Lydia drives hard, her car alternately roaring and screeching as she toils irritably through the heavy evening traffic. She curses the detective under her breath for making her endure this rush hour misery.
A blaze of light in her rear-view mirror makes her wince and shield her eyes. The car behind her is far too close. She glares at the silhouette of its driver, at this moment in time an anonymous personification of everything she hates about human beings.
Finally, she sees the neon sign of the diner ahead, its letter ‘i’ flickering in synchrony with the pulsing vein in her forehead. Not the kind of place that she would choose to eat, but she hadn’t known the city well enough to make an alternative recommendation. She entertains herself by passing judgement on her blind ignorance for his questionable taste, doubling down when she sees the sign on the door that reads, “Sorry, we’re OPEN.” She finds this sort of humour desperate. Pitiful. She is expecting the rusty jangle of a bell as she enters, but it still makes her wince.
It’s a sixties-style place, soda signs and chrome stools at the bar. Juke box in the corner playing ‘Pink Shoelaces’. Anaemic, coloured Christmas lights strung about the place, and a tacky tree in the corner next to the toilets labelled ‘guys’ and ‘dolls’. Lydia glances around at the few diners already here, but none of them is a man by himself. Faces turn as she passes tables, one in particular whose eyes linger long enough to earn him a filthy look from what Lydia assumes must be his girlfriend. They’re too young to be married. At least she hopes so, for both of their sakes.
She chooses a booth in the far corner which offers at least a little privacy, slips off her coat and settles into the soft, comfortable, red leather seat. The table is speckled grey, adorned with the usual salt, pepper, napkins, menus and packet sauces.
A waitress in a matte orange uniform approaches, fishing her order pad and pencil from her apron pocket. “Hey, Hun,” she says in a warm, homely tone that makes her impossible to dislike, even for Lydia. “What can I getcha?”
“I’m waiting for someone,” Lydia replies, feeling a pang of annoyance at the someone in question for being late.
“No problem,” says the waitress, lowering her pad. Lydia notes that it is tatty, with only a few pages left. This girl has probably worked here a long time. “Just give me a wave or a holler if you need anything.” She smiles and slides off to the next occupied table.
Lydia fishes in her bag for her phone to check her messages, but just then the rusty bell rings out again to herald the arrival of a man in a beige trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat, from under which scruffy sideburns match a bushy moustache. His eyes behind wiry glasses find Lydia right away and he smiles and tips his hat as he approaches her. But then, three tables away, he stops and turns, and seats himself with his back to her. Lydia slumps and exhales in frustration. She looks up at a large, black and white clock on the wall. It is ten past seven. Five more minutes, she decides, then she is gone.
As she begins to compose, in her head, the pointed message she intends to leave on Alex Gilbey’s answerphone, a shadow falls over Lydia. She looks up to find a man standing a few feet away, about her age give or take, short dark hair and brown eyes, sporting a brown rugged leather jacket, white shirt and loose necktie. A flicker of recognition sparks in Lydia’s brain and cascades across her face.
“Oh!” she says, blindsided.
“Hello, Miss Tune,” he says, smiling. “Detective Gilbey. It’s good to see you again.”
“Alex?” she replies after a second, still in shock. “Oh my God, I didn’t even…” She slides out of the booth to embrace him. She knows that he is expecting it with his hands open out ready. Best not to deny the male this sweet embrace she thinks, especially when he is the one she plans to squeeze for information for the rest of the night.
“I knew you hadn’t put two and two together,” says Alex, smiling even more broadly.
“How? And why didn’t you say something on the phone?” She is annoyed with him, but more with herself for appearing so caught off guard.
“We record every call, you know.” He slips into the booth opposite her. “I had Renee play it back for me.”
“Renee?”
“The woman you spoke to?”
“Oh,” says Lydia, “yes. She’s very charming.”
Alex laughs, and his whole face seems to light up. Lydia suddenly performs a rather girlish laugh. “Anyway, I could tell from that,” he says. “You sounded like you were talking about a total stranger.”
“Since when did you get so intuitive?”
“Since I decided to do it for a living,” he replied. “But hey, look who I’m talking to. The famous Lydia Tune.”
“I’m so sorry, Alex.” Lydia flushes with subtle embarrassment. “It’s been such a long time, and I was very tired when I called.”
