White Bodies(69)

“Thank you, Agnes,” I said. “Could you send me these pictures? As I say, I don’t want to bother Tilda right now. She’s too upset.”

“Okay . . .” She didn’t sound sure, but she did it anyway. I checked that the untouched hospitality tray photo was in my inbox, and I thought, It convinces me, so surely it will convince Melody Sykes. There was, though, still one element that was bothering me, that would be hard to explain to the police—why would Felix have let Scarlet into his room in the first place? Did he know her from somewhere?

“The person who might have come to see Felix was a young woman, about my age,” I said, “with dark hair, quite tall. Her name is Charlotte.”

“I don’t remember anyone like that coming to reception, and I was the only staff member on the desk that morning. Although, we were busy, and I may have forgotten.”

“So it’s possible that she came and asked for Felix’s room number?”

“Yes. But we wouldn’t give it out, just like that. We’d call up to the room, and check with the guest first. I’d remember that.”

“I see.”

Maybe Felix had known Scarlet; maybe she had known his room number. For an instant, something flashed into my mind. One thing they had in common was that Felix was angry and violent and controlling, and Scarlet liked sex games with violent men. But I dismissed the thought just as fast. For all his faults, I didn’t see Felix as a cheater. Especially as he had been married for only a few weeks.

I thanked Agnes again and, as I left the hotel, I called a taxi to take me into Reading, to the police station.





39


A receptionist behind a metal grille was casually scrolling on her phone, not looking up as I said I wanted to speak to Melody Sykes. “It’s in connection with a death she investigated.” That was too strong, but I thought it would grab her attention.

Melody appeared two minutes later, clutching a Styrofoam coffee cup, propping the door open with a big hip. “Come on through, we’ll go somewhere private. . . .” She sounded irritated, like I’d interrupted something important, and I almost had to jog to keep up as she strode down the corridor, swinging her large frame from side to side. She ushered me into a small, bare room, the sort you see in TV dramas when the police interview their prime suspect, and we faced each other across a table.

“So, Ms. Farrow, how can we help?”

“It’s about Felix Nordberg. The man who died at the Ashleigh House Hotel.”

“Oh yes. Heart disease wasn’t it?”

“That’s why I’m here. I don’t think it was. . . . I think the postmortem was wrong.”

“And what makes you think that?” She leaned back, scrunching up her face, looking skeptical.

“I know someone who says she killed him. Her name’s Charlotte—and I think she went to the hotel and injected him with a lethal dose of diamorphine.”

“Mmm . . . hmmm. Let’s rewind. Who is this Charlotte? How did she know Mr. Nordberg? Why would she want to kill him?” She did me the courtesy of opening her notebook, taking a pen from the pocket of her jacket.

“I don’t know her well . . . I met her on the internet—we’d discuss men who harm women, and things escalated until she said she would kill Felix for me, to protect my sister.”

“Why would she do that? It’s rather extreme.”

I hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal about my own complicity, and then I said, “She wanted me to kill her boyfriend, Luke. It was supposed to be a bargain. Like the film Strangers on a Train.”

“My goodness!” Her tone was disbelieving and annoyed. “That’s quite something. And you think she was serious? People often fantasize about murder, you realize—that’s not a crime, it’s just human nature.”

“I know . . . I know that. Really. And at first I didn’t take her seriously . . . but now I think she’s kind of insane. She sent me proof that she was actually there, in Felix’s room. A gold cuff link in the shape of a four-leaf clover. I can’t see how she’d have it unless she’d been in Felix’s room at the hotel. And, something else—she said she took him a pain au raisin for his breakfast . . . and at the postmortem, they found raisins in his stomach.”

“They also found that he died from hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. . . .”

“That’s what I don’t understand. How come they didn’t find diamorphine?”

“Well . . . the fact is they didn’t do a toxicology report. It’s not routine in a straightforward case like this.”

“What?” I could scarcely believe it. “That’s terrible! And now he’s been cremated.”

“I think the point to focus on, Ms. Farrow, is that the case was straightforward—so there was no need for a toxicology report.”

“Surely it could be a coincidence—that he had a heart condition, but that he was actually killed by diamorphine?”

She folded her arms over a large, protective bosom, exasperated, and not concerned. “Well, that could happen,” she said. “But it’s unlikely. You seem to have got very caught up in your internet relationship with this Charlotte. . . .” Then, in a kindly, patronizing voice: “The internet is a beguiling thing, relationships can become all-involving in such a short time. Is it possible that you’ve allowed your thoughts to get out of control—to run away with you?”