Before logging off, I did a quick check to see if there had been any updates on the story of the explosion. There was nothing new, not since yesterday, which made me think that at least Henry hadn’t died. That would surely make the news.
After leaving the library I walked to a busy Irish pub in Davis Square and got a table to myself. I ordered a Guinness plus the veggie burger and scrolled through my phone so I would look like everyone else who was alone in the place. A young guy wearing a flannel shirt and black jeans sitting at the bar caught my eye and I gave him my flattest, coldest look, hoping he’d stay away. For the last two years, since I’d been living at Monk’s House, I’d forgotten what it was like to be out in the world. Now that I was back in it, all I saw around me were flawed animals who didn’t really know they were animals. Sad, horny men. Drunk, flirty women. That sounds judgmental, but I don’t mean it to be. It’s who I am too, an animal just trying to survive, trying to understand my impulses. And maybe being here, away from the simplicity of my real life, was a huge mistake.
I could go back to Henry’s apartment, sleep until dawn, then drive back to Connecticut. My parents would be surprised by my new appearance but that wouldn’t last long. I could go back to sorting through my father’s materials, to taking long walks in the surrounding woods, to rereading my Agatha Christie collection at night.
The burger came and was better than it should have been. When I’d finished it, and paid my bill, I stood up to go. The burly guy at the bar stared at me a little more as I left through the swinging doors.
I’d decided to not go home just yet. I wanted to meet Joan Grieve first.
Chapter 32
Joan
“It’s good that you’re here,” Detective James said. “I was planning on reaching out to you anyway.”
“Oh, yeah?” Joan said. They were sitting on either side of a hard couch in the waiting area of the hospital. Even with Joan sitting up as straight as she could, the detective was looking down at her, the expression on her face unreadable.
“First of all, I’m sorry for your loss, and for the circumstances around it. That must have been quite a shock.”
“It was.”
“How are you doing now?”
“I mean, I’m still in shock, I think. I’m grieving, but I’m also trying to come to grips with what Richard, with what my husband, did. It’s like I didn’t even know him.”
“I can imagine,” the detective said, and crossed one leg over the other, like they were settling in for a long chat.
“I was so shocked when I heard about what happened to Henry Kimball,” Joan said. “He’d been . . . he was always kind to me, and I already felt bad about what he had to see . . . to discover . . . when he was investigating my husband. I know it doesn’t make sense for me to come here to check on him, but I can’t stand being alone in my house, and then I was so worried, so here I am.” Joan held both palms of her hands up in a gesture that immediately felt unnatural to her. Why had she just said all those things to this woman? She made a decision to stop babbling and just answer questions.
“Totally understandable,” the detective said. “So I take it from what you’re telling me that you don’t think there’s any connection between Henry Kimball’s involvement in the case of your husband and the attack on him in his office?”
Joan shook her head. “No. I mean, that’s not why I’m here.”
“Right.”
“Is there a connection?”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d be able to tell me.” The detective smiled, her lips moving fractionally.
Joan pretended to think for a moment. “You mean, besides the fact that Richard Seddon went to the same high school I went to?”
“Well, let’s start there. If that’s a coincidence, then it’s quite a coincidence. Did you know Richard Seddon?”
“No, I didn’t. I didn’t even recognize his name, but then I read the article that said he’d gone to Dartford-Middleham and I remembered him.”
“You grew up in Middleham?”
“I did.”
“And so did Richard Seddon?”
“I guess so, yes. I mean, he went to the high school, so—”
“I’m sorry,” the detective said, “I’m not making myself entirely clear. It’s a regional high school, right? It includes all the kids from Dartford, which is a fairly large town, and from Middleham, which is a lot smaller, right? And you and Richard were both from Middleham, so you would have gone through elementary and middle school together, as well, right?”
“We did. I do remember him, but honestly, I hadn’t thought of him for years. We didn’t know each other at all. I mean, it’s possible we’ve never actually spoken.”
“What do you remember about him?”
“Hardly anything. He was super quiet and kind of nerdy. I mean, I do remember that he was friends with James Pursall. I think they were gaming friends, or something like that.”
Detective James was nodding along. “Yes, they were friends.”
“Do you think that’s why he was targeting Mr. Kimball?”
The detective pushed her bottom lip, and said, “We don’t really know. That’s why I wanted to talk with you.”
“I wish I knew more.”
The detective nodded again but didn’t immediately say anything. Joan said, “So how is he? How’s Mr. Kimball?”
“He was your teacher, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m asking because you call him Mr. Kimball.”
“Oh, yes. Old habits, I guess.”
“I get it. And last I heard he’s out of immediate danger, but he’s still unresponsive. He had a subdural hemorrhage that they seem to have dealt with, and he has a lot of abrasions, but strangely enough, no broken bones. We’re all just waiting for him to open his eyes and tell us what happened.”
“You think he’ll be able to do that?”
“Well, hopefully, he can at least fill us in on his connection with Richard Seddon. Oh, that was what I was going to ask you: Your husband went to Dartford-Middleham too, right?”
“He did. I didn’t particularly know him, then, though. He was the class above me, and he grew up in Dartford.”
“Uh-huh. And did your husband know Richard Seddon?”
“I don’t think so. I mean, if he did, he never told me about it.”
“What about James Pursall?”
“No, I don’t think so. I mean, we all know James Pursall, I guess you’d say, or know of him, because of what he did. But I’m pretty sure that Richie didn’t actually ever talk to him, or anything.”
“Richie was what you called your husband?”
“Richie was what my husband was called in high school. I guess sometimes I still think of him that way, even though he hated it, and wanted to be called Richard now.”
Joan heard the detective’s cell phone buzz and saw her light gray jacket pocket light up briefly, but she didn’t check it. “So I think I know the answer already, but I just want to make sure. Your husband never took a class with Henry Kimball, when he’d been a teacher at Dartford, right?”