him?'
'Yes.'
'Did
he see you hide it?'
'No,
that would defeat the purpose.'
'But
he knew you had it, and that you must have hidden it in the house, and then you
left him alone in said house for an extended period of time, even though you
knew he was paranoid and depressed. You didn't think there was a fair to
middlin' chance he might have gone looking for it'
'No.'
'No,
that would be too sensible.'
'What's
that supposed to mean?'
'Whatever
you want it to.'
He
got up and left the room. He came back in. He had a see-through plastic bag in
his hands, which he set down on the table. 'There's a lot more I need to look
into. I want to know how he came by the gun; they're not supposed to be easy to
get any more, not round here. But in the meantime, these are his personal
possessions. For the moment you seem to be the closest he has to a next of kin;
you may hold on to them until we can track down his wife, wherever the hell she
is.'
'Brazil,'
I said.
His
eyes lingered on the bag. I don't know why he didn't just come out and say it: I think there's something odd about this and I want you to look into it. Why else would he give me Augustine's personal possessions, so quickly? A
hospital might, if there was no relative present, because they have a high
turnover. But the police? They let cases fester for years, and they hold on to
possible evidence for ever.
Or, I
was misreading him, and he didn't think there was anything suspicious at all
and the quicker he could write Augustine off the better.
There
was never a right answer to anything, just more questions.
It
was life, and life was such.
DI
Robinson nodded at the bag and its contents.
'Looks
kind of sad,' he said.
I
nodded too, but I was thinking that inanimate objects can't actually be sad.
He
tutted, which made me think that I'd said it out loud.
The
forensics people had to do their stuff. They had to photograph and scrape.
Since things had turned peaceful in Belfast they didn't have much to do, so
they took their time. It was a couple of days before they gave us the all-clear
to bring the cleaners in so that Mother's bedroom could be turned back into
something approaching habitable. When the cleaners were packing up to leave
they said that they thought they'd 'gotten most of it', which wasn't very
reassuring. I didn't want to be tidying one day and pull back a chair to find
Augustine's other ear.
As
far as I could tell, they'd done a good job. There was a definite reddish tinge
to the wallpaper, but it was actually a slight improvement on its previous
nicotine hue. The wooden floors were stain-free and the actual chair where he'd
shot himself was, amazingly, looking as good as new.
Alison
and I stood in the middle of the room. The sun was coming through the window,
but there were no dust motes to be caught in its rays, which appeared perfectly
pure and life-giving. I stayed well out of them. Alison couldn't take her eyes
off the chair.
She
said, 'He was such a nice man.'
I
grunted.
She
said, 'Don't blame yourself.'
'I
wasn't.'
'Well
just in case you were, just in case you were thinking you shouldn't have left
the gun in the house and Augustine by himself, it wasn't your fault; you didn't
actually put the gun to his head and shoot him, no matter what Robinson
thinks.'
'He
said that?'
'Yes,
he did. But we all know what he is.' She gave the international sign for
wanking. 'And all this time Arabella is probably cavorting around Rio with some
toyboy and hasn't a clue. God, it didn't even make the local news, let alone
CNN.'
As
far as anywhere other than the mysterious world was concerned, he was just
another suicide. Despite having been feted in his lifetime by The Times and the Daily Telegraph , there had
'Yes.'
'Did
he see you hide it?'
'No,
that would defeat the purpose.'
'But
he knew you had it, and that you must have hidden it in the house, and then you
left him alone in said house for an extended period of time, even though you
knew he was paranoid and depressed. You didn't think there was a fair to
middlin' chance he might have gone looking for it'
'No.'
'No,
that would be too sensible.'
'What's
that supposed to mean?'
'Whatever
you want it to.'
He
got up and left the room. He came back in. He had a see-through plastic bag in
his hands, which he set down on the table. 'There's a lot more I need to look
into. I want to know how he came by the gun; they're not supposed to be easy to
get any more, not round here. But in the meantime, these are his personal
possessions. For the moment you seem to be the closest he has to a next of kin;
you may hold on to them until we can track down his wife, wherever the hell she
is.'
'Brazil,'
I said.
His
eyes lingered on the bag. I don't know why he didn't just come out and say it: I think there's something odd about this and I want you to look into it. Why else would he give me Augustine's personal possessions, so quickly? A
hospital might, if there was no relative present, because they have a high
turnover. But the police? They let cases fester for years, and they hold on to
possible evidence for ever.
Or, I
was misreading him, and he didn't think there was anything suspicious at all
and the quicker he could write Augustine off the better.
There
was never a right answer to anything, just more questions.
It
was life, and life was such.
DI
Robinson nodded at the bag and its contents.
'Looks
kind of sad,' he said.
I
nodded too, but I was thinking that inanimate objects can't actually be sad.
He
tutted, which made me think that I'd said it out loud.
The
forensics people had to do their stuff. They had to photograph and scrape.
Since things had turned peaceful in Belfast they didn't have much to do, so
they took their time. It was a couple of days before they gave us the all-clear
to bring the cleaners in so that Mother's bedroom could be turned back into
something approaching habitable. When the cleaners were packing up to leave
they said that they thought they'd 'gotten most of it', which wasn't very
reassuring. I didn't want to be tidying one day and pull back a chair to find
Augustine's other ear.
As
far as I could tell, they'd done a good job. There was a definite reddish tinge
to the wallpaper, but it was actually a slight improvement on its previous
nicotine hue. The wooden floors were stain-free and the actual chair where he'd
shot himself was, amazingly, looking as good as new.
Alison
and I stood in the middle of the room. The sun was coming through the window,
but there were no dust motes to be caught in its rays, which appeared perfectly
pure and life-giving. I stayed well out of them. Alison couldn't take her eyes
off the chair.
She
said, 'He was such a nice man.'
I
grunted.
She
said, 'Don't blame yourself.'
'I
wasn't.'
'Well
just in case you were, just in case you were thinking you shouldn't have left
the gun in the house and Augustine by himself, it wasn't your fault; you didn't
actually put the gun to his head and shoot him, no matter what Robinson
thinks.'
'He
said that?'
'Yes,
he did. But we all know what he is.' She gave the international sign for
wanking. 'And all this time Arabella is probably cavorting around Rio with some
toyboy and hasn't a clue. God, it didn't even make the local news, let alone
CNN.'
As
far as anywhere other than the mysterious world was concerned, he was just
another suicide. Despite having been feted in his lifetime by The Times and the Daily Telegraph , there had
Similar Books
