The Loyal Servant (27 page)

38

Caroline stood in the same telephone box on the corner of Martin Fox’s Street as she had nearly four weeks earlier. From her vantage point she could see the front garden and the first floor windows of his house. She’d already walked past it once and discovered, to her enormous relief, that the police guard had been stood down. In theory there was nothing to stop her marching right up the front path and knocking on the door. Nothing except the trace of self-respect she was managing to cling on to.

The previous day she’d left the department in a daze. Ed and his colleague had collected her from Prior’s office. They insisted she hand over her security pass, even before she was allowed back to her desk to pick up her bag and jacket. They then marched her to the lifts, took her through the basement car park and escorted out of the side exit in St Ann’s Street.

She must have stood there, disorientated in the bright sunshine, for minutes, blinking rapidly, unsteady on her feet, like a newborn lamb. As she swayed from side to side, several passers-by asked if she was all right. When finally an old woman offered to take her to the nearest police station, Caroline thanked her and set off for Charing Cross station on foot, hoping the cool breeze blowing off the river would help clear the fug from her head.

She was still in a state of shock when she got home. She turned on the television even before she’d taken off her coat. The BBC News Channel was running a trailer for the up-coming
Question Time
special. William King’s face flashed on the screen, grinning as usual. She switched over quickly to Sky News and a re-run of the story about an unknown Labour MP’s defection to the Liberal Democrats. That was yesterday’s news. Where was Martin Fox? Caroline flipped back to the BBC and stood in front of the TV, too stressed to sit down, until the main bulletin came on at the top of the hour. The discovery of the missing CD-ROM was the very last item before they moved on to the sports report. There was no mention of Martin. The piece focused solely on the data protection issues. It wasn’t the story Tate had promised her at all.

And Tate wasn’t answering her phone. Caroline pulled the pay-as-you-go mobile from her pocket and thought about trying her again. She stared at the pink phone and decided against it. She peered out of the phone box and stared at the first floor windows of Martin’s house, checking for some sign of life, trying hard to remember exactly what had prompted her decision to travel half way across London. It felt like she was clutching at straws. Making a desperate final lunge for the truth.

Who was she kidding? Right now all she wanted was someone to tell her she wasn’t going mad.

The kiosk door swung open. Caroline jumped.

‘Are you going to be long?’ A sweaty bald head pushed into the phone box. ‘I don’t mean to rush you, but I can’t hang about.’

The unshaven man filled the confined space with his halitoxic breath.

Caroline cleared her throat. ‘I’ve just finished. If you’ll excuse me.’ She waited for him to step to one side, and had barely cleared the box before he sidled in. She hurried away and was half way up the street and fast approaching Martin’s house, without even meaning to be. She stopped on the opposite side of the road and looked up to see the curtains at the first floor window had been drawn right back. The blinds on the ground floor jerked open. She saw a tall figure peering out between the wooden slats. Caroline could just make out blonde hair framing the narrow face – the woman from the funeral. It had to be. Caroline glanced up and down the road. The woman pulled up the Venetian blind and stared right at her, holding her gaze for a moment before turning away.

Caroline ran across the road and up the path. She pressed firmly on the doorbell before she had a chance to change her mind.

The door flew open.

‘What do you want?’

The woman was taller and thinner than Caroline remembered, her body a collection of sharp angles and long limbs. Her bony tanned feet were stuffed into a pair of Birkenstocks.

‘Who are you?’ She was wearing skinny jeans and a tight sweater. The outline of a pair of almost spherical breasts pressed through the thin wool. Caroline couldn’t take her eyes off them and for a moment was completely lost for words.

‘Well?’ The woman pushed a long lock of hair behind her ears. It immediately sprang back out again and fell across her face.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Caroline finally managed. ‘I’m looking for Martin’s cousin.’

‘What do you want with her?’

‘Is she in?’

The tall woman peered over the top of Caroline’s head to the street beyond. ‘Where are the others?’

‘Others?’

‘The other reporters.’

‘Reporter? Me? God no.’ Caroline smiled. ‘I can’t stand the press. Is Martin’s cousin here?’

The woman held on to the edge of the door, ready to slam it shut at any moment. ‘You’ll have to get in touch with my publicist. I’m not supposed to talk to anyone unless they’ve cleared it with him first.’

‘You are Martin’s cousin?’

‘Wait here and I’ll get his business card.’ She started to close the door.

‘No!’ Caroline forced a smile. ‘Please – I’m not a reporter. Honestly. I used to work with Martin at the department.’

The woman frowned and looked down at Caroline’s feet, her gaze tracking slowly back up to Caroline’s face. ‘I suppose you do look like a civil servant.’

Caroline tugged at the bottom of her jacket.

‘Martin’s colleagues were at the funeral,’ the blonde woman said. ‘I don’t remember seeing you there.’

‘I was at the cemetery. I didn’t feel up to attending the wake. I was too upset. I worked with Martin for the academies—’

‘Caroline?’

The rest of Caroline’s sentence stalled in her throat. Suddenly her chest felt tight.

‘Why didn’t you say that straightaway?’ The woman stood to one side. ‘Come in, please. My name’s Samantha, call me Sam.’

Caroline started up the narrow hall and stopped, unable to take another step. She could smell Martin’s aftershave. An instant memory flooded back. Martin in the hotel lift, smiling at her.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Fine.’

‘The living room’s just on the right.’

‘How did you know my name?’

‘Martin’s told me all about you. I’ll make us coffee, shall I?’

Caroline ventured into the living room and perched on the edge of a large cream sofa. Why would Martin tell his cousin about her? She blinked and snatched another breath. All about you, she’d said.

