Chapter Twenty-Four
Twenty-Four
Carol and Margaret walked out of the police station and headed into Hampstead village.
Carol’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the sun.
Before they got to the high street, they made their way down a road with big, three-floor houses.
Well-kept gardens, wide front doors, loft extensions.
Each place must be worth millions, thought Carol.
There was street after street after street of them.
Where did all these people get their money?
Carol told herself to be grateful for what she had.
“Thank you, Margaret. That was very kind of you.”
Margaret spoke fast. “I can’t believe I did it, really.
I was sitting there this morning at breakfast. I don’t know where Geoffrey and Catherine are.
They didn’t show up, probably sleeping in after last night.
It all got a little much. Some of the men were drinking brandy and talking politics like it was the nineteenth century or something.
But I was thinking to myself—I have to know what’s going on.
I suppose you think I’m an awful busybody.
But I thought, Now, hang on, I’m a bloody barrister.
I was home secretary, for heaven’s sake—not that you’d think it, the way the men in the home go on and on about politics without thinking to ask me if they actually have a clue what they’re talking about—but I thought, this is this morning that I thought… perhaps Carol needs representation.”
“I really do appreciate it.”
“I’m glad I did, because they can’t just hold you like that. They’ve got no evidence! Or, if they have, they’re not willing to show it.”
“Well, they might have some.”
Margaret touched Carol’s shoulder. “Oh, Jesus. You did it, didn’t you, Carol?”
Carol laughed. There was something so charming about Margaret’s ditsy energy.
Hard to believe that this woman had once been ultimately responsible for the prison service that had confined her for so long.
“I didn’t. But while I was in there I managed to have a look at the…
I suppose you’d call it a crime file? I took some pictures.
Why don’t we go back to my place and we can go through it all together? ”
Margaret stopped. “Oh dear.”
“What?”
“Carol, do you mind if I’m completely honest with you for a moment?”
“Please.”
“I’m a little scared to be alone with you, in your flat.
Now, Catherine and Geoffrey, they seem convinced you did it.
Geoffrey keeps talking about ‘hunches’ and ‘no coincidences,’ and Catherine says you may be our friend but we have to look at the situation objectively.
I don’t know what I think. I’ve always been agnostic about everything anyway.
Never settle on a view. In politics, they used to call me wily but I think I’ve just always struggled to make up my mind. ”
“I bet you were good at making speeches.”
“Was that a dig? It feels like a dig. I know I can talk too much. Am I talking too much?”
“No. Carry on, but maybe slow down a little.”
“Carol, I don’t know if you did it,” said Margaret deliberately. “But I do believe in innocent until proven guilty.”
“Pleased to hear it.”
“What time is it?” asked Margaret.
Carol looked at her watch. “Just after eleven.”
“Do you think the pubs are open yet?”
—
While Margaret bought their drinks, Carol sat at a table in the Flask and thought about how Hampstead provided an altogether different class of alcoholic.
While the morning drinkers in the pubs of her South London youth read the Racing Post and the Mirror, here they read The Telegraph.
On Walworth Road it was pints of lager or a double shot of Bell’s.
In Hampstead village it was a strong cask ale or a large glass of Merlot.
The wealth around here afforded one the scenic route to cirrhosis of the liver.
This was the first pub Carol had been into since leaving prison.
An awful lot had changed. No smoking for a start, which didn’t feel right.
Of the five senses, smell had always felt like the one you’d least like to have in a pub.
The television in the corner played twenty-four-hour news.
There were big round dark wood tables. No carpet, no fruit machines, no jukebox.
On their table was a bottle of balsamic vinegar.
How odd. She looked at the menu in front of her.
Broad bean, pea and dill fritters with whipped feta. ￡14
Skate, crab bisque, Cornish earlies and samphire. ￡22
Hereford onglet with burned salsa roja and soured cream. ￡56 (for two to share)
Yes, a lot had changed.
“They put about five cubes of ice in yours. Is that okay?”
Margaret placed her gin and tonic and Carol’s Bacardi and Coke on the table.
“Of course, thank you.”
“I hope you don’t mind, I got us both doubles. I felt I needed it.”
“Perfect.” Carol took a sip. “Right. Shall we take a look?”
“Oooh, yes.” Margaret shuffled next to her.
“Are you sure you’re okay sitting next to me, Margaret? It’s very quiet in here. I could stab you in the gut and make an easy escape.”
“Oh, don’t be silly! There’s plenty of fat before you’ll get to any of my organs.”
They both giggled and Carol took out her phone. This gave Margaret pause. “Are we sure we want to…I mean, you obtained that file…Isn’t this illegal?”
Teasing, Carol let her finger hover over the photo on her phone. “No, you’re right, actually. Let’s not look. I’ll just delete it.”
“No, Carol, don’t!”
Carol smiled and Margaret slapped her leg. It was clear that neither of them could resist digging in.
They soon discovered that it was difficult for the pair of them to see the photos of the files on Carol’s phone at the same time, so she worked out how to send them to Margaret’s tablet and they were able to look on there.
They were rather proud of themselves for successfully completing that operation.
Much of the information they already knew. Margaret filled Carol in on everything they’d learned from the autopsy. She said that, if Carol hadn’t done it, it would be helpful for them both to have the full picture, and that if she had done it, then, well, she knew it all already.
From the files, they picked up some interesting evidence about a thread of fiber found on Desmond’s shirt. “Wool. Not from the victim’s own clothes” was scrawled next to a magnified picture. The thread was a fluorescent yellow.
One thing that struck them both as strange was that there were no photos of the roof. It was, after all, where the murder had taken place. Why were there no pictures?
They had to find a way of getting onto that roof. The answer to who had killed Desmond was surely there.
“If we do manage to get up there, do you promise not to push me off?” Margaret had a cheeky glint in her eye, but Carol could sense some honesty in her request. She really was afraid of her.
And fair enough. Less than twenty-four hours beforehand, Carol had decided to take up killing again.
But now she knew why. She’d felt alone. Sitting here next to a woman of her own age, a woman she liked, Carol knew that all she needed to stop her from giving in to her most shameful vice was good friends.
“Margaret?” Carol fixed her eyes on her. She wanted to underline the importance of what she had to say.
“Yes?”
“I won’t insult you by telling you I didn’t kill Desmond again.
That’s something I have to prove to you.
But, Margaret, I need your help in proving it.
I can’t do this on my own. You’re all investigators—the whole home is filled with them.
It’s not a fair fight. I cannot go back to prison.
This life…” Carol gestured at their surroundings, their morning drinking, in one of London’s nicest neighborhoods.
“I’m not sure you realize how lucky we are. ”
“So, you want to take a look on the roof?” said Margaret.