The Therapist by B.A. Paris

Sixteen

I’ve startled him as much as he’s startled me. His arm, which he’d raised to ring the doorbell, drops quickly to his side. He takes a step back, as if he’s expecting me to verbally attack him.

‘Ms Dawson, I’m sorry.’ He raises his hands in a backing-off gesture. ‘I’ll leave, it’s fine.’

‘Wait a minute.’ He stops, his body half-twisted towards the drive. ‘You said you were investigating Nina Maxwell’s murder.’

He turns back to face me. ‘That’s right.’

‘Why now, more than a year after she died?’

‘I’ve been investigating it since her husband committed suicide. But I had to put it to one side because I couldn’t get the information I wanted. I’m a private investigator, so persona non grata as far as the police are concerned.’

‘What information do you want?’

He finds my eyes, holds my gaze. He had done exactly the same thing last time, I remember. I want to look away but I can’t. There’s something mesmerising about them.

‘I’m afraid I’m not prepared to discuss anything on the doorstep.’

It’s now or never. If I don’t invite him in, he won’t come back. I open the door wider.

‘Thank you.’ He steps into the hallway. ‘I really appreciate you agreeing to let me talk to you.’ I take him through to the sitting room, wondering what I’m doing letting a stranger into my house. He might be dressed smartly – a casual, lightweight suit and open-necked pale blue shirt – but he could still be a murderer. He could be Nina’s murderer. I take my phone from my pocket, hold it in my hand. I offer him a chair but I stay standing by the door. If I need to make a quick exit, I can.

‘I’d like to apologise again for the shock you must have got last week when I told you about the murder,’ Thomas Grainger says. ‘I had no idea you didn’t know.’

‘I realise that.’

‘I hope it didn’t cause any trouble.’

‘None at all.’ I’m not about to tell him that Leo kept it from me and that we’re barely speaking. ‘My husband and I are deciding what to do.’ He doesn’t need to know that we’re not married either. ‘We’re not sure how we feel about living here now.’

‘I can understand that.’

‘I think you should start at the beginning. How did you know we were having drinks here?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.’

‘Why not?’ He looks steadily back at me. ‘Are you in touch with someone from here?’

‘No, absolutely not.’ He waits for me to move on and when I don’t, he nods. ‘Let’s just say that I found out through the invitation you posted.’

It takes me a while. ‘You’ve hacked the WhatsApp group?’ He doesn’t confirm or deny it and I’m not even sure a WhatsApp group can be hacked. I don’t press him any further because he wouldn’t tell me anyway. ‘So why did you decide to crash it?’ I say instead.

‘It was unethical of me, I know. But I’ve been trying to gain access to the house for over a year now. I posed as a potential buyer once but the estate agent stayed with me the whole time, so I was unable to do what I’d hoped to do, which was take a look at the room where the murder took place. Without a general idea of the layout of the place where a victim died, it’s hard to offer an alternative version as to what might have happened that night.’ He gives a slight smile. ‘The fact that I was shadowed during my visit only strengthened my belief that my client’s brother wasn’t responsible for Nina Maxwell’s murder. I’m convinced the agency had instructions from the police to keep a close eye on anyone who showed an interest in the house.’

My curiosity aroused, I move to the chair nearest the door and perch on it. ‘Why would they do that?’

‘Perhaps they were hoping the real killer would return to the crime scene and somehow give himself away.’

‘But the police believe that the killer is dead, don’t they? That it’s a closed case.’

‘Not according to my source.’ He sees my frown. ‘Yes, it’s true, every private investigator has a source somewhere in the police, just as a journalist does. Often the same one. And my source tells me that the investigation is still ongoing.’ He pauses. ‘Can I ask if your experience was the same when you visited the house?’

‘My husband visited it without me. I only saw it after he bought it.’ He tries to hide his surprise but he’s not quick enough. ‘So, our drinks evening?’

‘I thought I’d be able to pass unnoticed.’ He gives a slight smile. ‘It didn’t occur to me that you had only invited people from here. Once I realised, I left.’

‘Well, my next-door neighbour, the lady who let you in, is elderly and she’s been badly affected by all this. She was very upset when she learned that you weren’t a friend of mine.’

‘I’m sorry. Again, I’d imagined a big party and thought I’d be able to slip in through the gate behind someone.’

