Tread Softly, page 15
The relief on the housekeeper’s face showed she’d been prepared for a battle.
“The airport. He’s going to Madrid. He has meetings today and a television interview this evening. We’re all going to watch it.” She gave a proud smile. “He wants you to stay indoors till your mother gets home. I think a rest will do you good. Do you need anything?”
Luz shook her head, tempted to check the front door to see if the old bastard had locked it, but she stuck to her role and made her way quietly up the stairs. Halfway up she stopped.
“Carmina, which channel is the interview?”
“EITB. Eight-thirty.”
“Great, thanks. So he’ll be back very late this evening?”
“No, he’s not coming back until tomorrow. He has a room in the Hotel Ritz, you know, all paid for by the TV station. He’s a real VIP, your father!”
Luz smiled and continued upstairs. Father in Madrid, mother in Burgos. Looked like she had some time on her hands.
Her laptop was missing from the bedside table, where she’d left it last night. And the reason she couldn’t find her mobile phone? Because it wasn’t there. Luz called it twice from the phone in her room, before she realised it was probably ringing in the depths of Marisol’s handbag. Her mother had made it as difficult as possible to contact Tunçay. A clean break, she would say, you’ll soon forget all about him. Why hadn’t she memorised his number instead of relying on technology for everything? She clenched her fists in frustration and glared at herself in the mirror.
A clean break. Yes. She inhaled deeply. Tunçay wasn’t expecting her till Sunday. He might send her a text or two, but by this evening she’d be with him in person. The priority now was the break.
Clean, yet irreparable. She rummaged in her bag for her pencil case. Inside were two memory sticks, one partly filled with notes on EU Food Safety legislation for her second-year project. Notes she could afford to lose.
Back in the corridor, she checked the window. The only vehicles now on the forecourt belonged to the caterers, the event managers and a cleaning company. The household was busy restoring order after the party. If nothing had changed, the spare key to her father’s office would be in his bedside table. A creature of habit, he never expected an enemy within.
Her parents’ room was pristine. The bed had been made, the rugs vacuumed and the flowers changed. Just as if they lived in a hotel. Luz padded up to the Emperor-size bed and opened the cabinet on her father’s side. Several business books, an English-Spanish dictionary and a tube of haemorrhoid cream. In the drawer lay a notebook, various ballpoint pens, a box of tissues and a set of keys. She released her breath. The only obstacle now would be the password. He always used the same system, so all she needed to know was how to spell it.
At 11.22, Luz plugged her memory stick into the USB port and saved the Alava Export files, copies of relevant emails, Excel accounting sheets and personnel details of people who never appeared on the payroll. She printed everything out and also emailed them to herself as attachments. Then she flicked through her handbag until she found a card. She checked the email with great care and sent everything to that address. She wrote nothing in the body text. Even if she had no opportunity to explain, any half-decent brain could work it out. And this recipient’s brain was above average. Luz cleared the browser history, shut down the machine and rifled through the drawers for cash. She collected 270 Euro. Then she listened at the door for over two minutes. Satisfied, she locked the office, returned the keys, slipped back to her room and prepared to leave. She shook her head with a smile. KLAUDYNA. How could he be so stupid?
She emptied her room of everything valuable. The dress, the heels and the diamonds she took. Sentimental gifts from her mother and sisters she left behind. Unless she could sell it, it was of no use to her. The suitcase, stuffed with clothes, jewellery, watches, paintings and shoes, weighed three times as much as when she’d arrived. She heaved it down the stairs, stopping frequently to check no one was around, and dragged it through to the library, the least used room in the house. This place had been her sanctuary as a teenager. When she tired of her sisters’ incessant bickering or her father’s continual booming oratory, she would nestle into the wing-backed chairs and let the words fly her far away. And should she hear approaching feet, there was always the door into the old conservatory, where she could hide behind any number of potted plants or rattan sofas. The newer, larger ‘Wintergarden’ had taken prominence so that now, only she and the staff ever used this largely forgotten room.