“It’s okay,” says Alex, clearly enjoying her discomfort. “At least you recognise me now.”
“Just barely,” says Lydia, settling back into the booth as her new companion does likewise. “You look so different.” She takes in his strong, chiselled features, a far cry from the skinny, awkward boy she remembers. He has kind eyes, big and bright, but a ruthless edge to his voice. Whether that comes from within, or as a result of what he does, Lydia hasn’t decided yet. He knows criminals, so he won’t be easy to trick. But he’s playful, too. Boyish. Her favourite type of prey. Flattery, as she well knows, will often get you anywhere.
“Most people do after seventeen years,” Alex replies, looking straight into her eyes. “Not you though. You look just the same.” Lydia feels her neck tighten, the dryness in her mouth, the rush of blood in her chest. Was he trying to flatter her too?
“What are you doing here?” she asks quickly, part curious and part buying time to regain her composure.
“You invited me.” Alex grins, one eyebrow raised. “Did you forget already?” His eyes scan the table. “Have you been drinking before I got here?”
“No.” Lydia smacks him playfully on the arm. Men, she knows, always respond to touch. “I meant… you know what I meant! What are you doing in Decanten City?”
“Workin’,” Alex replies with a shrug.
“I’m sure we had police back home,” Lydia teases.
“Not many,” he replies, “and if you want promoting, you have to wait for them to retire or die. I had to move for the sake of my career.”
“Guess I know how that is,” says Lydia, meeting his gaze and deliberately, delicately tucking a loose strand of golden hair behind her ear.
“Can I get y’all something to drink?” The waitress has returned. She is very efficient, Lydia thinks. Probably spends most of her waking hours in this place. It would drive Lydia crazy.
“Just water for me,” says Lydia. “Sparkling.”
“JD and Coke,” says Alex. Lydia’s internal psychoanalyst gives a small, approving nod. The default move for a man in this situation would be to either order a simple beer or straight spirits. Alex liked what he liked, and didn’t care what she thought. Confidence, she is reminded, is a very sexy quality.
“Be right back,” says the waitress, already half turned and on her way before the last word is spoken.
“Well, this is a coincidence,” says Lydia, resting her clasped hands on the table. “What brings you to this neck of the woods?”
“Probably the same thing took you to New York,” Alex replies. “Just wanted to get out of that boring town and see some more of the world.”
“How do you know I live in New York?” asks Lydia, slightly more defensively than she intends.
“Are you kidding?” Alex’s eyes twinkle mischievously. “You’re Lydia Tune, the famous author. I’ve read about you in magazines. I’ve seen you on TV, for crying out loud!”
“Of course.” Lydia relaxes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… I just, I still can’t think of myself as famous, you know?”
“Oh sure.” Alex nods. “Yeah, I have the exact same problem.” He catches her eye, and they both laugh as the waitress appears again, setting their drinks on the table.
“Y’all ready to order?”
“Oh, sure,” says Lydia, snatching a menu and scanning it quickly.
“Ribeye, medium rare,” says Alex, “all the fixin’s.”
“Come here often?” Lydia raises an eyebrow. Alex shrugs playfully. “I’ll have the same,” she says, replacing the menu.
“A girl after my own heart.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“Of course.” Alex holds his hands up in apology. “I bet you have dozens of suitors, huh?”
“Suitors!” Lydia laughs. “I’m sorry, have we actually travelled back to the sixties?”
“Hey, I was raised to speak like a gentleman.”
“In Philly?” Lydia says, incredulously. “You were not.”
“I was so,” says Alex defensively, “and you’re avoiding the question.”
“Well,” says Lydia, coyly, stirring her drink, “I wouldn’t call them suitors so much as—”
“Stalkers?”
“You read about that too, huh?” Lydia is surprised, and a touch unnerved. She isn’t comfortable with her companions knowing more about her than she does them. She will have to fix that. “It’s true; I have a few… devoted fans, but nothing I can’t handle. Well,” she corrects herself, “nothing the NYPD can’t handle.”
“I’m sure,” says Alex. “Hey, speaking of crazy, you remember our old French teacher, Miss… um…”
“Hart.”
“Hart. Yeah.” Alex leans forward on the table, and Lydia catches the scent of his cologne. Flowers on a summer’s day. “God, what a bitch.”
“No kidding,” Lydia agrees, allowing herself to slip into a more relaxed state. “She absolutely hated me. Used to pick on me all the time.”
