Still small voice, p.6
Still Small Voice, page 6
Lucy leaves her details, and hangs up. She writes a few notes on her pad and is about to get up from her desk when the phone rings. It’s Carol, the other receptionist and she sounds uneasy.
‘There’s nothing to worry about, Carol. We’re just asking a few routine questions about James Scott. I gather you’ve been on night duty for the last couple of evenings.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘I wanted to check if you saw Mr Scott leave the building while you were on duty, either on Wednesday night or last night.’
‘No, he didn’t go out while I was there.’
‘How would you have recognised him?’
‘There weren’t that many guests and Ashley had described him to me.’ Carol giggles nervously.
‘Did she now? So you never actually saw him?’
‘I did actually. He came down on Wednesday evening and asked me where the bar was.’
‘And last night, did you see him then?’
‘No, he didn’t come down.’
‘Ashley told me that you lock the doors at midnight, and then what do you do?’
‘There’s a couch in the back office where we’re allowed to rest. If the guests want anything they press a buzzer and we come through to reception.’
‘Is there any way he could have gone out between the hours of midnight and six this morning?’
‘Not at all. I would have had to open up for him.’
‘Is it possible that he could have gone out earlier without you seeing him?’
‘That’s very unlikely as I sit there all the time.’
‘So you never leave the desk?’
‘Just to go to the bathroom, but that’s all.’
‘Did you go to the bathroom last night?’
‘I went once, but I was really quick, just two or three minutes.’
‘Okay. Well, thanks for calling me back, Carol, and let me know if you think of anything else.’
Lucy puts the phone down and looks across at Matt.
‘Any excitements?’ she asks.
‘Just trying to get hold of the CCTV footage for Stockwell Tube, but it looks like we have to wait in line. There was a stabbing on the Tube last night.’
‘Same with BT,’ Lucy says with a frown. ‘It seems like everyone is out to frustrate us.’
*
It’s lunchtime and Lucy goes out to buy a sandwich for John and herself, which they sit eating in his office while bringing each other up to speed. She wishes she hadn’t chosen tuna and tomato because there’s now a distinct smell of fish wafting around. Lucy notices that John is wearing a clean shirt – he must have nipped home and changed on his way back from Bramall Road.
She produces the fax that Ashley sent through with James’s bill and a list of phone numbers.
‘He didn’t make many calls,’ Lucy says, between mouthfuls. ‘This number is Lisa Meyer’s.’ She points at the page. ‘There was one outgoing call to that number last night and two incoming calls this morning. James also made two calls to his brother’s number last night. We’ll only have the full picture once we get the records from BT and the mobile phone company.’
‘Bloody nuisance about BT – is it worth me calling them and pulling rank?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. He was an odious little creep and probably hates men even more than he hates women.’
‘Hmm, okay, I’ll take your word for it. What about Maria Butler, have you heard anything?’
‘Yes, both she and Nicky’s brother, Colin, have been informed. He called me just now and was pretty distressed. He asked if his mother would be allowed to see the body.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said it would be possible, but not until tomorrow morning at the earliest. He says they are coming up this afternoon anyway and he gave me the details of where they’re staying.’
‘There’s not much more we can do this afternoon until the house is clear. Let’s just go over what we have so far.’
John takes a slurp of his cold coffee and continues.
‘Right, then. Since we have established there was no sign of forced entry, either Nicky Scott let the person in or they had a key. As far as we know, only three people had keys – Nicky, Michael Scott and the Halls over the road. Michael Scott is in India, apparently, so once that’s confirmed we can eliminate him. From what James said, I can’t imagine the Halls had anything to do with it, but stranger things have happened so we need to keep an open mind on that.’
Lucy nods and makes some notes. John continues.
‘Irene Hall said she noticed a light on in the house last night, which, based on what Lisa Meyer told you, must have been Nicky. And then Mrs Hall saw a man entering the house at nine-thirty or thereabouts. He arrived on foot from the Stockwell direction. She saw the lights were still on when she went to the bathroom at around one. The woman at number eight observed a dark-coloured car parked outside the Halls’ house late yesterday evening and noticed that it had gone when she looked out again at six this morning. Thank God for nosey neighbours! You say that James’s story checked out?’
‘Yes, pretty much,’ Lucy says. ‘The receptionist on night duty says she only left the desk once for just a few minutes to go to the toilet, so, unless he slipped out then, he’s in the clear. The doors were locked from midnight onwards.’
‘We can’t dismiss that possibility, though. Why can’t anything ever be cut and dried?’
Lucy laughs. ‘Because that would make our work much too easy.’
‘Yeah, right. Okay, so let’s concentrate on Nicky’s visitor for the moment.’
‘I would guess he came from Stockwell Tube unless he caught the bus, so we should look at the CCTV footage. It’s – what? – about a five-minute walk from the station, so if we check from eight-thirty onwards that should be plenty time enough. I’ve already got Harvey onto that.’
‘He told me, but he’s not having an easy time getting hold of it.’