It was approaching one o’clock. She had to get out before her mother returned. Luz watched the activity in the courtyard and chose her moment. A cleaner threw the last bags of rubbish into his two-seater pickup and wiped his hands on his overalls. Luz broke cover and approached, checking the name on his badge. Raoul.
“Hi, my name is Luz Aguirre. You’ve done a great job.”
His eyes widened and he spoke with a Mexican accent. “You’re welcome. I hope the little boy had a good party.”
“He loved every minute. Raoul, can I ask you where you’re going now?”
The guy’s eyes widened further. “Where I’m going? To the dump and back to the depot in Vitoria. Is there something else you want me to do before I go?”
“Yes, kind of. You see, I ordered a taxi, but it’s late. I need to get into the city fast. Could you take me? I’ll pay you, of course.”
His head retreated into his neck, like a tortoise. “In this van? Señora, it’s dirty and it stinks.”
Luz jumped into the passenger side of the cab. He wasn’t wrong. It was filthy and it stank of rotten oranges.
“Seventy Euro to take me to the city. See that door over there? Behind it is a big suitcase. Can you bring it over here and throw it in the back?”
“Señora ...”
“If you don’t argue and just do it, I’ll make that a hundred. Come on, Raoul, I’ll be sure to tell my father how kind you’ve been.”
Chapter 26
Just hearing the phone ring soothed Beatrice. She sat on the windowsill of her hotel bedroom, staring out at the streets of Vitoria, but visualised James’s office: cream and white upholstery, light wood and James himself, legs crossed, quietly exuding peace.
“James Curran?”
“Beatrice Stubbs, checking in.”
“Beatrice, hello, you’re punctual. Thank you for calling.”
“Thank you for finding the time. I realise we should have discussed ongoing treatment before I left. It just all happened in a bit of a rush. But I am taking my mood stabilisers and feel mostly OK.”
“Good. The medication is essential. Think of it as the scaffolding around your treatment. Whereas the building work within rests on the foundations of CBT. Are you still maintaining your journal? Or mood diary, if you prefer to call it that?”
“Not really. I mean, I’m keeping an eye on the swings, and just avoided a trough, but I’m not recording my emotional state on a daily basis. I’m not really in any sort of routine, you see.”
“I appreciate that. But when you do find yourself with a couple of minutes to spare, such as just before you go to sleep, that would be an ideal opportunity to make a note of your mental outlook. Now, two things you’ve said already raise questions in my mind, but first, can we return to the points I asked you to consider yesterday?”
“Yes. I have thought about them.” No matter how much effort she put into James’s exercises, Beatrice always felt as if she were back at college, busking a tutorial on a subject she had but skimmed. “You asked the aim of this sabbatical. It wasn’t my choice, to be truthful. Hamilton refused my resignation and this was his idea of a compromise. Three months away, then if I still wanted to resign, he would accept it. So in a nutshell, the aim is to find out if I really want to retire.”
“If you’re not sure if you want to retire, why did you resign?”
“Because I don’t feel up to the job. I have endangered other officers and civilians, either through omission or incompetence, so shouldn’t be in the position of Detective Inspector.”
James remained silent for several seconds, prompting Beatrice to second-guess him.
“So your next question will be ‘Why are you getting involved in another investigation when you don’t feel competent?’ Well, that wasn’t actually by choice either. A friend of a friend needed some help, so I sort of rolled up my sleeves and pitched in.”
“Interesting. So the situation in which you find yourself is not of your choosing. You are powerless, at the mercy of stronger wills. Forgive me if I find that image difficult to reconcile with the Beatrice Stubbs I know as my client.”
In the seconds that elapsed before Beatrice composed a reply, she recognised a pattern so familiar she almost bored herself. A flare of anger at James’s disrespectful tone. Infuriation at his lack of faith in her. A moment of considering a different therapist. Acknowledgement that he only ever treated her with less respect when she did likewise. Acceptance of a failed smokescreen. She was dissembling, refusing to face reality and James knew it.
