He sat on the sofa for some time, staring blankly at her body, and found himself wondering to what extent the man who had just killed Greta Thiemann –could it be Henry Lang? – had had control of his actions, and to what extent his actions had been the result of the irresistible, engulfing power of the mist. He was watching the scene and the man, as a neutral, uninvolved observer: an outsider trying to penetrate the secrets of someone else’s free will; trying to analyse the problem presented; trying to follow a chain of reasoning – but losing track before he could arrive at a solution.
Then he became aware, dimly, that he was losing each line of thought as soon as it came to him; he wondered whether there was something wrong with him. He tried to go back over it. Something was wrong, felt wrong. Was he tired? Did he need to sleep? Yes, he felt as though he could sleep forever, and for a moment that thought pleased him and he tried to give way to it. But there was another physical sensation, one that seemed familiar, not from recent experience, but from something he had heard at some time. But when, and where? He couldn’t quite place it, but forcing himself to concentrate with a massive effort as the shivers began to wrack his body, he remembered some words.
Dr Moynihan also noted a severe reduction in body temperature. All of those symptoms are consistent with a diagnosis of trauma-induced shock. I should add that Sergeant Miller had also observed the low body temperature, and his reaction in dealing with it using blankets and then calling for medical help was highly commendable.
That case he was trying. Henry Lang. The medical expert. What was his name? He couldn’t remember, but that wasn’t important. Blankets. Highly commendable. Just as his body began to shut down, he dragged himself desperately towards the bedroom, his legs feeling as though they were made of lead, every step like wading through mud. There were two thick blankets, one on the bed, one on a chair. He seized both and, struggling to make his hands cooperate with him, he wrapped them as tightly as he could around him. The warmth of the wool comforted him, and the walk back to the living room was slightly easier. His glass of whisky was still on the side table where he had left it. He picked up the bottle as he passed the fireplace on the way back to the sofa, and once he was seated, with shaking hands, he methodically poured and drank three glasses one after the other without pausing. The shock to his body felt massive. For several moments, his breathing almost gave way and he felt that his heart was about to explode. He sat still and waited, and gradually the feeling subsided, and some warmth began to return to his body.
By the time his body and mind had recovered sufficiently to work together, and he had realised that he was not a neutral, uninvolved observer, and that he – not Henry Lang – had killed his lover, Greta Thiemann, it was almost 5 o’clock in the morning. At about the same time, he remembered that he was a judge, and that within a few hours, he was expected at the Old Bailey to continue the murder trial over which he was presiding; and he realised that he had recovered his capacity for abstract thought sufficiently to appreciate the irony of his situation. His body was exhausted. He wasn’t sure he could even stand, but when he tried, it worked, and though his movements were slow and painful, he was able to walk the few steps to where her body lay. She was definitely dead, and her expression remained just as it had been when she had crashed to the floor. The bust of Mozart was lying beside her. He picked him up and replaced him on the coffee table.
Finally, approaching 6 o’clock, he felt strong enough to review his situation. Thoughts were coming to him thick and fast now: thoughts of having had almost £20,000 in his hands; thoughts of Greta being still alive. He fought to repress them. He had to concentrate on the matter in hand. He sat down and tried to force his brain to work.
Who knew that Greta was here? No one. He didn’t remember bumping into any other residents when they entered the building and made their way up to his flat in the lift. Any number of people had seen them together at the Clermont Club, of course. Albert would have seen them leave together by taxi. But Albert wouldn’t know where the taxi had taken them: probably wouldn’t know, unless Greta (or he?) had told the driver the address as Albert was holding the taxi door open for them. He didn’t know whether that had happened or not; he had no recollection of anything after losing the final hand until they were almost at the flat. What time had it been when they left the Club? At least 12.30 to 1 o’clock: had to be; so they must have arrived somewhere between 1 and 1.30. The taxi driver could identify the building, but he didn’t know the flat number, and he couldn’t possibly know where Greta might have gone later, after he had dropped them off. So no one really knew anything, not for certain, which was good. He could easily come up with a scenario that had her leaving his flat in the early hours after they’d had a drink. So, the main problem was that her body was still there, lying on his floor, and there was a lot of blood. By the time he had forced these thoughts into an orderly sequence, it was after 7 o’clock. He stood to look at the body again.