‘It’s always like this to start with,’ John says. ‘It’ll all come together soon enough.’
He looks at his watch.
‘Shit, I need to go and brief the Super,’ he says, picking up a file from his desk.
Just before he leaves the room he turns back to Lucy.
‘What are your feelings about James Scott?’ he asks.
‘I think his distress is genuine, but there’s something about him that hits a wrong note – I can’t quite put my finger on it. I don’t think he’s a cold-blooded killer, though, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘My thoughts exactly, but I have been known to be wrong occasionally.’
6
James’s uncle had called his private GP in advance and the doctor was waiting outside the house when they got back from the police station. James had insisted that he didn’t need anything, but his mother was adamant that he should have some tranquilisers and ushered him upstairs to a bedroom with a glass of water. He is now sitting on the edge of the bed turning a small container over and over in his hand. The rhythmic sound of the pills moving inside sends him into a kind of trance and he stays like that for a long time, the events of the last twenty-four hours turning over repeatedly in his mind.
This time last night he had been sitting in the hotel room wondering what the hell he was doing with his life. The seminar had been enlightening if only because it had confirmed to him that he hates what he is doing. The motivational speaker had droned on and on about his own success in the industry and the more James had listened, the more he missed his old friends and the jocularity of his fellow soldiers. Above all, he missed the sense of belonging that the army had given him. There had been a structure to his life that suited his temperament, almost like being at school. In the twelve years since he had joined as a young cadet, he could barely remember a time when he hadn’t looked forward to the day ahead. Now he wakes every morning with a sense of dread and can barely drag himself out of bed.
Nicky had called him yesterday evening to discuss their plans for the weekend and he had been looking forward to a few days in London, the city where he had spent the first eighteen years of his life and which still feels like home to him. He thought it would be good for both of them to have a change of scene from their small village life in Devon, where people always seem to be poking into your business. He replays their conversation, especially the moment when Nicky had told him she was staying in for the evening, a lie that had set in motion a catastrophic chain of events.
Well, he thinks bitterly, there is nothing to keep him in Devon now.
*
Pat and Jack are having a stiff drink in the sitting room.
‘I have to try and get hold of Mikey, wherever he is in India,’ Pat says, ‘but Lord knows how.’
The only person Pat can think of who might know of Mikey’s whereabouts is his ex-girlfriend and the mother of his daughter, Udie.
‘What about Udie’s mother? I forget her name,’ Jack says, as if reading her mind.
‘Athena. Yes, I’ll try calling her but I just haven’t got the energy at the moment.’
‘I’m not surprised – what a day.’
Pat shakes her head and sighs. ‘I just can’t believe this has happened – not to people like us.’
‘That’s what everybody thinks until it does.’
‘I suppose so. The detective asked James if he thought Nicky might have been meeting someone and now I can’t get that idea out of my head. If Nicky was having an affair, that will absolutely destroy James.’
‘He’s stronger than you think, Pat, he’ll be alright.’
‘I hope so, I really do.’
Jack turns on the television and they sit watching an old Steve McQueen film, relieved to be distracted for a while. When it finishes, Pat stands up.
‘Well, I suppose I’d better call Athena. May I use the phone?’
‘Of course – you know where it is.’
The phone rings for what seems an eternity and Pat is about to hang up when Athena answers.
She sounds sleepy – or stoned, Pat thinks, cursing herself for being so judgemental.
After asking about her granddaughter, Pat comes straight to the point.
‘Athena, I am afraid something ghastly has happened and I must get hold of Mikey urgently.’
Athena suddenly sounds more alert. ‘Oh no, Pat, what is it?’
Pat tells her the basic facts and is surprised and moved by Athena’s emotional reaction to the news of Nicky’s death.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ Athena keeps repeating between sobs.
‘Don’t worry,’ Pat says. ‘It’s been a terrible shock for all of us.’
‘I didn’t know Nicky that well but I always thought she was a lovely person,’ Athena says, once she has recovered. ‘Poor James, and poor you as well. It must be awful to see your son suffering.’
‘It is and that’s very sweet of you, Athena. It doesn’t feel real at the moment. Anyway, I must try to contact Mikey – do you have any idea where he is?’
‘Actually, he called a few days ago. He’s in the north of India in a place called Varanasi. He must be on his way to Nepal because I know he’s flying back from Kathmandu in September sometime.’
‘What if something happens to Udie and you need to get hold of him urgently?’
‘It’s too bad, I suppose, but – touch wood – nothing ever has. He calls me occasionally and I can always get hold of the trustees if I need money urgently.’
‘I was thinking more in terms of emotional support,’ says Pat dryly.
Athena snorts into the phone.
‘Ha! Mikey doesn’t really do emotional support, Pat, but that’s not to say he doesn’t care,’ she adds quickly. ‘He has looked after us very well and sees as much of Udie as he can. He never wanted me to have a baby, you know. He said that he didn’t want to bring children into such an overcrowded, cruel world.’
