In the final panel, Daniel is alone again, sitting on the edge of the balcony, with his feet dangling over the edge, a smile on his lips.
THIRTY-ONE
Irene sat perched on an uncomfortably hard chair in Theo Myerson’s living room. She could tell, before she sat down, that the chair was not going to be comfortable, but she sat in it anyway, because it was relatively high and she calculated that she’d be able to get out of it without help, which was important. She had no desire to be at Myerson’s mercy. With some difficulty, one hand gripping the chair and the other holding her handbag tightly to her lap, she managed to scoot the chair a few inches closer to the wood burner in the grate. It was fearfully cold; winter had returned, with some vengeance. On the radio that morning they’d talked about snow.
Myerson was in the kitchen, fetching her a sherry. She didn’t want one—she’d never been much of a drinker—but when he offered, after only grudgingly inviting her in in the first place, she’d thought it best to accept. He was drinking wine. Alone, in the middle of the afternoon.
While he was gone, Irene admired his bookshelves. Say what you like about Theo Myerson, he had beautiful bookshelves. Oak, Irene thought, and probably custom built, running from floor to ceiling on either side of the fireplace, with one of those nifty rolling ladders to allow you access to the very top shelves. From where she was sitting, she couldn’t read the names on the spines, which was frustrating. Irene liked few things more than a good nose through other people’s bookshelves, although now was clearly not the time.
“Carla should be along any minute,” Theo said when he came back into the room. He handed her a small crystal glass. “She’s coming for dinner.”
Irene accepted the drink with a nod. “I didn’t know where she lived,” she said, vaguely aware that she’d already explained that to him. “But I found your address, as I said, on an envelope in a book.”
Theo nodded. He sank down into an armchair quite some distance across the room. He took a large gulp of wine and glowered at her. “You need to speak to her urgently? Can you tell me what it’s about?”
“I think it’s best we wait for Carla,” Irene said. She sipped her sherry. Theo raised his eyes briefly to the heavens, before glowering at her once more. He was not a subtle man. They sat in silence for a few moments and then, cracking under the pressure, Irene said, “I just need to speak to her about something I found in Angela’s house.” She took another sip of the sherry. “A notebook I found, one of Daniel’s.” She took it from her handbag and held it up briefly before thinking better of it and slipping it back into the bag.
“And this is urgent, is it?” Myerson said, his voice flat.
“Well, I . . . You haven’t seen it before, have you, Mr. Myerson?” Theo shook his head, thankfully uninterested. He shifted in his seat, patently irritated; he seemed on the point of asking her to leave. Nervously, she took another sip. “It’s what you’d call a graphic novel, I suppose. There was one on the Booker list, wasn’t there, not so long ago? Very odd, I thought—I mean, how on earth do you compare a comic with a real book?” Theo raised his eyebrows. He glugged his wine. He was starting to make her very uncomfortable. “Well, no accounting for taste, I suppose.” She fell silent a moment. “I found this in one of your books,” she said, holding up the envelope with his address on it. “The crime one.”
In the long, tense silence that followed, Irene pondered the wisdom of bringing up the manuscript she’d read, the one that Laura had given her. But then, now was perhaps not the best time to accuse Myerson of plagiarism. She wouldn’t want to get distracted from the matter at hand. She once more raised her glass to her lips and was surprised to find that there was little more than a drop remaining.
“This notebook,” Theo said eventually, frowning at her, “you said you found it in Angela’s house. What were you doing in Angela’s house?”
“Well, you see, the thing is . . .”
Irene tailed off. She did not have a good answer to this question. The short answer was she’d been nosing around next door. The longer version was that when she’d heard on the radio that Laura had been charged with Daniel’s murder, she knew at once that she must speak to Carla, because she was certain that a mistake had been made. She didn’t have contact details for Carla, but she felt sure that there must be something in Angela’s house with a number or an address on it. Only when she got there, she was disappointed, because the house was completely empty. She walked from room to dingy room, noticing for the first time what a desperate state the place was in, the wallpaper bubbling and peeling off, the damp around the kitchen window, the frames in the bedrooms upstairs succumbing to rot. At the bottom of a wardrobe in the upstairs bedroom—pretty much the only remaining piece of furniture in the house—Irene discovered a pile of papers. Three or four letters, all addressed to Angela, and a notebook. Irene took them home with her. She didn’t find an address for Carla, but the notebook gave her something else. Not understanding—Irene wasn’t sure that was possible—but a glimpse of something else, a glimpse of the place where all this might have started, where the seed of destruction was first sown.