Nemesis (5 page)

Did he have to sound quite so patronising? “What about the head injury?”

Charles sighed and picked up a spiral bound notebook from his desk, using a pencil to scribble a quick diagram. He held it up, so she could see he had drawn a cartoon of a man’s head, divided up into sections like a patchwork quilt.

“The brain is made of many parts,” he said, jabbing at the diagram with the end of his pen. “It can be divided into four areas, the largest of which is the cerebrum. The front section of the cerebrum is called the frontal lobe and is involved in speech, thought, emotion, memory and skilled movement. Because of its position and size, the frontal lobe is vulnerable to injury. Are you with me so far?”

She inclined her head.

“You father had a series of neuropsychological tests following his accident and also at regular intervals since.”

As she already knew this, she made no comment.

“John can remember events from his past but not the accident itself - although it is not unusual for patients to block traumatic events from their memories. We have noticed that John sometimes becomes confused, particularly if stressed. This could be because he has problems organising his thoughts and then communicating them to others. He also has trouble concentrating, which means he loses interest in keeping a conversation going, as it takes so much effort for him.”

Charles dropped the notebook back onto the desk. “Patients with frontal lobe damage show little spontaneous facial expression and can have trouble reacting to their environment. I can understand why you are confused. If John is having a good day, his concentration improves. He understands more and can therefore communicate more. On bad days - and to be fair, John does suffer from very severe headaches that would make anyone feel down - he isn’t interested in making what we would call ‘small talk’. Combined with his lack of facial expression, this can make him appear worse than he actually is. Does that answer your question?”

“These tests, are they foolproof?”

“I should think so, yes. Your father has his moods and whims in the same way we all do. If he is feeling frustrated his symptoms may appear worse. If he is not in any pain and is feeling relaxed, his symptoms would be vastly improved. I have to tell you that most improvements in this kind of traumatic brain injury usually appear in the first few years. After fifteen years - well, I’m sorry, but this is as good as he’s going to get.”

“He’s definitely not faking?”

“Why do you keep suggesting that? It’s ridiculous. What would the man gain from this kind of deception - and over such a long period of time?”

7

The most expensive properties in Calahurst were the apartment blocks overlooking the quay. Some were converted boathouses, others had once been beautiful Georgian town houses built for the wealthy ship owners. Natalie had deliberately chosen to live in the most expensive and exclusive of these - an attractive building of pale stone and tinted glass, built on the site of one of the original boatyards. It was to one side of the quay, rather than overlooking it directly, and away from the noise of the bars and cafés. There was a car park in the basement, a fully-equipped gym on the ground floor and even a swimming pool. As Natalie lived in the penthouse, she also had a roof garden, where evergreen shrubs grew in raised beds beside a party-sized hot tub.

The entrance hall - all marble, glass and exotic plants - was patrolled by a uniformed porter named Phil Huggins. He was a short and practically bald bundle of enthusiasm,
who
always produced the latest Natalie Grove thriller for her to sign the same day it hit the shops. He claimed to have read every book she’d written - she’d certainly signed them all for him - and told her each time she did so that he was her
greatest
fan.

She was never quite sure whether to believe him.

As much as she liked Phil - or rather, thought him fairly harmless – Natalie’s visit to her father had left her so shaken she was hoping to avoid meeting anyone. She had left her car in its usual spot in the basement car park, and used the lift to ascend rather than the stairs. Unfortunately, instead of whisking her straight up to the penthouse, the lift stopped at ground level, opening onto an empty lobby. She jammed her finger on the button but, as the doors finally slid together, a size eight boot wedged itself between them.

“Hi, Miss Grove!”
Phil squeezed his bulk through the narrow gap. “Look what turned up.” He tapped his thumb against the side of the cardboard box he carried. “I reckon it’s your new book.”

As the top of the box had been sealed with tape printed with the name of her publishers, it was not a difficult deduction to make.

“Thank you, Phil.” She pushed her bag onto her shoulder and held out her arms. “I can take it from here.”

He grinned, revealing large tombstone teeth. “It’s no trouble.”

The doors, unhindered by his boot, slid shut. Natalie began to wish she’d taken the stairs. As the lift began its slow ascent, she felt her stress levels rising, not helped by the sight of her dishevelled reflection in the mirrored doors. There was no way she’d have the time to shower and change before Simon turned up to take her out.