“Don’t take it personally. Hart hated everyone. You know she once made me sit by myself for a whole year?”
“Yes, well,” says Lydia, a glint in her eye, “that was probably for the best.”
“Hey!”
“You know only one person in our year passed that class?” says Lydia, seriously.
“Really? Who?”
“Marty Lawrence.”
“Marty…” Alex thinks for a moment. “Oh yeah, Marty. The little kid with the giant rucksack.”
“That thing was bigger than he was,” says Lydia. “He looked like… what’s his name?”
“Dick van Dyke in…”
“Mary Poppins,” they finish together, then collapse in fits of laughter.
“Gosh, it’s so strange how things come flooding back,” says Lydia. “The names, the faces…”
“The smells.”
“Don’t remind me,” Lydia warns him. “Geez, what a hellhole that was.”
Alex nods in agreement, and they both fill the brief lull in conversation by sipping their drinks.
“So are you still in touch with anyone else from school?” Lydia asks, momentarily.
Alex shakes his head. “I was glad to see the back of them, to be honest.” He catches her eye. “Except you, of course.”
“Of course.”
“So,” says Alex, his tone indicating a shift in the conversation, “I assume since you didn’t remember who I was, that you didn’t invite me here to chew over old times.”
“Right,” says Lydia, sitting up straight and slipping her phone onto the table to begin recording the conversation.
“Are we on the record?” asks Alex, eyeing it warily.
“Oh no,” Lydia reassures him, “this is just for my own recollection.”
“Okay… so?”
“Jason Devere,” Lydia begins. Alex slumps back in his seat, all traces of laughter gone from his face in an instant.
“I knew it,” he mutters.
“I’m doing some research for my new book, and I found—”
“What did you find?” Alex interrupts, irritably. Lydia looks wounded.
“I found out that it was you who captured him,” she finishes, coolly. In truth, she is more annoyed by his undermining her attempt to flatter him than the interruption itself.
“It wasn’t some kind of Agatha Christie thing, if that’s what you’re after.”
“I’m just trying to find out the truth, Alex,” Lydia says, as humbly as she can manage.
“The truth.” Alex leans back, one arm draped over the back of the booth, the other hand nursing his drink. “The truth is we hunted that evil bastard for months and never got close to catching him. I was feeling pressure from the bosses, and people were dying. I didn’t know what to do.”
“But you did catch him?” Lydia prompts, gently.
“We pulled some footage of a guy we thought might be him from the last crime scene,” says Alex. “Just half a face really, but I had everyone go through the look books and identify everyone who might fit the profile. Before we could even round them up, Devere turned himself in. Just walked into the station and confessed. Like the motherfucker had enough of playing and wanted to come home for dinner time.”
“That’s strange,” says Lydia, as much to herself as to Alex.
“Strange is kind of a common trait amongst serial killers,” says Alex, “but look who I’m telling.”
“I’m just a writer,” says Lydia, not entirely convincingly. “You’re the expert.”
“Yeah, well, don’t get me wrong, we woulda caught him eventually. But that was fucking annoying. In my ‘expert’ opinion.” Alex teases before continuing, “I think the creep turned himself in to shame us all, the force I mean. Didn’t want to give us the victory of bringing him in ourselves, in handcuffs, so he did it himself. Was frustrating as hell for all of us.”
“I can imagine,” says Lydia, wondering whether she will get more out of Alex by letting him rant, or if she should rein him in.
“You look around this city; the place is still plastered with missing posters. His victims, I’m sure of it. Not that the bastard will tell us where they are.”
“When was the last time you spoke to him?” Lydia asks.
“Months ago. I’d had enough. Never want to see his face again, if I’m honest.”
“Would you like me to try?” Lydia asks, cautiously.
“I’d like you to get in your car and drive back to New York,” says Alex.
“Without any dinner?” asks Lydia, that twinkle back in her eye. Alex laughs. He can’t help himself.
“Listen to me, Lydia,” he says, leaning across the table again, “you better not try this with him. You hear me?”
“Try what?” asks Lydia, innocently.
“This, the way you’re flirting with me. I don’t mind. I mean, I get it.”
“Alex…”
“But don’t play games with Devere. That’s what he enjoys. It’s what he lives for.”
“So I’ve heard,” says Lydia, quietly. Alex shoots her a curious look. “You know what might help?”
