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Authors: Elizabeth George
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James. “This is Charlotte.”
“I’ll need her weekly schedule. A list of her friends. Addresses of the places she goes.”
She nodded, although it was clear that her mind was in the kitchen with her husband.
“Of course,” she said. She returned to her chair where she took up a pen and a notebook, her hair falling forward to hide her face.
Helen was the one who asked the question.
“Why didn’t you phone your husband, Ms.
Bowen? When you knew Charlotte was missing, why didn’t you phone?”
Eve Bowen raised her head. She looked quite composed, as if she’d taken the time of crossing the room to wrest control over any emotions that might have betrayed her. “I didn’t want him to be one of Dennis Luxford’s
victims,” she said. “It seemed to me there are enough of them already.”
Alexander Stone worked in a fury. He whisked red wine into the mixture of olive oil, chopped tomatoes, onions, parsley, and garlic.
He lowered the heat beneath the pan and strode from his prized state-of-the-culinary-art cooker to the chopping board where he sent his knife flashing through the caps of a dozen mushrooms. He swept them into a bowl and took them to the cooker. There, a large pot of water was beginning to boil. It was sending steam towards the ceiling in translu-cent plumes, which made him suddenly think of Charlie, with no defence. Ghostbird feathers, she would have called them, dragging her footstool to the cooker and chattering while he worked.
Sweet Jesus, he thought.
He clenched a fist and pounded it hard against his thigh. He felt his eyes burning and he told himself that his contact lenses were reacting to the heat from the cooker and the pungency of the simmering onions and garlic.
Then he called himself a spineless liar and stopped what he was doing and lowered his head. He was breathing like a distance runner, and he tried to be calm. He brought himself face-to-face with the truth: He didn’t yet have the facts, and until he had them, he was pouring precious energy into rage. Which would serve him ill. Which would serve Charlie ill.
Right, he thought. Yes. Good. Let’s be about our business. Let’s wait. Let’s see.
He pushed himself away from the cooker.
He pulled from the freezer a packet of fettuccine. He had it completely unwrapped and ready to drop into the boiling water before he realised that he couldn’t feel its cold on his palm. The realisation made him release the pasta so quickly into the pot that a geyser shot up and spat against his skin. That he could feel, and he took an instinctive leap away from the cooker like a novice in the kitchen.
“God damn,” he whispered. “Fuck it. God damn.”
He walked to the calendar that hung on the wall next to the telephone. He wanted to make sure. There was always a chance that he hadn’t written down his week’s schedule for once, that he hadn’t left the name of the restaurant whose chefs and waiters he’d be overseeing that day, that he hadn’t made sure his whereabouts were available to Mrs. Maguire, to Charlie, to his wife, that he had failed to allow for the odd emergency when his presence would be a desperate necessity…. But there it was in the square marked for Wednesday.
Couscous
. Just as the day before had
Sceptre
written across it. Just as tomorrow had
Demoi-selle
. Which meant that there was no excuse at all. Which meant that he had the facts. Which meant that his rage could rage at will, fi sts crashing through cupboards, glasses and dishes smashing to the floor, cutlery hurled against walls, refrigerator dumped and its contents mashed beneath his feet….
“They’ve left.”
He swung around. Eve had come to the doorway. She removed her glasses and polished them wearily on the black silk lining of her jacket.
“You didn’t have to make anything fresh,” she said with a nod at the cooker. “Mrs. Maguire probably left us something. She would have done. She always does for—” She stopped herself by
“I’ll need her weekly schedule. A list of her friends. Addresses of the places she goes.”
She nodded, although it was clear that her mind was in the kitchen with her husband.
“Of course,” she said. She returned to her chair where she took up a pen and a notebook, her hair falling forward to hide her face.
Helen was the one who asked the question.
“Why didn’t you phone your husband, Ms.
Bowen? When you knew Charlotte was missing, why didn’t you phone?”
Eve Bowen raised her head. She looked quite composed, as if she’d taken the time of crossing the room to wrest control over any emotions that might have betrayed her. “I didn’t want him to be one of Dennis Luxford’s
victims,” she said. “It seemed to me there are enough of them already.”
Alexander Stone worked in a fury. He whisked red wine into the mixture of olive oil, chopped tomatoes, onions, parsley, and garlic.
He lowered the heat beneath the pan and strode from his prized state-of-the-culinary-art cooker to the chopping board where he sent his knife flashing through the caps of a dozen mushrooms. He swept them into a bowl and took them to the cooker. There, a large pot of water was beginning to boil. It was sending steam towards the ceiling in translu-cent plumes, which made him suddenly think of Charlie, with no defence. Ghostbird feathers, she would have called them, dragging her footstool to the cooker and chattering while he worked.
Sweet Jesus, he thought.
He clenched a fist and pounded it hard against his thigh. He felt his eyes burning and he told himself that his contact lenses were reacting to the heat from the cooker and the pungency of the simmering onions and garlic.
Then he called himself a spineless liar and stopped what he was doing and lowered his head. He was breathing like a distance runner, and he tried to be calm. He brought himself face-to-face with the truth: He didn’t yet have the facts, and until he had them, he was pouring precious energy into rage. Which would serve him ill. Which would serve Charlie ill.
Right, he thought. Yes. Good. Let’s be about our business. Let’s wait. Let’s see.
He pushed himself away from the cooker.
He pulled from the freezer a packet of fettuccine. He had it completely unwrapped and ready to drop into the boiling water before he realised that he couldn’t feel its cold on his palm. The realisation made him release the pasta so quickly into the pot that a geyser shot up and spat against his skin. That he could feel, and he took an instinctive leap away from the cooker like a novice in the kitchen.
“God damn,” he whispered. “Fuck it. God damn.”
He walked to the calendar that hung on the wall next to the telephone. He wanted to make sure. There was always a chance that he hadn’t written down his week’s schedule for once, that he hadn’t left the name of the restaurant whose chefs and waiters he’d be overseeing that day, that he hadn’t made sure his whereabouts were available to Mrs. Maguire, to Charlie, to his wife, that he had failed to allow for the odd emergency when his presence would be a desperate necessity…. But there it was in the square marked for Wednesday.
Couscous
. Just as the day before had
Sceptre
written across it. Just as tomorrow had
Demoi-selle
. Which meant that there was no excuse at all. Which meant that he had the facts. Which meant that his rage could rage at will, fi sts crashing through cupboards, glasses and dishes smashing to the floor, cutlery hurled against walls, refrigerator dumped and its contents mashed beneath his feet….
“They’ve left.”
He swung around. Eve had come to the doorway. She removed her glasses and polished them wearily on the black silk lining of her jacket.
“You didn’t have to make anything fresh,” she said with a nod at the cooker. “Mrs. Maguire probably left us something. She would have done. She always does for—” She stopped herself by
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