Part 19 (2/2)

Dark curly hair, dark eyes, laughter lines. She wasn't laughing now.

'I think you got my husband killed, lady. Remember me yet?' said Zoe Boehm.

'So how was London?'

'Not as nice as Paris.'

'Joe thought '

'Joe thought he was a detective. There wasn't a day went by he didn't know where my credit card was. His mistake was a.s.suming I was with it.' Zoe lit a cigarette, and dumped her burnt match in the sink. 'Joe wasn't as good as he thought he was. Oh, he had a good telephone manner, and that Oxbridge kick impressed the middle cla.s.ses, if not as much as it impressed him. Once in a while he'd find somebody who didn't want to stay lost, and if one of the cleaning staff dipped into the petty cash, h.e.l.l, Joe was your man. But he was operating with a serious handicap, Ms Tucker. He had the emotional age of a twelve-year-old. He was a bit of a fool, a bit of a liar, and he was the world's softest touch, as I'm sure you found out for yourself.'

'Some obituary.'

'It's not over. Because some things he didn't do, Mrs Trafford, or whatever you're called this week, and one of them was drugs. He didn't use them. He didn't sell them. Somebody killed Joe, and whoever it was planted that stuff on him. When I find him I'll have him chopped up and fed to pigs. Him or her.'

'You think it was me?'

'What I think is, two weeks ago he was alive. He gets mixed up with you, and now he's not. What I think is, when Joe boiled a kettle, he opened a file on it first. And there's no paperwork on you in the office. Not a sc.r.a.p.'

'Maybe he forgot.'

'Joe kept a list of the lists he kept. He was more likely to forget to put his trousers on. No, whoever killed him removed your file. Why do you think he did that, Mrs Trafford?'

'I don't know.'

'How fascinating. You told the police the day you found him was the first time you set foot in his office. Why'd you lie?'

'I was scared.'

'Of the police?'

'Of everything.'

'That's your first clever thought. Because let's face it, Ms Tucker, you're short of friends. The cops think you're a junkie, and nothing about the scene through there suggests you're not. And that's as good as it gets. Because if you didn't kill Joe, you've got his killer to worry about.' She dropped her cigarette into the gla.s.s of water where it died with a fizz. 'And if you did kill him, you've got me.'

'I didn't.'

'You told the cops you bought c.o.ke from him. Why?'

'I . . . don't know.'

'Somebody put pressure on?'

She tried to think that through. 'It's what . . . they wanted me to say.'

'They?'

'Everybody.'

Zoe nodded; was already lighting another cigarette. 'That the same everybody got you eating tranks like Smarties?'

Her stomach felt raw; her head, oddly, was clearing. 'Was he really your husband? He never said that.'

'Surprise surprise,' said Zoe drily. 'We were growing apart. Separate prescriptions and everything, you know?'

She shook her head.

'I can read, Tucker. Those pills through there, it's your husband's name on the tub. You open the door like it's the night of the living dead, and have you looked in a mirror lately? Always a.s.suming you still reflect. Now, either you're doing this to yourself, which makes it a guilt trip, which makes you guilty, or somebody's doing it to you. And like I said, it's your husband's name on the tubs. So where does he stand in this?'

'Nowhere. He doesn't stand anywhere.'

'Sure. I never met a husband yet who wasn't the innocent party.'

'Speaking as a detective,' Sarah managed.

'Speaking as a woman.'

'How long had you known him?' It was true she was curious. But a change of topic wouldn't hurt either. 'Since college?'

'Hah! Nearest Joe got to a college was parking on a double yellow line.' But for the first time, Zoe Boehm looked fraught. Coming into strange houses, employing DIY suicide-prevention measures, none of that had fazed her. Talking about how she'd met her husband, that called on other reserves. 'We married young,' she said at last. 'We were in love. h.e.l.l, we were kids.'

'It didn't last.'

'It did for Joe. He was a kid till the day he died. s.h.i.+t.' Amazingly, she started to cry. 'The stupid stupid b.u.g.g.e.r.'

'I'm so sorry.'

'He never had the slightest f.u.c.king notion. That there were people who might do him harm, that this stupid daydream of his might get him killed.'

Her own feelings were coming back to life now. Largely, they were physical: a raw acidity inside, and a tingling of the skin down her arms and legs as if from a rash. She was still in her dressing gown. It was only now that she realized this, along with the equally depressing fact that she'd been sick on it. Other than that, there was a large emotional numbness, though not of the anaesthetized type she'd grown used to. This was more like being trapped inside a balloon, which pretty soon would burst.

She strained at the edges. 'It wasn't daydreaming, Zoe. He was good at what he did.'

'Oh, tell me about it.' She sat on one of Sarah's chairs and lit another cigarette, making no attempt to wipe her tears. Possibly she thought smoking would dry them. 'Joe once got arrested looking for a lost dog, but even he couldn't get killed checking out some errant husband's office help.'

'He was looking for a child.'

'A specific one, I suppose. Yours?'

She shook her head.

'Do I have to pull your toenails out?'

'What did you do in the firm?'

'Worked the phones, mostly. And no, I wasn't his secretary. Ninety per cent of the job's the phone. This kid could be in Alaska, I could find her without leaving the office. Happy?'

<script>