“What’s that?”
“If I could get a look at the crime scene reports…”
“No way.” Alex straightens up.
“Just a little peek.”
“No. Are you crazy? I could lose my job.”
“Oh, don’t overreact,” says Lydia defensively, frowning. “It was just a thought.”
“No, it wasn’t. It’s the whole reason we’re here tonight, isn’t it?”
“Of course not—”
“Be honest or I’ll leave.”
Lydia looks at the detective, his chin jutting slightly in a gesture of defiance she finds somewhat childish, and finds herself torn between pity, irritation, and a third emotion she can’t quite place. “Fine,” she says. “Yes, of course that’s the main reason I wanted to meet. But, remember, I didn’t know who I was meeting tonight did I? Just came here to know more about exactly what he did, and I’m sure plenty of it didn’t make the newspapers.”
“You have no idea.”
“Exactly.”
“So?” He shrugs. “That’s not my problem.”
“Maybe I could help you,” Lydia suggests, lightly.
“Help me with what?” There’s an edge to Alex’s voice now that’s grating on Lydia’s nerves. “Devere’s already locked up.”
“I don’t know.” Lydia shrugs. “To find those missing people, maybe.” She catches Alex’s eye. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, go on. What do you want to say?”
“Okay,” he prods his drink to one side and leans forward onto the table, “look, I’ve read your books and I know you think you’re, like, Miss Marple or whatever…”
“Miss Marple?!” Lydia laughs, but her eyes are hard and cold.
“Or whatever. But this is the real world, and police work isn’t a game.”
“I never said it was.”
“Lots of good people worked on that case – you think you’re smarter than all of them?”
“I didn’t say that, I just—”
“We don’t need your help.”
Lydia stares at him for a long moment. “Fine.”
“I’m sorry, that sounded harsher than I meant it to.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She sits back and looks over to a table on the far side of the diner, where a young couple are laughing together. Alex follows her gaze and opens his mouth to say something, but seems to decide that giving her a little space to cool off would be the wiser option and takes a drink instead.
“So,” he says finally, “what will you do next?”
Lydia shrugs. “I guess I’ll just go and talk to him tomorrow, and take it from there.”
“Okay,” says Alex, brusquely. “But you’re wasting your time.”
“What makes you so sure?” Lydia snaps.
“We tried a lot of things to get him to talk, Lydia,” says Alex. “I mean a lot of things. That place, Mortem, they ain’t squeamish. You know what I’m saying?”
“I think I do.”
“Don’t judge me. I know we have laws for a reason, but those people deserve to know what happened to their loved ones.”
“I would never judge you, Alex,” Lydia says with a soft sigh, giving him a beseeching look to keep him sweet. “That’s not what I do.”
Alex meets her gaze and seems to soften. He nods, and sighs, and sits back again. “So you met him already?”
“Just briefly.”
“What do you think?”
“I think…” Lydia considers the question. “I think nobody is born capable of doing what he’s done. I think the world made him that way, and I’d like to understand how.”
“Yeah?” Alex looks dubious. “That’s a real generous appraisal, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“I don’t mind,” says Lydia, “but why do you think so?”
“My mother told me if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then it’s a duck.”
“Hard to argue with that,” says Lydia, a smirk playing about the corners of her mouth.
“Yeah, laugh it up. But Jason Devere is a monster. And that’s the only thing you’re gonna find out if you go back there.”
“I guess we’ll see,” says Lydia. The two of them remain silent while the waitress arrives with their food.
“Y’all need a refill?”
“No thanks,” says Alex. Lydia shakes her head, smiling, and reaches for a large, crisp onion ring. She takes a bite and chews, thoughtfully, as Alex cuts into his steak.
“That mark from a wedding ring?” Lydia asks casually.
“Huh?” Alex follows her gaze down to his own finger. “Oh, yeah. Divorced. Over a year ago.”
“And you still have a mark?” Lydia raises an eyebrow.
“Sometimes I put it on when I’m talking to a suspect or a witness,” says Alex, defensively. “Helps them to trust me.”
“I see.”
“Didn’t you say something about not judging me?”
“I’m not,” Lydia protests. “I just thought, you know, you might have…”
“Taken it off to meet you?”
“Some men do.”
