be so that I could know if they’d been moved.
‘You say you were at home on the night Mickey was killed?’
She gave me her headlights, trapped me in the highbeam. ‘I say that because I was. Nobody can prove otherwise.’
‘Ring anyone?’
‘Just Sophie. She was in one of her down moods, everything’s a total fuckup.’
‘Where was she?’
‘At home. In Richmond. It was early, sevenish.’
‘She wasn’t seeing Mickey that night?’
‘No. She was going to a party.’
‘You established that?’
She wasn’t happy. She touched the cup to her lips, put it down, drew on the cigarette. Its tip glowed steel-burning bright.
She waited and I waited. She knew what I meant but she didn’t want to answer. A stillness in her. Without looking, she ground the cigarette to death in an ashtray the size of a dinner plate.
‘I didn’t seek to establish that,’ she said. ‘She told me. It would have been very odd indeed if she hadn’t told me. Sophie tells you everything.’
I wished I’d accepted coffee. Something to do with my hands.
She put her cup to her lips, put it down, stood up. ‘Second chance. I can warm the coffee without ruining it. It’s filter.’
‘Please. Black.’
She left. I rose and paced the painting wall, slowly. Paintings are strange things. Some affect you directly, they connect with something in the brain, unprotected contact. But seeing paintings so different in kind and quality so close together had a disorienting effect, and standing back didn’t help. I was only halfway, at the first woman, a Grace Cossington Smith, when Sarah returned, no fear of spillage in her walk, my coffee in a heavy cafe cup. It was unharmed by reheating, dark and oily and Jamaican.
‘This isn’t meant to be an interrogation,’ I said. ‘I’m assuming you didn’t kill him. I’m asking the questions other people will ask.’
‘I understand that,’ she said. ‘Do you know what it’s like to feel guilty even when you aren’t? My father has the capacity to do that to me.’
I got on with it. ‘What was the state of Sophie’s relationship with Mickey?’
‘Not wonderful. She said he was manic one minute, everything coming good, then he’d go black and the next thing he was talking about suicide. Violent swings, you’d say. Sophie should know. Christ knows what it was like when their downers coincided.’
‘Did you know him to be like that?’
‘Not the suicide end of the pendulum. The highs, absolutely, that was Mickey. But I think things were going well in business when we … were together.’
‘And his wife. Do you know her?’
‘Wife isn’t the term that comes to mind, it wasn’t exactly a suburban marriage. But, yes. Corin Sleeman. She’s an architect, she commissioned a piece from me for a building.’
‘Something I could stop by and have a look at?’
Sarah lit a cigarette, eyes on me. ‘It may not astonish you to hear that the developer rejected it,’ she said.
‘Unequal to the challenge,’ I said. ‘Did she know about you and Mickey?’
‘When she commissioned the piece? I didn’t think so then, like a fool.’
‘So she wasn’t necessarily indifferent?’
Sarah tilted her head. ‘You’re knowledgeable in the areas of betrayal and revenge?’
‘An academic interest. Everything’s in books.’
She touched her lips with a finger, the nail unvarnished. ‘Yes,’ she said, a nod and a smile. We sat, cups in hand, the scent of coffee, gossamer smoke in the sunlight.
‘Who found him?’ I said.
‘Apparently he didn’t ring Rick to be picked up. His mobile was on and he wasn’t answering, so Rick rang security at the building and they went in.’
‘The weapon,’ I said. ‘Did you tell anyone you had it?’
‘No. Just Sophie.’
‘Which leaves Mickey and Rick and whoever they told.’
‘I suppose so. I can’t imagine Mickey telling the world.’
‘What do you know about Rick?’
She hung her head, closed her eyes in mock contrition.
‘You say you were at home on the night Mickey was killed?’
She gave me her headlights, trapped me in the highbeam. ‘I say that because I was. Nobody can prove otherwise.’
‘Ring anyone?’
‘Just Sophie. She was in one of her down moods, everything’s a total fuckup.’
‘Where was she?’
‘At home. In Richmond. It was early, sevenish.’
‘She wasn’t seeing Mickey that night?’
‘No. She was going to a party.’
‘You established that?’
She wasn’t happy. She touched the cup to her lips, put it down, drew on the cigarette. Its tip glowed steel-burning bright.
She waited and I waited. She knew what I meant but she didn’t want to answer. A stillness in her. Without looking, she ground the cigarette to death in an ashtray the size of a dinner plate.
‘I didn’t seek to establish that,’ she said. ‘She told me. It would have been very odd indeed if she hadn’t told me. Sophie tells you everything.’
I wished I’d accepted coffee. Something to do with my hands.
She put her cup to her lips, put it down, stood up. ‘Second chance. I can warm the coffee without ruining it. It’s filter.’
‘Please. Black.’
She left. I rose and paced the painting wall, slowly. Paintings are strange things. Some affect you directly, they connect with something in the brain, unprotected contact. But seeing paintings so different in kind and quality so close together had a disorienting effect, and standing back didn’t help. I was only halfway, at the first woman, a Grace Cossington Smith, when Sarah returned, no fear of spillage in her walk, my coffee in a heavy cafe cup. It was unharmed by reheating, dark and oily and Jamaican.
‘This isn’t meant to be an interrogation,’ I said. ‘I’m assuming you didn’t kill him. I’m asking the questions other people will ask.’
‘I understand that,’ she said. ‘Do you know what it’s like to feel guilty even when you aren’t? My father has the capacity to do that to me.’
I got on with it. ‘What was the state of Sophie’s relationship with Mickey?’
‘Not wonderful. She said he was manic one minute, everything coming good, then he’d go black and the next thing he was talking about suicide. Violent swings, you’d say. Sophie should know. Christ knows what it was like when their downers coincided.’
‘Did you know him to be like that?’
‘Not the suicide end of the pendulum. The highs, absolutely, that was Mickey. But I think things were going well in business when we … were together.’
‘And his wife. Do you know her?’
‘Wife isn’t the term that comes to mind, it wasn’t exactly a suburban marriage. But, yes. Corin Sleeman. She’s an architect, she commissioned a piece from me for a building.’
‘Something I could stop by and have a look at?’
Sarah lit a cigarette, eyes on me. ‘It may not astonish you to hear that the developer rejected it,’ she said.
‘Unequal to the challenge,’ I said. ‘Did she know about you and Mickey?’
‘When she commissioned the piece? I didn’t think so then, like a fool.’
‘So she wasn’t necessarily indifferent?’
Sarah tilted her head. ‘You’re knowledgeable in the areas of betrayal and revenge?’
‘An academic interest. Everything’s in books.’
She touched her lips with a finger, the nail unvarnished. ‘Yes,’ she said, a nod and a smile. We sat, cups in hand, the scent of coffee, gossamer smoke in the sunlight.
‘Who found him?’ I said.
‘Apparently he didn’t ring Rick to be picked up. His mobile was on and he wasn’t answering, so Rick rang security at the building and they went in.’
‘The weapon,’ I said. ‘Did you tell anyone you had it?’
‘No. Just Sophie.’
‘Which leaves Mickey and Rick and whoever they told.’
‘I suppose so. I can’t imagine Mickey telling the world.’
‘What do you know about Rick?’
She hung her head, closed her eyes in mock contrition.
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