White Bodies(64)

He was staring at me now, right into my eyes, looking almost frightened of me. I examined his face, reveling in its rough beauty, desperately hoping he would be sympathetic.

“Callie, you’re right. It does sound unbelievable. It does sound like you’re the lunatic. . . . I’m sorry, I need to get back to the office.”

Then he pushed the table away roughly, got up and left, muttering, “I’ll call you,” in a stony voice. I watched him barge through a group of young men in suits and disappear through the swing door.

I was so disappointed—I’d thought he might be my wingman, at my side while I tried to get to the truth about Felix’s death and Scarlet’s involvement. But he was gone, and I was still on my own. I made my way back to Saskatchewan Books.

Daphne said, “Nice lunch, lovebird? I saw you and Wilf heading off to the Albany.”

“Stop it, Daphne! I’ve had enough.”

She pulled a long face and returned to her writing while I switched on my laptop. Nothing from Scarlet, so I wrote to her again.

Send me Luke’s details! If I’m going to do this thing, I need to get on with it. I don’t want to waste time.

After five minutes:

I have to be sure you are committed to the project.

I’m a hundred percent fucking committed. How can I make you believe me?

Okay. I’ll meet up with you to tell you his name and what you must do. Same place as last time. Be there at 1:00 p.m. tomorrow.





35


I did the head scarf thing again, because that’s what Scarlet wanted, using the same orange scarf. And, as I made my way to Kenwood, I wondered how it was that she was so at ease with giving instructions to other people. Maybe she had been raised like that—a little princess led to believe that her own wishes were paramount. I wondered too how it was that she could travel from Manchester to London so easily on a weekday when she should be at work. Maybe she was part-time, like me.

I took the same route as last time, walking uphill through the woods and across the grass and, as before, Scarlet was already there—sitting on the last bench, head covered in the red scarf, her bag beneath her feet. The same bag—the one that had contained syringes and drugs. As I approached, I reminded myself to learn as much about her as possible, to study her appearance, and ask her questions that might elicit useful information.

She glanced up. Pale blue eyes, shaped thick black eyebrows, thin lips, long skinny face. Not unattractive, but also not the stunning beauty that she had pretended to be. And no hint of a smile: “Hi, Callie, come and sit down.”

“Did you come from Manchester this morning?” I tried to keep my voice natural, not too inquisitive.

“Yeah. My train got in at eleven. Check it if you like.”

“Oh, that’s not what I meant,” I lied. “I was just thinking that you’ve had to take time off work.”

“Yes I have. But it doesn’t matter.”

She was looking straight ahead, at the woods and the lake at the bottom of the hill, at the gray city in the distance, at the haze of tower blocks grabbing at the sky; and I was looking at her, thinking, Is this what a murderer looks like? So ordinary . . .

“Scarlet . . . I’m so amazed by what you’ve done. I’m struggling to comprehend it. How did you kill Felix? Without him struggling at all? Or there being any sign?”

“I can’t tell you right now. But I will eventually—maybe after the funeral. The important thing is for you to keep your side of the bargain . . . with Luke. Listen carefully, because I don’t want to repeat myself—his name is Luke Stone. Got that? He works for a TV production company in Manchester. It’s called Hollybank. He’s a researcher there.”

“Are you sure you want me to do this? Really sure?”

“Absolutely. Remember Belle, and what happened to her. She’d still be alive today if someone had got to Joe Mayhew first—and there are hundreds of women like her, hundreds. And if I leave him, he’ll come after me. You know this, Callie. . . . You’re not having doubts?”

“No. I’ll go through with it—to save you, and in honor of Belle.”

“Good. I hope you have the syringes and the diamorphine in a safe place.”

“Yes, of course.” It was true. The bin was as safe a place as anywhere.

“Okay—this is what you should do. Go to my flat in Manchester, it’s only a ten-minute walk from the station. When you arrive you’ll find Luke in a deep sleep. You’ll need to find a vein in his left arm, the inside of the elbow is a good place, I’m sure you’ve seen it done often enough, and there are videos on YouTube. Anyhow, you’ll inject him with sixty milligrams of diamorphine—that’s twice a lethal dose. Have you got that?”

“Yes—sixty milligrams. In his left arm. Will I need to do more than one injection?”

“Probably . . . While you’re doing it wear those thin latex gloves that medics use—you can buy them at a pharmacy—do that in London, somewhere busy, like Oxford Street. Anyhow, when you’ve finished, make sure his fingerprints are all over the syringe, then drop the syringe by his right hand. Got it?”

I was impressed by her ruthlessness. Doubtless, she’d be at work when Luke died, giving her an alibi—and I was supposed to scamper on back to London. It was perfect Strangers on a Train.