Sister полностью

“No,” he interrupted. “You’re crying several wolves all at once, not sure if any of them are actually wolves at all.” He almost chortled at his own witticism. “But the coroner has reached a verdict about your sister’s death based on the facts. However unpalatable the truth is for you—and I do understand that it is hard for you—the truth is she committed suicide and no one else is responsible for her death.”

I don’t suppose the police service recruits people like DI Haines anymore: superior, patriarchal, patronizing toward other people and unquestioning of himself.

I struggled to sound self-possessed, not to be the irrational woman he thought me. “But surely with the lullabies you can see that someone was trying to—”

He interrupted. “We already knew about the lullaby, Miss Hemming.”

I was completely thrown. DI Haines continued, “When your sister went missing, her upstairs neighbor, an elderly gentleman, let us into her flat. One of my officers checked to see if there was anything that might help us find her whereabouts. He listened to all the messages on her answering machine tape. We didn’t think the lullaby was sinister in any way.”

“But there must have been more than one lullaby, even though only one was recorded. That’s why she was scared of the phone calls. That’s why she unplugged the phone. And Amias said there were calls, plural.”

“He is an elderly gentleman who readily admits that his memory is no longer perfect.”

I was still trying to seem composed. “But didn’t you find even one strange?”

“No more strange than having a wardrobe in the sitting room or having expensive oil paints but no kettle.”

“Is that why you didn’t tell me before? Because you didn’t think the lullaby was sinister or even strange?”

“Exactly.”

I turned the phone on to speaker and put it down, so he wouldn’t realize that my hands were shaking.

“But surely together with the PCP found in her body, the lullabies show that someone was mentally torturing her?”

His booming voice on speakerphone filled the flat. “Don’t you think it far more likely that it was a friend who didn’t realize that she’d already had the baby and was unintentionally tactless?”

“Did Dr. Nichols tell you that?”

“He didn’t need to. It’s the logical conclusion. Especially as the baby wasn’t due for another three weeks.”

I couldn’t stop the shake in my voice.

“So why did you phone me? If you already knew about the lullabies but had dismissed them?”

“You phoned us, Miss Hemming. As a courtesy I am returning your call.”

“The light is better in her bedroom. That’s why she moved the wardrobe out, so she could use the bedroom as a studio.”

But he had already hung up.

Since living there, I understand.

“And a week after you heard the lullaby it was the college’s art show?” asks Mr. Wright.

“Yes. Tess’s friends had invited me. Simon and Emilio were bound to be there, so I knew I had to go.”

And I think it’s appropriate that it was at the college’s art show—with your wonderful paintings on display, your spirit and love of life visible to everyone—that I finally found the avenue that would lead me to your murderer.

18

The morning of the art show your friend Benjamin came round looking businesslike, his Rasta hair tied back, with a young man I didn’t recognize and a beaten-up white van to take your paintings to the college. He said it wasn’t the end-of-year one, which was a big formal affair, but it was important. Potential buyers could come and everyone had family attending. They were solicitous toward me, as if I were fragile and could be broken by loud noise or laughter.

As they left your flat with the pictures, I saw that both of them were near tears. Something had prompted it, but it was a part of your life I didn’t know; maybe they were simply remembering the last time they were at the flat and the contrast—me here and not you—was painful.

I had packed up your paintings myself, but when I walked into the exhibition, I think I literally gasped. I hadn’t seen them on a wall before, just stacked on the floor, and put together they were an explosion of living color, their painted vibrancy arresting. Friends of yours whom I’d met at the café came to talk to me, one after another, as if they had a rota of looking after me.

I couldn’t see any sign of Simon, but through the crowded room, I saw Emilio on the far side of the exhibition hall. Near to him was the Pretty Witch and by her expression I knew something was wrong. As I went toward him, I saw he had the nude paintings of you on display.

I went up to him, livid, but I kept my voice quiet, not wanting anyone to hear, not wanting him to have an audience.

“Does your affair with her carry no penalties for you now she’s dead?” I asked.

He gestured to the nudes, looking as if he was enjoying this spat with me. “They don’t mean we had an affair.”

I must have looked incredulous.

“You think artists always sleep with their models, Beatrice?”