Not everything, surely
?

No, Martin would have kept what happened between them private. She edged back on the sofa and scanned the room. It was mostly the way she’d imagined it. The beautifully finished wooden table and dining chairs were clearly handmade, the sofa was upholstered in silk, and an enormous red and green Oriental rug covered most of the wide oak floorboards. But there were no paintings or prints on the walls and no photographs on the mantelpiece. No suggestion of Martin’s personality apart from the piles paperbacks and jazz CDs stacked haphazardly on the shelves either side of the fireplace. Anyone might have lived here.

Samantha returned from the kitchen with a stainless steel cafetière and two mugs balancing on a tray. She put the tray on the coffee table and lowered herself carefully onto the sofa next to Caroline.

‘Did you want milk? There isn’t a milk jug – but I could bring the carton through.’

‘Black is fine.’

‘I’m not really used to having guests.’ Samantha swept a long thin arm towards the untidy shelves. ‘I’m so sorry about the mess. It’s taking an absolute age to get things straightened out.’ She pushed down the plunger of the cafetière and half-filled both mugs with thick dark coffee. ‘The police pretty much turned things upside down and didn’t put anything back in the right place.’

‘The police?’ Caroline leaned forward and scanned the room again. ‘What were they looking for?’

‘They wouldn’t tell me when I asked. I didn’t want to make a fuss. I didn’t feel it was my place to. But they have to investigate properly, don’t they? Under the circumstances.’ She flicked hair from her face and sighed.

‘Did they take anything away?’

‘It’s hard to tell. Though Marty’s computer has gone from his study. His laptop too.’

Caroline was disappointed, but not surprised. A small part of her hoped to find something in Martin’s house that had escaped the departmental cleansing process. Some overlooked shred of evidence.

‘And they still haven’t returned the computers – after all this time?’

Samantha shook her head and bit her bottom lip. ‘I suppose I should do something about that, shouldn’t I? Chase it up?’

Caroline nodded, half smiled. She knew even if the machines were returned, they’d come back restored to their factory settings, wiped of all documents and any trace of their previous owner.

‘But they were only doing their job. They have to be thorough, don’t they?’

‘Oh they’re certainly thorough.’

‘Do you know, they even interviewed me? I don’t know what they were expecting to find out.’

‘What did they ask you?’

Samantha’s face darkened for a moment. ‘Why do you want to know?’

Caroline sat back again; she didn’t want to seem too earnest. She tried to relax the muscles in her face. ‘They interviewed me too – they wanted to know about his mood, his state of mind.’

Samantha rested a beautifully manicured hand on top of Caroline’s and squeezed. ‘It must have been so horrible for you – finding him like that. When I read your name in the paper I literally gasped. I was so upset for you. But then I thought, of all the people to have discovered him, I’m sure Martin would rather it was someone he trusted. Better than a stranger. He really thought a lot of you, you know.’

A shiver ran across Caroline’s shoulders.

Samantha squeezed her hand tighter then let go, checking her nails before folding her arms tight across her breasts. ‘Is it a bit chilly? Your hands are frozen. Would you like me to put some heating on?’

‘What did you tell the police about Martin’s mood?’ Caroline was determined not to get sidetracked.

‘I’d seen Marty just the day before he…’ The thin blonde woman picked up her coffee and took a sip. ‘I hadn’t seen him for ages before that. He did seem a little… preoccupied.’

‘What did you think about the note Martin left?’

‘The note? That was very weird, wasn’t it? It was total fantasy, the whole thing.’

Thank God.

‘And is that what you told the police?’

‘They didn’t ask me about the note. They only wanted to know about his will – what arrangements he’d made with the solicitor about things.’

‘Did they ask you for his solicitor’s details?’

‘No – they had them already.’ She put down the mug and stared into space. ‘Actually I remember thinking at the time it was a bit strange… they asked me if Marty had given me anything to look after for him. You know – documents or computer files. That was odd, wasn’t it?’

‘What kind of documents?’

‘They didn’t say.’

Caroline could feel her pulse pounding in her ears. ‘And had he? Do you still have them?’

‘Oh no – he didn’t give me anything. In a way it would have been so much more straightforward if he had.’

‘It would?’

‘A copy of the will would really have smoothed things along. At one stage I thought I might not even be able to move in here.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘The fire. Everything was lost.’

Caroline glanced around the room and peered out into the hall.

‘Not here!’ Samantha gripped the sofa cushion. ‘No – the solicitor’s office.’ She shook her head. ‘They say things come in threes, don’t they? I keep waiting for the third disaster to strike. It’s made me a bit twitchy.’

‘There was a fire at Martin’s solicitor’s office?’

‘I’m surprised you don’t know about it. It was all across the news. The whole row of offices and shops in the street were completely burned to shells. It started in the early hours of the morning they think. Just the day after Martin… after he… died. They closed Waterloo Bridge there were so many fire engines called out.’

My God they were thorough
.

Caroline picked up her coffee mug, and slowly blew across the surface of the liquid, needing a moment to consider everything Samantha had just told her. Whoever’s responsibility it was to eradicate any trace of a paper trail had taken their job very seriously. Who could have organised something that big? Aware Samantha was staring at her, Caroline lifted the mug to her lips and took a sip of coffee.

‘Is it OK? Not too strong? I’m never sure how many spoonfuls of coffee to put in. Marty was much more domesticated than me. I’m useless!’

‘The coffee’s fine. For a woman unused to visitors, you’re making me feel very welcome.’

Samantha lifted a hand to her throat and smiled, suddenly embarrassed.

‘Have you had many people come to the house, you know, to pay their respects?’