FROM THEN ON THINGS MOVED FAST.
Police officers swarmed all over the Grove, asking questions, taking photographs, sealing off Alicia’s studio and her room. The investigation was led by Chief Inspector Steven Allen, heavyset, bald, with large reading glasses that distorted his eyes, magnifying them, making them seem bigger than life, bulging with interest and curiosity.
Allen listened with careful interest to my story; I told him everything I had said to Diomedes, and I showed him my supervision notes.
“Thank you very much indeed, Mr. Faber.”
“Call me Theo.”
“I’d like you to make an official statement, please. And I’ll be talking to you more in due course.”
“Yes, certainly.”
Inspector Allen had commandeered Diomedes’s office. He showed me out. After I made my statement to a junior officer, I hung around in the corridor, waiting. Soon enough, Christian was led to the door by a police officer. He looked uneasy, scared—and guilty. I felt satisfied he would soon be charged.
There was nothing else to do now, except wait. On my way out of the Grove, I passed the goldfish bowl. I glanced inside—and what I saw stopped me in my tracks.
Elif was being slipped some drugs by Yuri, and he was pocketing some cash.
Elif charged out and fixed me with her one eye. A look of contempt and hatred.
“Elif,” I said.
“Fuck off.” She marched off, disappearing around the corner.
Yuri emerged from the goldfish bowl. As soon as he saw me, his jaw dropped. He stuttered with surprise. “I—I didn’t see you there.”
“Obviously not.”
“Elif—forgot her medication. I was just giving it to her.”
“I see.”
So Yuri was dealing and supplying Elif. I wondered what else he was up to—perhaps I had been a little too hasty to defend him so determinedly to Stephanie. I’d better keep an eye on him.
“I wanted to ask you,” he said, leading me away from the goldfish bowl. “What should we do about Mr. Martin?”
“What do you mean?” I looked at him, surprised. “You mean Jean-Felix Martin? What about him?”
“Well, he’s been here for hours. He came this morning to visit Alicia. And he’s been waiting since then.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me? You mean he’s been here all this time?”
“Sorry, it slipped my mind with everything that happened. He’s in the waiting room.”
“I see. Well, I’d better go and talk to him.”
I hurried downstairs to reception, thinking about what I’d just heard. What was Jean-Felix doing here? I wondered what he wanted; what it meant.
I went into the waiting room and looked around.
But no one was there.
I LEFT THE GROVE and lit a cigarette. I heard a man’s voice calling my name. I looked up, expecting it to be Jean-Felix. But it wasn’t him.
It was Max Berenson. He was getting out of a car and charging toward me.
“What the fuck?” he shouted. “What happened?” Max’s face was bright red, contorted with anger. “They just called and told me about Alicia. What happened to her?”
I took a step backward. “I think you need to calm down, Mr. Berenson.”
“Calm down? My sister-in-law is lying in there in a fucking coma because of your negligence—”
Max’s hand was clenched in a fist. He raised it. I thought he was going to throw a punch at me.
But he was interrupted by Tanya. She hurried over, looking just as angry as he was—but angry with Max, not me. “Stop it, Max! For Christ’s sake. Aren’t things bad enough? It’s not Theo’s fault!”
Max ignored her and turned back to me. His eyes were wild.
“Alicia was in your care,” he shouted. “How did you let it happen? How?”
Max’s eyes filled with angry tears. He was making no attempt to disguise his emotions. He stood there crying. I glanced at Tanya; she obviously knew about his feelings for Alicia. Tanya looked dismayed and drained. Without another word, she turned and went back to their car.
I wanted to get away from Max as fast as possible. I kept walking.
He kept shouting abuse. I thought he was going to follow, but he didn’t—he was rooted to the spot, a broken man, calling after me, yelling piteously:
“I hold you responsible. My poor Alicia, my girl … my poor Alicia … You’ll pay for this! You hear me?”
Max kept on shouting, but I ignored him. Soon his voice faded into silence. I was alone.
I kept walking.
I WALKED BACK TO THE HOUSE where Kathy’s lover lived. I stood there for an hour, watching. Eventually the door opened, and he emerged. I watched him leave. Where was he going? To meet Kathy? I hesitated, but decided not to follow him. Instead I stayed watching the house.
I watched his wife through the windows. As I watched, I felt increasingly sure I had to do something to help her. She was me, and I was her: we were two innocent victims, deceived and betrayed. She believed this man loved her—but he didn’t.
Perhaps I was wrong, assuming she knew nothing about the affair? Perhaps she did know. Perhaps they enjoyed a sexually open relationship and she was equally promiscuous? But somehow I didn’t think so. She looked innocent, as I had once looked. It was my duty to enlighten her. I could reveal the truth about the man she was living with, whose bed she shared. I had no choice. I had to help her.
Over the next few days, I kept returning. One day, she left the house and went for a walk. I followed her, keeping my distance. I was worried she saw me at one point, but even if she did, I was just a stranger to her. For the moment.
I went away and made a couple of purchases. I came back again. I stood across the road, watching the house. I saw her again, standing by the window.
I didn’t have a plan, as such, just a vague, unformed idea of what I needed to accomplish. Rather like an inexperienced artist, I knew the result I wanted—without knowing quite how to achieve it. I waited awhile, then walked up to the house. I tried the gate—it was unlocked. It swung open and I stepped into the garden. I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. An illicit thrill at being an intruder on someone else’s property.
Then I saw the back door opening. I looked for somewhere to hide. I noticed the little summerhouse across the grass. I raced silently across the lawn and slipped inside. I stood there for a second, catching my breath. My heart was pounding. Had she seen me? I heard her footsteps approaching. Too late to back out now. I reached into my back pocket and took out the black balaclava I’d bought. I pulled it over my head. I put on a pair of gloves.
She walked in. She was on the phone: “Okay, darling. I’ll see you at eight. Yes … I love you too.”
She ended the call and switched on an electric fan. She stood in front of the fan, her hair blowing in the breeze. She picked up a paintbrush and approached a canvas on an easel. She stood with her back to me. Then she caught sight of my reflection in the window. I think she saw my knife first. She stiffened and slowly turned around. Her eyes were wide with fear. We stared at each other in silence.
This was the first time I came face-to-face with Alicia Berenson.
The rest, as they say, is history.