Part 16 (2/2)

'Who is he? Only the hunkiest piece of talent in the whole of Brum, that's all. We are talking fit.'

'Never heard of him,' she lied.

'But he's gorgeous! Who did you think he was?'

'I don't know who I thought he was,' Sarah said. 'But he thinks he's Jesus Christ.'

Sarah thought: Oh s.h.i.+t.

This was how it started: you told the first lie to minimize your involvement; the second followed from that. Then you found they'd known everything from the start, and basically were just keeping you talking while someone fetched the handcuffs. Joe would have kept records, that's exactly what Joe would have done. This policeman already knew why she'd hired Joe; knew she'd seen him more than once.

Then she realized it hadn't been a question.

They were in Sarah's house. Yesterday, they'd talked to her at Joe's, out in the waiting room, while inside the office a police pathologist had conducted the grisly routines expected of him. Then she'd been given a lift home. When this policeman Ruskin was his name had rung this morning, he'd said he had more questions. They'd turned out the same ones, though, until now.

'I beg your pardon?'

'I said, that would explain why there's no file on you. Though you'd have thought there'd be a note of the appointment.'

Relief washed over her, but soundlessly. She didn't respond.

Ruskin had a sandy moustache which curled round the corners of his mouth, making him look deeply unhappy about something, and similar coloured hair arranged about an irrevocable parting. Maybe this was what he was unhappy about. He had two uniformed officers with him, which Sarah thought surplus; one of each gender, they sat on the sofa, not talking. Ruskin took his own notes. Presumably, with his name, in his job, in this city, he felt it inc.u.mbent to behave in a vaguely unorthodox fas.h.i.+on.

He sighed now, as if reminded about hair loss. 'The thing is, Mrs Trafford, there are one or two oddities about this business.'

'You think he was murdered?'

'No, I think he killed himself. I have no problem with that.' His voice was harsh. 'He had good reason.'

'What on earth '

'We looked for a note, of course.'

She shook her head. 'I didn't see one.'

'There wasn't one. This is interesting, though.' He produced a folded slip of paper from nowhere; he magicked it out of the blue. 'You never actually met him,' he stated.

She tried to look blank.

'In which case, Mrs Trafford,' Ruskin went on, 'how did he come to have a cheque of yours in his wallet?'

The next time she saw Mark Trafford he was in the Union bar, presiding over a discussion on Walter Benjamin: the critic as martyr. He wore the same amused expression, which she suspected only root ca.n.a.l would s.h.i.+ft, and the air of a man who not only has the answers but knows in advance what the questions will be. He was drinking Perrier while all around had pints of bitter. Next shout, she guessed, the groupies would be on Perrier too. She took a seat nearby so she could eavesdrop, nursing a rum and c.o.ke, and found to her surprise that Trafford remained silent unless called on to arbitrate, when he did so with gnomically vague utterance. He was marked down by all as a sure-fire first, but she cla.s.sed him now as a bulls.h.i.+t artist. Though knew not a whit about Benjamin herself.

Her third rum and c.o.ke arrived apparently of its own accord. By this time she was reading a film society handout listing all the black-and-white foreign movies she'd never wanted to see, and would now have an excellent opportunity to avoid as they were all showing in the same grubby little fleapit on the other side of town. She looked up to see that the alcohol was attached to Mark Trafford; setting it in front of her he asked, 'Are you an admirer of Benjamin?'

'Oh sure,' she said. 'I'm in favour of dead citics. There should be more of them.'

'Would you like to join us?'

'No.'

It was one of those nights any day with a Y in it which ended in a gathering in some unfortunate's room: heading on for closing time, the bar had that tense atmosphere you probably get on the veldt when the lions draw straws to see which gazelle to have for dinner. Playing host meant no sleep till morning, and all your best records going walkabout. So it was a definite event when Trafford announced it was back to his place: the entire bar wound up at the house he shared with some other golden boys. In front of them all, when he asked her to dance she refused: she didn't dance. Ever. She said. Then dragged a scrofulous chemist in an Oxfam-leather vest on to the floor for an energetic bop to It takes two. Trafford's studied indifference made it worthwhile, though she had to dead-leg the chemist to get rid of him.

Afterwards, Trafford started sending notes: pseudily phrased suggestions that they meet for an espresso, or a cappuccino, though never just a coffee. She ignored them. When word got round that he was dating a third year well-hyped as an easy lay, she ignored that too. And there were parties to dance at, pubs to discover; there was a girl who knew a guy who knew this bloke he could always score dope from. Her work coasted along on a very average average because there was so much to do that wasn't paperwork it would be criminal to ignore it. So every third night she got stoned; every second night she made it to the bar, where Mark's coterie had a new game: trying to guess the t.i.tle of his inevitable PhD. He had his eye on Oxford somebody told her, but she ignored that too. When they pa.s.sed in the corridors they never spoke, but always another little note turned up the next day. A girl told her Mark Trafford was in love, though n.o.body knew who with. She ignored her. And then came the night of the Big Crash, when she almost ignored the rest of her life, and the holding pattern she'd fallen into crumpled while the Other Sarah Tucker laughed.

'It was a deposit.'

'It's dated almost two weeks ago.'

So why hadn't he cashed it, the stupid stupid fool? Dead fool.

'There's also a credit card slip for a similar sum, one hundred and fifty pounds, dated the previous week. Also a deposit, Mrs Trafford?'

'All right,' she said quietly.

'I beg your pardon?'

'I said all right. You've made your point.'

Ruskin glanced at his colleagues, then back at Sarah. 'You know why we're here.' It wasn't a question.

She was confused, worse than confused. She wanted them all away; she wanted to pick up the phone and reach Joe, who would a.s.sure her she'd been asleep for hours. That good old standby, it had all been a dream. Failing that, she still wanted them away.

Ruskin wasn't going anywhere. 'We searched his office, of course.'

'But you didn't find a note,' she said wearily.

'I think you know what we found.'

'I haven't,' she said, 'the faintest idea.'

'We found certain controlled substances, Mrs Trafford. In quant.i.ties that would suggest your Mr Silvermann's business didn't stop at private snooping.'

She didn't believe him. She believed him, but she didn't believe him.

'Heroin. Marijuana. MDMA. You know what they call that, Mrs Trafford?'

She nodded, numbly.

'Yes, I thought you might. They call it Ecstasy. It's the drug that killed young Lizbeth Moss at the weekend. And I rather think we're going to find that your Mr Silvermann supplied young Lizbeth with the Ecstasy that killed her. You understand now what I mean by good reason?'

'You're wrong,' she whispered.

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