White Bodies(54)

Felix is screwed up, probably sadistic, but he isn’t a sociopath, I know that—Lemon-and-Lime doesn’t understand. Oh how I’d love to discuss this with Belle! I’m missing her so badly.

I log off and scroll through the dossier instead, looking at the write-ups I did after chatting to Belle online, and after meeting her in York. I’m looking for evidence that moral, kind Belle was actually cooperating with Scarlet, signing up to her insane murder plan. I don’t want to believe that she was; but as I read through my notes, I realize that she was endlessly referring to Scarlet’s superior status as prey, being “closer to the danger” than us. And in Pizza Express Belle had used the actual words: “Scarlet has asked me to help her, and I am. I want to play my part.” Reluctantly, I write: I do believe that Belle did it—that she stole diamorphine and syringes and needles from York hospital.

I research diamorphine, and discover that it’s a cleaned-up form of heroin that’s given to cancer patients in agonizing pain, and if you inject an overdose into a vein, death follows pretty quickly. It was how Dr. Harold Shipman murdered more than two hundred of his patients. There were tons of it in Scarlet’s bag—maybe enough to kill an entire village.

I return to Controlling Men, looking for Scarlet. She’s there, and we move to the Zone.

I want to ask you about the contents of your bag.

Don’t do it. Some things can only be discussed in person.

I’m worrying about everything. You, Pink, Felix.

Stop . . . You need to know that the violence is getting worse here. I will give you more information about Luke soon.

Get out of there Scarlet. Go to a refuge.

Not possible. There’s no funding for refuges these days. No available spaces. We both know that. What’s the latest on Pink and Felix? (We’re going through the charade of calling her Pink still?)

They’re away, back in a week . . .

I don’t want to go over Tilda’s letter again. It’s too exhausting.

Then they’ll be around for a while? In London?

Yes, they’ll be here for ages. I don’t think they’re going to travel anywhere—Felix works too hard. Even when he goes away somewhere nice, it’s for work.

Oh?

Yes, in October he’s off to some flash country-house hotel for a conference.

Where?

Berkshire I think.

What’s the hotel called?

Not sure. Ashleigh something; something like that. Why?

Might be important.

I have to go, I’m at work.

Customers have come into the shop, and I sell a Napoleon Bonaparte book to an older man who looks a little like Daphne’s Douglas, and a book on crochet and mindfulness to a young mother with two babies in a buggy. Then I write up my findings about diamorphine. And I note that I’ve told Scarlet about Felix’s conference trip.





28


Tilda’s been back from her honeymoon for two months and I haven’t seen her. She phones and keeps me updated on how happy she is and how perfect Felix is, but makes excuses not to see me in person, so that I can verify the authenticity of her gushy claims. Then, at last, I’m invited to Curzon Street for a movie night. She calls while I’m at home, online, gorging on Controlling Men; and because I’m alert and in the mood to register every little inflection in her voice, every slight hint of fragility, I do notice. An element of woundedness, definitely, but something else also—maybe hope, or optimism.

“Single White Female,” she says. “It’s a film from the 1990s about two young women, Hedy and Allie. Hedy’s obsessed with Allie, insanely jealous of her, and it all gets deliciously creepy. You’ll love it.”

I hold the phone too hard against my ear, stuck for words. I suppose she’s making a point about my obsession with her. I’m about to protest that I’m not jealous—that’s not it at all, then:

“Callie? Are you still there?”

“Yes . . . I’ll come. I’ll bring brownies.”

“It’s a special film,” she says. “And I’m excited about you seeing it. I’ll tell you why when I see you.”

“Tell me now.”

“No! You have to see it first.”

So I arrive at Curzon Street, clutching my bag of brownies (homemade!) and my Strongbow, and I’m reminded of that day in the spring when I met Felix for the first time. Now, as then, Tilda answers the door, and Felix is in the kitchen space, arranging things in cupboards.

I make my entrance as positively as I can manage, with a cheerful “Welcome home, Mr. and Mrs. Nordberg!”

Felix takes my cider and pours our drinks, while I notice the subtle glow he gained from the Greek sun—just enough to emphasize sharp cheekbones, and the limpid paleness of his eyes. He hands me my glass, and as our hands touch I start, and realize how on edge I am. I mumble “Sorry,” and Felix mops up spilled cider. I try to start an uncontroversial conversation.

“Was your family home like this?” I say. “I mean, shades of white, and spotless?”

“God, no. Growing up, my parents’ place was all burnished oak paneling, dark furniture, rugs the color of port wine. Pieces of impressive art—ceramics and paintings. Kinda like a gentleman’s club.”

“Sounds formal.”