Free The Red Room by Nicci French Page B

in
there," he said. "In my opinion. We've
built a case. We've got a confession. If
we've stretched the rules a little, I'd have thought
you would approve of that, Kit, of all people.
We're on the side of the women--the one who has
been killed and the others who will be."
"I think you've misunderstood me," I said,
hearing my voice tremble. Was it nervousness or
anger? "I'm not saying that Michael Doll cannot
have killed this woman, but you've got no case.
I'm here as someone who works with the emotionally troubled
and the criminally insane, not a lawyer, but I would
guess that that tape would be entirely inadmissible
in any trial. More than that, I reckon that if
any judge heard it, he would throw the whole
case out for the most blatant entrapment." I
looked at him, his handsome face. "If I were you,
I would bury that tape in a very deep hole and
pray that Doll's lawyer never ever hears about it.
In any case, I want no more to do with the case."
"That's the first sensible thing you've said."
That did it.
"This whole thing," I said, almost gasping for
breath, "is a fucking grotesque obscenity.
And you"--this was to Jasmine Drake--"y should know
better. And I don't just mean as a
policewoman. As a bloody woman. And that
goes for you too." I turned to DCI Oban,
who was sitting apart, with a blank expression on his
large, soft, slightly florid face. I
looked furiously at the report lying on the
table, the report that was expressed in such calm and
scientific language.
Oban didn't reply to me. He stood up
and as he opened the door he looked at Furth
with a gloomy expression that reminded me of a very
old, wrinkled bloodhound. "Let him go," he
said, in a voice that was soft and almost casual.
"Who?"
"Mickey Doll. Anything else?"
Nobody spoke. Now he looked at me.
"Send us your invoice, Doctor, or whatever it
is you normally do. Thank you." But he didn't
sound very grateful. I had spoiled his day. Then
he left. Jasmine Drake followed, with a
narrow-eyed glance at me before she disappeared into the
corridor outside.
I was alone with Furth, who was sitting in
silence, staring at the wall. I got up 107
to go. The sound of my chair scraping on the floor
woke him from his reverie. He seemed surprised
that I was still there. He spoke as if he were in a
dream. "It'll be your fault," he said, "when
he does it again. He did it to you, he did it
to that girl, and outside, walking around, is someone
-comprobably, shall we say probably?--that
he'll do it to next."
"Goodbye, Furth," I said, leaving. "I'm,
um, you know ..."
"Keep an eye on the newspapers," he
called after me, having to shout to be heard. "This
week, next week--it'll be there."
    8
    As I reached the street I was trembling with
suppressed emotion. I wanted to do something
extreme and violent, like throwing a large object
through a shop window or leaving the country, assuming
a new identity and never coming back to Britain as
long as I lived. I would settle for going
home, locking the door and not emerging for a week.
When I got back to my car, the BMW was
gone. Doubtless I would soon be hearing from an
insurance company. "We have been notified by our
client ..." A scrape along two panels.
How much would that cost?
My flat had a wonderful clattery
emptiness about it. Julie wasn't home. This was
a precious opportunity. I ran a bath,
poured some exotically and absurdly named salts
into the water, grabbed a newspaper and a magazine
and slid into the water like a walrus. I quickly
tossed aside the newspaper and read the
magazine: I read about the five best
country-house weekend getaways for under a
hundred pounds, I learned seven ways to shock
your man in bed and I answered a questionnaire
entitled "Are You a Homebody or a Party
Animal?" It turned out that I was a party
animal. Why did I so rarely go to parties?
Finally I tossed aside the magazine as
well and slowly slid down the bath until only
my