sharp nose, wearing a black suit, step nervously into the room and fussily take her place – much smoothing of skirts, dusting and hitching of sleeves – across from the coroner. She had an amber brooch on her lapel which she kept touching as if it were a talisman of some kind. She pointedly avoided looking at him, Lorimer noticed, even her shoulders were canted around, suggesting that some physical effort was being employed to prevent her turning to face him. The family member, he supposed, looking over at Rappaport, who grinned, gave him an A-OK sign and mouthed ‘well done’.
The coroner was speaking: ‘Mrs Mary Vernon, you were the late Mr Dupree’s sister?’
‘That’s correct.’
Hence the black, Lorimer thought. Dupree had been unmarried, Rappaport had told him, ‘wedded to his work’, as the expression went. Must be an awful shock, a suicide in the family, Lorimer thought sympathetically, so many questions unanswered.
‘I had been abroad on a Mediterranean holiday,’ Mrs Vernon, née Dupree, was saying, with a slight tremble in her voice. ‘I had spoken to my brother on the phone twice in the week before he died.’
‘How would you describe his mood?’
‘Very worried and depressed, which is why I came straight from the airport to see him. He was very upset at the way the insurance company was behaving – the delays, the questions, the refusal to pay.’
‘This company was Fortress Sure?’
‘He kept talking about the loss adjuster they had sent round.’
‘Mr Black?’
Finally her eyes moved to him. The inhumane coldness of her gaze flayed him. Jesus Christ, she thinks it was me who –
‘It must have been,’ she said. ‘My brother, Osmond, never mentioned his name, he kept talking about the loss adjuster.’
‘Mr Black said that the appointment with your brother was completely routine.’
‘Why was my brother so upset, then? He dreaded the visit of the loss adjuster, dreaded it.’ Her voice was rising. ‘Even when I called the last time he kept saying, “The loss adjuster is coming, the loss adjuster’s coming.”’ She was pointing at him now. ‘These people were tormenting and terrifying an emotionally disturbed elderly man whose whole life had been destroyed.’ She rose to her feet. ‘I believe that this man sitting here, Mr Lorimer Black, drove my brother to his death!’
At which point the clerk shouted, ‘Order! Order!’, the coroner started thumping her gavel on the desk and Mrs Vernon burst into tears. Lorimer was thinking: Hogg, what had Hogg done to terrorize Mr Dupree? Some people were never meant to cope with Hogg. He was too much, too powerfully malevolent, too strong a force, Hogg… Business was adjourned for ten minutes as Mrs Vernon was helped from the room, then the coroner duly returned a verdict of death by suicide.
‘There you go,’ Rappaport said, handing over the slip of paper upon which was written Mrs Vernon’s address and telephone number. Lorimer felt he had to call or write to explain to clear his name, rid his reputation of this appalling slur or, even, better, arrange somehow for Hogg to tell her the truth, which would be far more effective. Rappaport had advised against trying to make contact, but had been happy to procure the address.
‘Clearly overcome with grief,’ Rappaport analysed, confidently. ‘They don’t want to hear it, Mr Black. I wouldn’t give it a thought. Happens all the time. Wild, wild accusations are made all the time. Totally out of order. Strangely attractive woman, though.’ They were standing by the coffee machine in the lobby drinking the hot fluid it provided.
‘No,’ Rappaport went on, philosophically, ‘they want to blame someone, you see, they need to, anyone – usually because of their own guilt, somewhere along the line, and usually it’s us, the police, they go for with their wild accusations. Lucky for me you was in the frame.’ He chuckled.
‘Lucky for you?’ Lorimer said bitterly. ‘She practically accused me of murder.’
‘Got to develop a thicker skin, Mr Black.’
‘My professional reputation’s at stake, if this gets out.’
‘Ah, seeking the bubble reputation, Mr Black. Don’t worry about it. Anyway, nice to see you again. Cheers.’
Rappaport sashayed off, body swaying like a gun-slinger, through the crowds of yobbos, petty criminals and pinched-faced litigants. Perhaps he isn’t so dim after all, Lorimer thought, troubled, resenting Rappaport’s cockiness, his breezy insouciance, and realizing that at this particular moment his hatred extended to every human being on the planet. But I’m an innocent man, he wanted to yell out to these furtive people, I’m not like you.