‘How did you get in? Just now? You didn’t disturb my neighbour again, did you?’

He shakes his head. ‘I intended to ring your intercom in the hope that you would agree to listen to what I had to say. But there was someone in front of me and he let me in. I wanted to tell him that he should be more careful but I suppose that if he’d been playing by the rules, he would have had to slam the gate in my face, and most people aren’t like that, they’re too polite. Last time I came to see you I walked in through the main gate after a car.’ Another pause. ‘I don’t know if you or your husband are on a residents’ committee or anything but perhaps you should mention it, and maybe change the code. I was able to see the code he typed in over his shoulder.’

‘I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand what you’re doing here.’

He shifts on his seat. ‘Believe me, I wouldn’t be troubling you if time wasn’t running out.’

‘What do you mean?’

A shadow clouds his face. ‘My client isn’t in good health. She’s determined to clear her brother’s name while she can.’ He stops and I can see that he’s having some kind of internal struggle. ‘I was at university with Helen,’ he says, giving up the struggle. ‘I never really knew Oliver because he was five years younger than us, but even back then I knew how much he meant to her. When she said she didn’t believe Oliver was responsible for Nina’s murder, and asked me to help her, I felt I couldn’t refuse.’

I nod sympathetically, desperately sorry for Oliver’s sister.

‘Why is Oliver’s sister persuaded that it wasn’t him who killed Nina?’ I ask. ‘Nobody wants to think the worst of someone they love. Maybe she just doesn’t want to believe that her brother was capable of murder.’

‘That’s what I thought at first. I hate to say it but I was – and this sounds awful – humouring Helen by agreeing to look into the murder, because in my experience, it bore all the hallmarks of a typical crime of passion. But many people have testified that Oliver Maxwell was the gentlest, kindest of men and that he adored Nina. The cynics point to his suicide and say that he killed himself because he couldn’t cope with what he’d done. Those that knew him take it as a testimony of his broken heart. Not only couldn’t he bear to live without her, he also couldn’t bear to live with the violence of her death.’

So which camp did that put Eve, Tamsin and Maria in, I wonder? They had known Oliver, they had told me he was the loveliest of men. Yet they believed that he killed Nina. Why was that?

‘Wait a minute – did you say “crime of passion”?’ I say, realising.

‘Yes.’ He pauses. ‘Apparently, Nina had been having an affair.’

I stare at him. ‘An affair?’

He leans forward in his seat. His skin is pale, almost translucent, providing a marked contrast with his dark hair.

‘Yes.’

‘But – who with?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I think he might be responsible for her murder.’

My mind reels. ‘Did the police know she was having an affair?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then they must have found out who he was and eliminated him from their enquiries.’

‘That’s what you would have thought,’ he agrees.

‘I suppose if Oliver knew Nina was having an affair, he had a motive to kill her.’

‘Except that, according to the people who knew him best, he would never have harmed Nina.’

‘I’m not sure why you think I can help you. I’ve only just moved here – as you know,’ I add pointedly.

‘It’s exactly for that reason that I’m asking for your help,’ he says earnestly. ‘When Helen first asked me to look into the murder, I tried to speak to people here myself. But I came up against a lot of – not hostility, exactly, but tight lips. It’s why I didn’t hang around at your drinks evening. When I looked through the kitchen window and saw that the people you’d invited were the people I had tried to talk to, I thought it wiser to leave before someone recognised me.’ He pauses. ‘You didn’t know Nina, you don’t really know anyone here yet, which makes you impartial. I know this is a lot to ask but – if you happen to hear anything – you know, in conversations with the neighbours – perhaps you could let me know?’

I stand up. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t do that.’

He gives a small smile. ‘Of course.’ He gets to his feet, holds out his hand. ‘Thank you for your time. Goodbye, Ms Dawson.’

His handshake is strong, dependable. It makes me feel that I can trust him but, at the same time, I’m disappointed that he wanted me to betray the confidences of the people I’m hoping will be my friends. Given the circumstances, I suppose it’s understandable that he wants to get closure for Oliver’s sister before it’s too late. He strikes me as the sort of man who would do a lot for a friend – but not someone who would give that friend false hope, or take on a lost cause. He admitted that at the beginning, he was only humouring Oliver’s sister.

What made him change his mind?