real life.’

  ‘You think my fear that I’ll disappoint my husband if I don’t serve him like a good wife invalidates my feminism? Where do you think that fear comes from? How do you think it worms its way inside all women, even the ones like me who know it’s poison?’

  Too many words fired at him too quickly; it took Sellers a while to untangle them. Once he had, he said, ‘Yeah, but a principled feminist would … you know, feel the fear and do it anyway, wouldn’t she?’

  Halliday stood up. ‘I’m going. You’re an ignorant twat who thinks “femicide” means “feminist-language-for-homicide”. It means the murder of women by men, you prick. It means Linzi Birrell, Rhian Douglas, Angela McCabe. Guess how many more names we’ve added to the list since those three? Go on, guess.’

  ‘Hang on: you’ve put Linzi, Rhian and Angela on which list?’ Sellers asked.

  ‘UK victims of femicide.’

  ‘But if that means killed by a man—’

  ‘If you’re about to tell me Billy might be a woman, don’t bother. He isn’t. Every woman in the country with a best friend, scared to set foot outside in case she’s next, knows Billy’s a man. You only don’t know because you’re a man – you have the luxury of being not afraid.’

  ‘So you were scared to come here today, were you? Because here you are – in the five-star surroundings of the Langham Hotel. And you look as if you’re about to head out onto those mean streets again, so …’

  Halliday was gone: marching away at speed, her bag flying out behind her. Today’s slogan was, ‘If I had a hammer, I’d smash the patriarchy.’

  Sellers left a twenty-pound note on a saucer, grabbed his jacket and ran to catch her up.

  ‘Are you following me?’

  ‘Yeah. What about Josh Norbury?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Did you add his name to your list of femicide victims?’

  ‘No. He was a man. Once again: femicide is the murder of women by men.’

  ‘If you can include three women who might not have been murdered by a man, surely you can stretch the definition even further to include a male victim.’ Sellers didn’t know why he was provoking her. He knew she wasn’t Billy; she couldn’t be. The mother-in-law’s present thing hadn’t been a lie; Halliday’s anger when he’d called her a hypocrite had been too real.

  ‘Fuck off, Conkers. Leave me alone, or I’ll cancel my appointment with your lackey who’s been chasing me for a DNA sample.’

  ‘You didn’t give me what I came for: Billy’s latest letter and book, the story about the two sisters …’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ Halliday unzipped her bag and pulled out another plain black one. She handed it to Sellers. ‘The Two fucking Sisters. Of course, the one who fights for good causes and isn’t totally frivolous turns out to be the killer. Men have to demonise women who attempt any kind of serious work. And you honestly think Billy might not be a man?’ She walked away, laughing.

  Silently, Sellers made a vow: he would solve the murder of Joshua Norbury if it was the last thing he did on this earth. He knew it was wrong of him to care more about Norbury than about Billy’s other victims simply because of his sex, but, thanks to Sondra Halliday, he did.

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled down the contacts list until he got to Lisa Norbury, Josh’s sister. No, he wasn’t going to check in with Waterhouse or anyone else first. For once, he was going to follow his own instincts.

  Arriving at the McElwee Winery’s large, half-empty car park on a sprawling, grey industrial estate, Charlie was disproportionately delighted to spot Nikhil Gulati’s car straight away. There it is! she thought. Everything’s coming together!

  The comedown was fast. Of course his car was here. He worked here and it was a weekday. This couldn’t be notched up as a new gain. Still, Gulati might easily have been abroad on a business trip or at a meeting out of the office, so Charlie allowed herself to count the presence of his Skoda as a good omen. It made speaking to him a possibility, assuming that was what she decided to do.

  She’d spent most of the drive from Spilling to Linton trying to manufacture a reason for needing to interview Nikhil Gulati that had nothing to do with her sister. She’d considered asking him about his relationship with Philip Sier, and a few questions about Sier and his wife Emily.

  Charlie had her police ID with her, though she’d nipped home to change out of her uniform, so she could compel Nikhil to talk if she chose to. He was unlikely to refuse on account of her not being with Cambridgeshire Police, though he might want to ring Spilling nick before agreeing to be questioned.

  Even if he didn’t, it was a risky approach to take: if word got back to Culver Valley Police that Charlie had used her police status in the service of a personal obsession, she’d lose her job. Also, it would be massively unfair to Nikhil Gulati and Philip Sier, who might both suffer unnecessary anxiety as a result.

  No, she couldn’t do it. Out of the question. Pity, though; it would have been the easiest thing in the world to say, at some point in the conversation, ‘I’ll spell my surname for you, since you’ll never have come across it before: Z-A-I-L-E-R.’ Surely Nikhil would then mention Liv, giving Charlie the opportunity to say, ‘But that’s extraordinary! She’s my sister.’