When the lift stopped, she turned sideways to slip through the doors before they’d finished opening. She turned to take the box from Phil but, instead of handing it over, he breezed straight past her and into her apartment.

“Where do you want them?” Without waiting for a reply, he indicated the nearest door, which was her study. “In here?”

It was too late to disagree. “That would be perfect, thank you.”

He pushed open the door with his elbow, walked through and dumped the box on her desk. The window stretched from floor to ceiling, along the whole of the wall, giving a dizzying outlook to the quayside. He paused to watch a yacht heading out onto the river.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Miss Grove?”

“I don’t think so, Phil, but thanks for the offer.”

“You’re welcome.” He paused then, to look once around the room before he left, and his attention was caught by the Impressionist prints she’d displayed on the wall between the framed covers of her books.

“You’re a fan of Monet?” he said, admiring a print of Nympheas that she had hung up near the door.

“Yes.” She had other similar paintings scattered about the apartment. Most people were too polite to comment, but this was Phil. Even he had heard of Monet. And even he knew Monet was famous for his paintings of -

“Water lilies,” said Phil. “Do you like water lilies?”

She hesitated, not willing to lie, but unable to tell him the truth. Was Phil the only person in Calahurst who had never heard of Sarah Grove?

“I bought them to remind me of someone,” she admitted, before the silence was a reply in itself.

‘Remind’ was not a strong enough word. There was one print for every year since Sarah’s death. They were there not to remind (as though she could ever forget), but to provoke, to incite, to goad her into bringing Sarah’s killer to justice.

All this she left unspoken but his easy smile had faded. He might not have heard of Sarah Grove but he understood grief.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, briefly touching her shoulder before turning away, leaving her to blink away her tears in private. “I’ll let myself out.”

She nodded, turning her attention to the parcel. She no longer had the time to shower and change before Simon turned up, so she might as well open it.

The box had been sealed with tape. Too impatient to fetch scissors, she used her car keys to slice through it. Inside was a short note from her editor’s assistant, which she put aside to read later. Beneath a layer of bubble wrap were twenty copies of her new novel.
Beautiful glossy hardbacks.
They even had that new book smell.

The covers of all eight of her published novels were practically identical - black, with her name written in huge silver letters. Her first novel had a picture of a silver skull on it. The second had a hangman’s noose with the rope picked out in threads of silver, and the cover of her third book was illustrated with an open grave, complete with a silver shovel.

The cover design of this book was in much the same style as her previous novels - matt black, with one single bluebell picked out in silver. Natalie felt so pleased she could have raised the book to her lips and kissed it, and perhaps would have done, if she had not heard raised voices.

It sounded as though they came from the lobby outside her apartment. Phil must have stopped to speak to someone on his way out. Was it Simon? Here already?

The key rattled in the lock in the same instant she realised the significance of the book she held in her hand. The book which Simon was completely unaware she’d written.

She shoved it back into the box and folded over the lid to seal it. Then ripped away all the tape with the publisher’s name emblazoned upon it, scrunched it up and chucked it into the bin. There was no time to hide the box, and no place to hide it anyway, so she dropped a couple of lever arch files on top and hoped for the best. She stepped into the hall, pulling the study door closed behind her, as Simon entered the apartment.

He had changed from the stuffier clothes he wore for work, into a dark-grey t-shirt, shabby-chic jeans and Converse trainers. Even doing his best to appear the hip thirty-something he imagined himself to be, he still looked like the forty-something drama teacher he actually was.

Aware she must appear a little odd, standing forlornly in the centre of the
hall,
she leaned forward and kissed him, hoping it would be a distraction.

“You look guilty,” he smiled, as she pulled away. “What have you been up to?” Before she had chance to answer, he added, “I suppose you’ve been at Rose Court, baiting your poor father?”

She stiffened. “It’s nothing more than he deserves.”

Now it was Simon’s turn to reach out for her. “Give the guy a break. He’s been stuck in that care home for years, isn’t that punishment enough?”

“No, actually.”
She twisted away, pretending to check her reflection in the hall mirror. He would have to be completely insensitive not to recognise the subject was closed.

