thirty-nine

Alarm chased up my spine, into the base of my head, and exploded out of my ears.

“Where were you on Friday night between the hours of nine and two in the morning?” Strong said.

“I already told you. I was dining at Otto’s.”

“Who with?”

“No one.”

“Do you normally eat alone?”

I looked to Slater, who’d asked the question. “Sometimes.”

Should I tell him about Otto’s invitation? If I said the wrong word, it could incriminate him. But why protect someone I didn’t entirely trust? I told them. As expected, they jumped on it, hell-fire in their eyes.

“He failed to join you?”

“I wouldn’t put it like that. He made his apologies because he was short-staffed.”

“But you didn’t actually see him?”

“I saw him before I dined. I spoke to him after service finished.”

“What time was that?”

“Goodness, I don’t know.”

“Make an educated guess.”

“Around nine, give a few minutes either side, before I ate.”

“And later?”

“Otto joined me for a glass of wine approaching eleven thirty, again, maybe ten minutes either way.”

Slater nodded. Strong gave no physical reaction, but I bet he salted that one away. They were thinking that Otto had time to kill. “I have no reason to believe he was anywhere other than working in the kitchen,” I added, scrupulously fair. “His staff will vouch for him, won’t they?”

Neither replied. I was probably exceeding boundaries. “You were about to tell us about Mr. Vellender’s relationship with Troy Martell,” Slater reminded me.

“That would be easy. They didn’t have one.”

“They were at odds?”

Believe it or not, he’s not high on my talk list, Martell told me. “I can’t comment.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know.”

“You believe they had little if no contact?”

“That’s my impression.” Hope flared inside me and guttered. During our late-night tryst, for want of a better description, Otto had homed straight in on Martell’s missing status. It was the first thing he said, as if he needed to explain his disappearance and brush it off in the same way he’d talked his way out of the delay in reporting his son’s disappearance with the regular-runaway story. Was I seeing patterns where there were none, or was the truth more chilling? Had Martell uncovered what happened to Nicholas Vellender and someone had shut him up for it? Was this the reason for his request to meet? Nervously, I wondered where that left me. A level-headed person would have confided this to the police. Having prior dealings with the cops on a trumped-up murder charge, I didn’t fall into that category. Chris’s death and the way I was treated afterwards guaranteed a lifelong aversion and distrust of those paid to protect. Thank God, Troy had resorted to pen and paper to send the note, although I found the prospect of the police talking to Karmel irrationally frightening.

And that posed a problem. I was irrational. It seemed odd to me that the public believe that psychologists are special and somehow immune from stress and strain. There’s a peculiar belief that we have life’s vicissitudes not only taped but also packed into neat and tidy parcels. Truth is, we’re as susceptible to stress and the fallout from death, murder, and bereavement as the next person; the only difference is we can identify it rather more speedily.

Slater asked me to provide contact details, which I did. Two chairs scraped back against the carpet as both stood up. “We’ll need to interview you again as part of our enquiry.”

“Oh,” I said.

They exchanged glances; some unspoken signal passed between them that put me on edge.

“I have to return to headquarters,” Slater said, “but I could pop in later.”

“At home?”

“Sure.”

With a heavy heart, I supplied him with the address.

“About seven?” he said.

I gave a silent nod of agreement and stood up and walked them to the door. “Can I ask you something?”

Strong inclined his head and looked me in the eye. Out of the two, I preferred him. He seemed more direct and honest, less authoritarian for authority’s sake.

“How did he die?”

“Stabbed in the back.”

I swallowed. A metaphor? “With a knife?” It sounded as dumb as it was.

“A kitchen blade,” Slater said, hawk-eyed. “Someone who knew what they were doing.”

I did my best to keep my expression neutral. “Where?”

“In a derelict pub off Swindon road. A homeless guy found him. Wasn’t pretty.”

“What was Troy doing there?”

Strong flicked a smile. “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”