“As for Matthew and Hamilton, the former joined me last night. He and Adrian have come to lend their wine expertise. And Hamilton would sack me if he knew. He’s already told me not to interfere.”
“Do I need to help you unpack the implications of this, or can we move on?”
“Let’s move on. Fourth question. What was it again?”
“No, I’d prefer you to elaborate on two phrases you used at the beginning of this call: ‘mostly OK’, and ‘avoided a trough’. Are they connected?”
“I suppose. I’ve spotted some features of rapid cycling – giddy bouts of elation, followed by over-sensitivity, an urge to recall maudlin memories, increased sexual attraction, and a tendency to extrapolate. You know, seeing one incident as reflective of what is rotten with the whole world.”
“So the avoidance of a trough took what form exactly?”
“Umm … calling you. Seeing Matthew. An awareness of other kinds of coping strategies. I feel much more grounded. Back on track sort of thing.”
“Beatrice, I apologise in advance for what I am about to ask. But I believe I would be negligent in not doing so. I would like you to take five minutes to think. I will stay on the line, but I don’t want you to speak until I tell you the five minutes are up. During those five minutes, you are going to think back to the months leading up to your attempted suicide. I want you to tell me the patterns you and I uncovered together, how one state of mind can give way to another and the impact those months had on you. Please be honest.”
Before he’d finished speaking, the domino-effect began. Her heart rate increased, self-pity provoked tears, fear invoked resentment and her mind flailed around for a means of escape. She switched the phone to speaker, placed it on the table and put her hands over her eyes, blocking out images of what came afterwards and focusing on what went before. The circles, the cycles. Bad days, bad weeks, followed by a determination to help herself. New starts, excessive optimism, inappropriate behaviour. Three steps forward, four back. And the gradual comprehension that it would never get better. She could never evade this black demon permanently. She would fight this battle for the rest of her life unless she withdrew from the fray. The clarity and the horror of that moment emptied her of all emotion and her practical side took over. Make it painless, with as little mess as possible, organise the paperwork and get it over with.
James’s voice came from the mobile. “That’s five minutes. Beatrice, I know that was a deeply unpleasant exercise and I am sorry for the pain I caused. When revisiting those months, what did you observe?”
Beatrice blew her nose and picked up the phone. “Patterns. I keep thinking I can fix it myself. I keep thinking I will get better and be able to manage on my own again. But I never really managed. Not always when I was hyper and definitely not when I was depressed.”
“Can we take that one step further? When you’re in a cycle, regardless of direction, how would you assess your decision-making capabilities?”
“You’re talking present tense, James.”
“And you’re talking past. Are these patterns obsolete or something we still need to address?”
Beatrice stared at the palm of her hand. Lines she’d been born with, scars she’d added.
“No, not obsolete. I recognise paranoia and a certain amount of displacement activity.”
“So we come to question four. Is your current choice of activity furthering the aim of your sabbatical, or are you seeking any opportunity to evade serious thought?”
“Why would I call you if I was trying to avoid thinking? Every single time we speak, I end up crying. I’m doing my best, but it bloody hurts, James. You bloody hurt. I know this is good for me and it is working, I suppose, but it’s not easy.”
“Beatrice, I think we can consider a milestone passed. Normally when you rail against the painful nature of therapy, you cite your age as a reason for sympathy. This time, you have taken responsibility. A story, if you have time. A child born with a malformed right foot. The big toe was missing and therefore so was his balance. Nevertheless, the child learnt to walk, even run, after a fashion. But he expended so much effort, compensating for that missing digit. Medicine advanced and surgeons were able to fit him with a prosthetic toe. Once he got used to it, he could do twice as much with half the energy. It didn’t take him long to adapt, as he was only nine. You have a few years on him, but I’d like to think of what you and I do together as an artificial, but not uncomfortable, improvement to your life. Perhaps we can re-imagine Cognitive Behavioural Therapy as Curran’s Big Toe.”