“You’re never going to win.” Simon checked his own reflection over the top of her head, pushing his spectacles back slightly and smoothing his ruffled, conker-coloured hair until it lay flat. “You can’t compete with a dead girl. We know the truth about your sister but as far as John’s concerned, Sarah was always the perfect daughter and now she’s going to stay that way.”

The truth
?

“What truth would that be?” she enquired sharply.

He turned his attention from the mirror and gazed down at her, apparently surprised by the question.
“All those boyfriends?”

“She was a young girl; she liked to go out and have fun.”

“With men.”

“With boys her own age!”

“A boy her own age didn’t slash her throat and leave her body in a lily pond.”

She knew he was right but did not feel inclined to agree with him. Instead she scooped up her bag and would have headed for the door but, as he was stood beside her, he was blocking her way.

His hazel eyes regarded her dispassionately. “Are you going out like that?”

She felt her confidence take a dip and glanced back in the mirror to reassure
herself
. She saw a black sweater, a cute short skirt, thick black tights and boots. Her hair was not as sleek as she would have liked, and her skin seemed a bit pale, but apart from that she thought she looked pretty hot.

“What’s wrong?” This time she didn’t bother to hide the edge to her voice.

He raised an eyebrow.
“Your skirt?
Don’t you think it’s a bit short?”

He didn’t add ‘for a woman your age’ but he might as well have done. Natalie almost laughed out loud. What century was he living in?

“Tough,” she told him. “I’m wearing it.”

He opened the door for her. “Your mother used to dress like that.”

“
What
?” He was comparing her to her
mother
?

“Wear clothes that were too young for her.”

“You think now I’ve hit thirty I should give up?” she demanded. “Wear crimplene slacks and blue-rinse my hair?”

“God, no!
I just thought something a little more … I don’t know - demure?”

“Thick tights and boots not ‘demure’ enough for you?”

“They’re hardly practical. It’s quite warm outside. In thick tights and those boots you’ll be sweating in minutes.”

“This is England. In half an hour it’ll pour with rain, or maybe blow half a gale. Then you can feel free to moan at me for not taking a coat.”

His brows drew together. “I do not moan
- ”

“You’re doing it now!” Her palm, flat to his chest, ensured he had to step back to let her pass before he could complete his sentence. “Shall we go, or would you like to criticise me some more?”

“Natalie, you’re taking this completely the wrong way
- ”

“I’ll drive if you like,” she offered.

“What?
No, of course not.
I’m
driving. My car is already parked outside.”

It was hard not to grin.
Poor Simon.
He fell for that one every time.

“Then let’s go,” she said. “Unless
… ”
She let one finger trail down his chest before hooking it between two of the little buttons on his shirt. “Wouldn’t you rather stay in? I could order a takeaway, or even cook something. Would you like that?”

It seemed to take him a moment to register what she was saying. “But the restaurant is already booked and it’s right next to the theatre
… ”

He sounded so disappointed, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She couldn’t even remember the name of the play they were supposed to be going to see. She let a second finger join the first, sliding beneath the fabric and making contact with the warmth of his skin.

“Are you
seriously
turning down a night with me in favour of a boring old play?”

“I’m supposed to be preparing a talk about it for the 6
^th
form. I can’t cancel.”

“You would go without me?” And when he didn’t reply immediately, she withdrew her fingers from inside his shirt. “Simon?”

“It is my job, Natalie. Of course I’d rather spend an evening with you. But if we go to the theatre together we’ll be able to do both.”

“You’re quite right,” she said, careful to keep her voice light. “Let’s go.”

He regarded her uncertainly but was wise enough to say nothing more. But as he opened the door there was an unexpected creak behind them, and the door to her study swung slowly ajar in an almost supernatural style.

Natalie could hardly believe her bad luck. Simon now had an uninterrupted view of her desk.

He frowned and released the door, letting it close with a soft click.

“What’s in that box?” he asked.

“What box?”

He raised one brow.
“The one on your desk?”

“Is it important?”

He stared back at her. Evidently it was.

“It contains china,” she said. “I ordered it online. It’s a new dinner service, in white, with a blue border
- ”

He held up his hand to stop her talking, exactly as though she was one of his students. “Why isn’t it in the kitchen?”

“Phil brought it up a couple of minutes ago. Maybe you passed him outside? I didn’t want to make him hang about so I asked him to put it on the first available surface. Which was
- ”
she gestured in the direction of her study, “ - my desk.”