Carver - By Tom Cain Page 0,79

about their lives, doing their jobs, loving their families. Did they all die for the sake of the planet?’

She’d been biting her lip as he spoke, trying to retain some self-control. Now her face crumpled, and tears filled her eyes as she sobbed. ‘Oh God … oh God … I worried something bad might happen … I prayed to Gaia because I was worried we were doing the wrong thing. But Bryn sounded so convinced, and I, well, we all, we just believed him, and—’

‘Because he’s a good man. Yeah, I get it.’

‘Where is he? Is he all right?’

Carver shrugged. ‘How should I know? He’s not exactly advertising his whereabouts.’

Bull sniffed, and then muttered, ‘Thanks,’ as Fenwick pulled some tissues from a box by her bed and handed them to her. ‘It’s all that bloody woman’s fault,’ she continued, wide awake now, wiping her face with her working hand. ‘She’s the one who put the idea into Bryn’s head …’

‘What woman?’ asked Carver, frowning.

‘Uschi … Uschi bloody Kremer …’ Bull’s voice rose in intensity, filled with bitterness and pain that had nothing at all to do with her physical wounds. ‘It was so obvious – the men only went along with her because they wanted to get into her knickers.’

The last thing Carver wanted was to be diverted by an angry woman’s sexual jealousy. ‘OK … take it easy. I know you didn’t want anyone to get hurt.’

‘No! I don’t believe in violence! I—’ Her words were cut short by a gasp of pain. ‘My chest hurts so much,’ she whimpered, her eyes filling with tears again as she slumped back against her pillows. ‘Everything hurts …’

Fenwick turned to Carver. ‘I’m sorry, but this isn’t doing her any good at all. If you carry on like this, I’m pulling the plug.’

‘Just give me a minute,’ Carver pleaded. ‘This won’t take long …’ He took a second to gather his wits, then focused on Deirdre Bull once again. ‘I’m sure you’d like a chance to make things better. To try and put things right … as much as they can be put right, obviously.’

She nodded miserably. ‘Yes … please … I never meant to do any harm.’

Carver glanced across at Fenwick, and was relieved to get a nod of approval. ‘All right …’ he continued. ‘Have you ever heard of a man called Malachi Zorn?’

Bull looked puzzled. ‘No … should I?’

‘I don’t know … He’s an American, works as a financier.’

‘Well, no wonder I’ve not heard of him. He’s obviously the kind of man I despise. I don’t want to know about people like that.’

Carver tried again: ‘Or how about a Pakistani man called Ahmad Razzaq? He’s middle-aged, wears a moustache, quite distinguished-looking. Sometimes calls himself Shafik.’

‘No … I don’t know anyone like that at all.’ She sounded more confident now, as though her ignorance somehow established her innocence.

‘You haven’t even heard their names mentioned by other people … people like Bryn?’

‘No.’

They seemed to have reached a dead end, and Fenwick sensed it, too. ‘Well, that settles it. She can’t help you. I think we should call this a day.’

Carver tried not to let his desperation show. He was sure he was close to a breakthrough, if only he could find the right button to push. Something Bull had said had rung a bell, but he’d missed it, failed to make the right connection. It was there, though, somewhere: he knew it. He fixed an ingratiating smile on his face and spoke to Fenwick and Bull together. ‘Wait, let’s just take it nice and easy … a few simple questions. Nothing to get excited about. Is that all right?’

Fenwick looked at Bull.

She nodded.

He gave Carver a shrug that said, ‘Be my guest.’

‘So … How many of you were there in the group?’ Carver asked.

Bull closed her eyes, picturing her old comrades in her mind. ‘Ahh … six of us at first, then Dave Smethurst and that Swiss bitch joined …’

‘Kremer?’ Carver asked, thinking: ‘Her again.’ Bull nodded. Kremer loomed so large in Bull’s memories of the group. Maybe he should stick with Kremer: see where that took him.

‘So when was that?’

‘About four or five months ago, I suppose. Though even then, she was never really part of it like the rest of us. She was always flitting in and out, leading this disgusting, privileged life …’

‘So she’s rich?’ he asked, a bell just starting to ring, very faintly, in the back of his mind.

‘Her family’s stinking rich. That’s what she said,