  To which Nikhil would say … what? ‘Oh, really? My girlfriend Natalie and I have regular kinky orgies with Liv and her boyfriend Chris. Isn’t it a small world?’

  It wasn’t sexual, Charlie was certain of that. She and her sister were different in many ways, but one thing they shared absolutely was a conviction that sex ought to mean two people in a room together and no more. They’d discussed it often over the years.

  Whatever was going on between Liv and Gibbs and Nikhil and Natalie, it was something more … administrative than passionate. What Charlie had seen through the pub window the day she’d followed Liv to Cambridge was something being arranged, or an important issue under discussion. It was driving Charlie crazy that she couldn’t burst into the McElwee Winery and demand to know which, and what.

  She opened her car door and smoked two cigarettes in quick succession reconsidering and rejecting the official police visit option three or four more times. It was infuriating that she could never risk her job because Simon was forever risking his – though he wouldn’t be fired now unless he burned down the nick or strangled a suspect. Proust, Superintendent Barrow, all the higher-ups – they knew they couldn’t afford to lose him. All of them would die rather than use the word genius, but they knew he was. Apart from in the pages of fiction, there was no detective in the country – perhaps in the world – as inspired or talented as Simon, no one else who could provide the kind of answers he came up with against the odds.

  Charlie had to keep reminding herself that she, on the other hand, wasn’t special. It was a mistake to think that being Simon’s wife afforded her a certain amount of protection. She should have been doing the job she was paid to do today, not skiving off to solve her own pet mystery.

  If only she could bring herself to confront Liv. That would be much easier to do now she had names to use. ‘I know about Nikhil and Natalie,’ she could say coldly. Or angrily, impatiently, with tears in her eyes – that might work better. ‘I know what’s going on, Liv. You should have told me the truth.’

  Except Charlie didn’t want to find out that way. Her sister had chosen to deceive and manipulate her, and now she wanted to find out in spite of Liv, not with her help – not even by tricking a confession out of her.

  Charlie tensed as she saw a door open: a McElwee Winery door. Two men in suits walked out of the building. One of them was Nikhil Gulati. Without stopping to think, Charlie got out of her car. ‘Hey!’ she shouted, walking briskly towards him. ‘Wait!’

  The two men heard her and stopped.

  Running over to them with the wind blowing her hair across her face, she said, ‘Am I in the right place for Missingham’s, the printers?’ It was the only name-business combination she remembered from the twelve or so signs at the entrance to the industrial estate.

  She nodded and made grateful noises as Nikhil Gulati’s balding, bearded colleague directed her back the way she’d come. Then she turned to Nikhil and said, ‘This is going to sound weird, but … I swear I’ve seen you before. Recently, too.’ She pretended to make an effort to summon the memory. ‘Oh, I know! You weren’t by any chance in the Punter pub in Cambridge last week, were you? During the day?’

  ‘The pub, during the day?’ Nikhil’s colleague tutted and laughed. ‘Naughty, naughty.’

  Nikhil looked surprised. ‘Yes. Yes, I was.’

  ‘I was too!’ Charlie smiled. ‘Wow – what a coincidence.’

  ‘You must have an exceptional memory,’ said Nikhil.

  ‘I do. Everyone’s always saying that. See something once, I remember it forever. Actually, I remembered you especially because you were with two women, weren’t you?’

  ‘Two women!’ Beardy pounced on the cue Charlie had offered him. ‘Have you been up to no good, Nik?’

  ‘Oh, no, it was nothing like that,’ Charlie said. ‘They were having what looked like a very complicated discussion, but all above board, I’d say.’ She followed up with a giggle.

  Nikhil smiled politely but unenthusiastically. ‘We need to make a move, so – you know where you’re going now, for Missingham’s?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, thanks, both of you. Sorry for accosting you.’

  Charlie returned to her car feeling riled and embarrassed. Had she made it too obvious that she was up to something?

  All the way home, she replayed the scene in her mind to try and work out if Nikhil had reacted like a man with something to hide, or like a person who, quite understandably, saw no reason to account for his behaviour to a complete stranger.

  By the time she arrived in Spilling two hours later, she still wasn’t sure.

  10

  from Origami by Kim Tribbeck

  Monday, 12 January 2015

  ‘Murdered? My grandmother?’ I laugh and can’t stop. In my head, my giggles look like barbed wire. ‘Don’t be silly. People don’t murder terminal cancer patients. I mean, what the fuck’s the point of that? Murdered how?’