Looking more closely, he suddenly realised that she had collapsed on to a large rug, and that, although there was a lot of blood, it seemed to be confined to the rug, apart from a few splatters on a chair and the coffee table, and on Mozart, of course. He had no way of removing her body from the flat, and in any case, this wasn’t the time to try something like that, with the residents up and about, leaving for work, with cleaners and handymen arriving to service the building. But if he could keep her on the rug, he could put the body somewhere out of the way for now, until he could think of what to do with her; and if he wiped away the blood spatters, there would be nothing to show that anything had happened. In any case, he had no intention of letting anyone into the flat, and as long as he let no one come in, he should be able to control the situation long enough to find a way out. Because now, of course, that was the only realistic goal. He had to find a way out. Not even Aubrey could argue with that now.
Just to the left of the front door there was a storage space where he kept his vacuum cleaner, his brooms, brushes and cleaning materials, two suitcases, and other odds and ends. He carefully lifted the coffee table and a chair off the rug to free it, and pulled it tentatively to see whether the body would remain in place when it was moved. To his relief, it did, although its weight was almost more than his exhausted frame could cope with. He opened the door of the storage space, pushed the cleaning materials and suitcases tightly against the walls, out of the way, and made sure there were no obstacles in his path. With luck, there should be just enough room if he could arrange the body diagonally. Bending his knees slightly to ease the pain in his back, he began to pull the rug, inch by inch, towards the door. When he was about halfway there, the phone rang.
He dropped the rug as his stomach tied itself in knots. It was 7.30. Surely no one had missed Greta yet? It wasn’t possible. But if somehow…? What could he say? What was his story? They had come back to the flat together from the Clermont Club; no point in trying to deny that. They had had a drink, then she had left. Why had she left? Why wouldn’t she stay? They had quarrelled; no, not that. She had said she had something to do early in the morning; but if so, why had she come all the way to the Barbican for a drink? The phone continued to ring. He had to answer. It would look suspicious if he didn’t. If he wasn’t at home at this time of the morning, someone might draw all kinds of conclusions. He dropped the end of the rug and walked to the telephone. He picked up the receiver.
‘Conrad?’ she asked.
He had to test his voice to see if it still worked.
‘Yes… good morning, Deborah.’
There was a short silence.
‘It took you long enough to answer the phone. Are you all right? You sound a bit strange. Are you getting a cold?’
‘No, no. I’m fine. I was in the bathroom. I had to rush out when the phone rang. I’m a bit out of breath, that’s all.’
‘I don’t want to keep you. I know you have to get ready for work,’ she said. ‘But I’ve got the builder coming round this morning to show me the plans for the new conservatory.’
‘Oh, yes… is that today? I’d…’
‘You don’t remember, do you? Of course you don’t. You never do. At times, it’s as though we’re living in different worlds.’
‘I’m sorry, Deborah, I’ve got this case, this trial…’
‘You’ve always got a case, Conrad. Anyway, look, I didn’t call just to argue with you. The point is, if I like the plans and we agree to go ahead, I’m going to have to give the man a deposit. I don’t know whether I can do that out of the bank account, or whether you want me to withdraw a couple of thousand from the trust fund.’
His brain froze.
‘Conrad?’
‘Yes, yes… no, don’t bother with the trust fund. Give him a cheque. Yes, that’s the best thing. There’s no need to go to the fund. Give him a cheque and I’ll make sure we can cover it.’
‘All right, if you’re sure.’
‘Yes, that’s fine. Call me later, after court, and tell me if you like the plans.’
‘I’ll call this evening. I have a meeting with Pastor Brogan this afternoon to talk about the outreach programme.’
‘Call me when you can,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back from court by 6 o’clock at the latest.’
He replaced the receiver and walked back to the rug.