“Well I didn’t, okay? I use it to do my job. We all gotta use what we got, right?” He looks Lydia up and down with a feral aspect that reminds her a little of Jason. “You and your dress know all about that, I’m sure.”
“What happened to being raised like a gentleman?” Lydia asks, coolly.
“You’re right,” Alex holds his hands up, “I’m sorry.” He turns his attention back to his meal.
“So did you leave her, or…?”
“She left me. Got bored and ran off with a bartender, okay? And I hope they’re very happy together.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t.” He pauses, looking up at her with a twitch before continuing, “Listen, I’ll save you analysing anything else about me and just tell you that, she… Laura, Laura left me because she felt I got too wrapped up in my work and never made time for her. Which I guess, was true, got no one to blame but myself, I was a shitty husband, but no one can ever say I’m not committed to my job, which, funnily enough, has now taken up even more of my time now,” Alex states, taking a long swig of his drink. “Now, can we talk about something else?”
“Why did you become a detective?” asks Lydia, coolly.
“I liked the Saturday morning cartoons,” says Alex. “Like Batman, you know, where they figure stuff out and catch the bad guys? I wanted to do that.” Lydia nods, smiling broadly. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?” Alex demands.
“Like Batman?” asks Lydia, with a giggle.
“Sure, laugh it up,” says Alex, trying not to smile. “So, tell me, how did Lydia Tune become the world’s most famous mistress of the mind, as they say?”
“Well, where to start?” Her fingers rub together as she proceeds to talk. “I started out as a criminal psychologist, then after a few years of private research, writing, and receiving countless rejection emails I finally managed to get my first book deal with The Masks We Wear. The book blew up and well, the rest is history.”
“I like that, I like hearing the rejection part. You didn’t cheat the system. You earned your success.”
“Oh believe me, I’ve more than earned my success,” Lydia says rigidly.
“Hmm… so tell me some more about your books? The Masks We Wear was your first, right?”
“Yes, it was the first and the best received.”
“Oh really?”
“Really. I say that like the other two have received negative reviews, they haven’t. Influencing Hearts And Minds and Breaking Down Our Inner Walls were critical darlings, but that first one, I don’t know, people really seemed to love it. It is after all what put me on the map.”
Alex tilts his head. “And you feel like the others haven’t had the same degree of critical success?”
Lydia’s neck twinges as she ponders the question herself, then answers. “Not that, I just felt so… satisfied with that first one. My first victory?”
“Do you feel like you’ve never been able to make the lightning strike again since?”
“Again, not that, it’s just never been the same since The Masks We Wear. Maybe because it was all so new to me, the success, I’m not sure.”
“Yes, you are.” He bluntly chips in, meeting her withdrawn expression. “What was the first one about again?”
“The book was about three different people in society that I analysed. A successful CEO psychopath, a narcissistic housewife and an anxiety-stricken construction worker. Focusing on the social constructs, the personas they had managed to make for themselves in their varying social circles. Families, friends, work lives and such.”
“Very interesting.”
“Indeed, and it sold well because it was something everyone could get behind and relate to. Everyone could see a part of themselves in the book, how they act. And that scared them.”
“And as I’m sure you know, people like to be scared.”
“Umm-hmm.” She nods in response. “But more so, I think it was a comfort to most, because it highlighted just how numb some of us can be, numb to so many things, behind our masks.”
“In what way?”
“The walls, the shields and defences we put up to deal with pain, after a while they manifest into a way of coping that triggers the brain, trains it to stay in certain states of numbness under certain circumstances. When pressed, dealing with new emotions or scenarios and even, like I said, dealing with pain,” Lydia says, looking away.
“Doesn’t sound healthy.”
“Oh it’s not, but I suppose we all find our ways of numbing ourselves don’t we?” Lydia concludes, grinning as Alex raises his drink up to chug back more sweet sin. “And I happen to believe there are some things far worse to feel, than simply feeling nothing at all,” Lydia states, coldly.
With that, Alex gulped and pondered aloud to her. “Why did you become a writer?”
“Oh, the usual reasons,” Lydia replies airily now. “Travelling to glamorous locations,” she gestures around the diner, “meeting interesting people.” She waves her hand at Alex.
“You’re full of shit, Lydia Tune,” says Alex, but he’s laughing now too. “But what the hell, I’ll drink to that.” He raises his glass, and Lydia grins as she clinks it with her own.
What a delightful tool he will be, she thinks.