‘That sounds just like Mikey. It’s the same for us when he goes away – he never gets in touch despite all the promises. I always worry in case something happens, and now it has.’
After the conversation ends, Pat sits for a few minutes thinking about her eldest son. In the early days everything had seemed so easy for him – he excelled at school, had lots of friends, got into Oxford. He was recruited straight out of university by the investment bank Stegner Price and, within a couple of years, was making more money than she and her husband, Geoffrey, had ever dreamed of. He was always incredibly generous. He took them on numerous holidays, treated them to theatre evenings in London and, despite their protestations, had insisted on paying off their mortgage. Geoffrey said he didn’t like the way he threw his money around, but Pat could tell he was secretly proud of his son’s success.
And then it had all come crashing down. It was a freezing February day when James called them and said that Mikey needed to come home for a while. He had collapsed at work and needed to rest. James had driven him down to the family home and Pat remembered how shocked she had been at his appearance. He had lost weight and his eyes, which were usually so lively, seemed sunk in an unshaven face that had taken on a terrible grey pallor. He’d gone straight to bed and James had sat them down and told them what had happened. At the time it had seemed heartless, but Pat was grateful that James had spoken the truth so bluntly.
It turned out that Mikey had been leading a crazy life, often not leaving work until eleven or twelve at night and then going out on the town. Every weekend he was at a party, or away with friends, and, in order to keep going, he had starting taking drugs – to help him sleep, to help him keep awake, to make him happy – and it had gradually got out of control. Apparently, this had been going on for over a year. He had collapsed at work on Monday and had been rushed to hospital, where the doctor had told James, who was back on leave, that Mikey had had a severe panic attack and was suffering from anxiety and depression, probably triggered by the drugs he was taking. The doctor had suggested that Mikey be admitted to a clinic for help in sorting himself out, and then said there was no way he’d be going back to work, not in the foreseeable future. Mikey had been given something for the anxiety and, going forward, would probably need to take antidepressants, James told them.
Pat remembers them sitting there in stunned silence, until finally Geoffrey had found his voice and asked James lots of questions. In the end they agreed that Mikey should stay at home until he felt a bit better and then they would decide what to do about the clinic.
The next few days were difficult. Mikey spent most of the time in his room sleeping, at least that’s what Pat hoped, and only came down for the odd meal, always in his pyjamas. He didn’t want to talk or make decisions and Pat and Geoffrey respected that, and avoided anything except the most mundane conversations such as asking Mikey if he wanted a cup of tea or commenting on the weather. Inside, Pat’s heart was breaking. Her happy, confident, kind son had become an empty shell and she had no idea how to help him.
The doctor came to see Mikey and he told them that, although it would be a slow process, their son would get better. In the meantime, he would need very careful handling. He prescribed antidepressants but, after a few days, Mikey seemed even worse and stopped coming downstairs altogether. Pat took him small meals, which he barely picked at. Sometimes he had the television on but didn’t seem to be watching it.
Terrified that Mikey might do something to harm himself, Pat again called the doctor, who explained that it would take some time for his body to adjust to the new drugs and that Mikey would start to improve gradually. He recommended that he stay at home for a bit longer before any big decisions were made.
It seemed like months, but it was probably only two or three weeks, before Pat and Geoffrey began to see some change in Mikey. He started coming down to meals again, staying longer each time, and then one morning he came down dressed and shaved.
‘You look better, dear,’ Pat said. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I do feel better,’ Mikey replied. ‘In fact, I’d like to go out for a walk and get some fresh air – I’ve been cooped up for too long.’
‘Would you like me to come?’ she asked.
‘That would be nice.’
Pat lent him some of Geoffrey’s boots and a coat and they set off down the lane. An icy wind beat against their faces and a dark sky above them hinted of snow. Pat felt exhilarated both because of the weather and because, for the first time in weeks, she could see that Mikey was more like his old self.
‘Do you want to talk about it, dear?’ Pat asked while they scraped the mud off their boots at the end of the walk.
‘I would like to talk to you and Dad,’ he said. ‘I’ve been thinking about what I want to do and I’ve had some ideas.’
Pat made some tea and they sat round the fire, listening to Mikey talk.
He told them that he had never really been happy at Oxford or in his job and had always felt that he was, in some way, a fraud. He had begun to hate the people he worked with and their relentless pursuit of money and found he had less and less in common with his group of party-loving friends. The drugs were the only thing that lessened his increasing sense of the futility of his life.
‘Why on earth didn’t you tell us?’ Geoffrey asked.
‘I don’t know. Guilt probably, or fear that I’d be letting everyone down. When you’re in a downward spiral like that it’s hard to be rational about anything.’
He had made a decision. He wouldn’t go back to work in the City; he wanted to get away for a while to somewhere beautiful and peaceful where he could work out what he wanted to do. He owned a house in London and had enough money invested so that if he lived simply, which he intended to do, he could survive perfectly happily for a long time, if not the rest of his life.