Still sniffing, Beatrice expelled an involuntary laugh. “Do you use that line on all your clients?”
“No, because none is so determined to repel my assistance as you. Now, could we look at some exercises for you to try and arrange a follow-up session as soon as convenient?”
James. Inextricably linked with tears and tissues. Maybe he was right. It was simply a question of balance.
Chapter 27
By the time Ana found a parking spot in the shadow of the Good Shepherd Cathedral, Beatrice was feeling guilty. Absorbed in dissecting her own behaviour, the usual reaction to a conversation with James, she’d made barely any conversation with Ana on the journey. But her companion seemed similarly introspective.
They made directly for the seafront and wandered the wide promenade. Both gazed at the spread of sand and sea as the bay curved away. To her left rose a hill, covered in greenery, and to her right another, featuring some impressive architecture. Natural sentinels protecting the harbour. On the beach, dogs hared after one another, chased balls, splashed in the surf and barked. At the base of the sea wall, two bare-chested men worked on a sand-sculpture, their shirts spread out to catch coins from above.
“What do you say to a snack and something to drink first?” Beatrice asked her transformed companion.
Ana’s hair was pulled into a tight bun and her face heavily made-up. She wore a dove-grey trouser suit with flat brogues. Her earrings were silver studs. She checked her watch, still radiating unease and tension.
“You’ve got plenty of time, so go ahead. I’ll give it a miss. I’m going to take the scenic route to the meeting, just in case.”
“You don’t still think we’re being followed? I thought you were convinced we were clear?”
“I am convinced. Those how-to-shake-a-tail tricks were very useful. Specially as I’m not even sure it was a tail. But you can’t be too careful. Now listen, I don’t think this guy’s likely to give me more than an hour of his time, so I might come and lurk in the background while you talk to the Lopez woman. I won’t join you, just be there to keep an eye.” She opened her briefcase and withdrew a pair of black-rimmed glasses. In a second, her soft, luminous beauty developed an incisive edge, a metallic precision which could both intimidate and impress.
“I didn’t know you wore specs,” commented Beatrice.
“I don’t. They’re just glass. I used them a fair bit when I was younger, in an attempt to make people take me seriously. I thought glasses and DMs gave me an attitude.”
“Did it work?”
“Sometimes.” She applied plum lipstick, using her phone screen to check her reflection. “But it turns out blokes do make passes at girls with glasses. That’s when the Doctor Martens came in handy. How do I look?”
“Somewhere between a columnist for the Financial Times and Belle du Jour. Either way, quite scary.”
Ana laughed, straightened up and scanned the street. People crossed back and forth to the beach; holidaymakers, old folk, workers taking a break from the office. Children’s laughter carried over the sound of the traffic. Beatrice felt a pull towards the water. Perhaps an ice-cream and a wander along the sand. She had ages yet.
Ana picked up the briefcase. “Right, I’m off. Wish me luck. And I’ll join you at Casa Mimo just after two. You’re sure you know where to go?”
“Lord, you do fuss. Yes. I wrote everything down. The directions, your instructions, the line of questioning we chose and even your recommendations as to what to eat. I’ll be fine. Good luck, be careful and don’t talk to strangers.”
Ana grinned and strode off in the direction of the river. Beatrice crossed the road and spent forty minutes just people-watching. Unfortunately, people-watching, no matter how joyful, tended to put her into a fug. An affliction she couldn’t shake, like being unable to appreciate a film because you can see through the flimsy sets. All these smiling faces, scampering paws, affectionate gestures and abandoned squeals of delight simply reminded Beatrice of how this moment was soon to be nothing more than a memory. One to be recalled, perhaps, beside a hospital bed, in a snowy graveyard or on a therapist’s couch. She got up and headed for the old town.
