After the lunch at the Palm Court, Poole had had to start thinking seriously, because twenty-five years ago Sasha had teased him about James being jealous, and he remembered grinning like an idiot about it for days. But Sasha had chosen James in the end, so how could he possibly be jealous now?
Unless it wasn't jealousy. Unless he couldn't afford to let Poole get close enough to his wife to detect she was not who she claimed to be.
For the rest of that lunch he'd been quiet, watching, trying to fit his memories of Sasha to the woman who was laughing brightly at Angie's prattling or Roger's cynical one-shots. And the more he watched, the more he came to realize this wasn't the Sasha he knew: not her laugh, not the way she flicked her hair back from her forehead, not the confidential, sideways glance she used to send him when James was loud, or Angie more insistent in her blandishments than usual. By the time they'd gone and he'd led a delighted Angie into the bar, he had the who, and had worked out the how, but he just needed the why.
...
"So you think this is the key," Inspector Goodman said, tapping the folded handkerchief. "Whatever it was Sasha got Angie to draw up for James to sign, it changed everything."
Poole nodded at him. "It could only be an agreement of some sort about the money," he said, and spread his hands, briefly, to indicate the range of documents he'd produced. "Or that's what I'm assuming. I've no proof, obviously, but the sequence of events suggests –"
He broke off, took on a cooling breath and started up again, because he had no choice. "If it is something about putting the money in a trust, or somehow taking it out of James' reach if Sasha pre-deceased him . . . that's the only thing I can think of why they'd be doing this. Why Helen would be here, pretending to be Sasha."
Goodman's eyes moved slowly down the line of evidence, scant as it was. "If James would lose eighteen million when his wife died . . ."
Camille Bordey was staring at the photocopied article, her expression hard. "And it was Sasha who died in that accident, not Helen . . ."
Poole said nothing, because there was yet one more possibility he dared not voice. He took his focus from Best and Myers, now breaking from their computers to share a level look, and in passing noted the sudden flash of dark, wide eyes the Sergeant gave him as she saw it. Although it was left to the Inspector, who seemed prone to such things, to actually say what they were all thinking.
"Did she just die, or . . .? I mean, sorry, but – that's a lot of money. If I were in Helen's shoes, I might be tempted –" He left it, wisely, and Poole felt rather than saw all the attention in the room turn back to him, and became aware of the steady, flustered rhythm of the book's corners being ruffled, and ruffled.
He took his hand off the book. "I don't think so," he muttered, at last, into the heat and the silence. "Because I really – don't want to think that. I really – don't."
"But that is why you're expecting to be –" the Inspector pushed on, then trailed off.
Poole cleared his throat, very softly. "I thought it might be . . . possible."
He waited, ahemmed gently again and brought his gaze back up from the tabletop. The Sergeant looked at her Inspector, who cast a glance over his shoulder at his officers, and from the front of the squad room two keyboards began to clack, hurried.
Quietly, Poole went on. "At Cambridge, Helen only popped up when she wanted something, usually to make trouble. If there was a radical club meeting or unapproved party going on she was in it, or planning it, and we had to know all about it, just for the shock value. She was playing the wild child, I think, because of course she knew all about the money. Had done for a long time, according to Sasha, back then."
He shifted in his chair, not meeting the Sergeant's (or anyone's) eyes. "From what I remember of Helen, I can see her doing something crazy on the spur of the moment, not even thinking about it, and leaving regretting it for later. Even something – extreme."
"And James?" Camille Bordey asked, in a gentle voice. Poole told himself harshly that her concern was not meant for him; that it was only professional. Behind her the sound of rattling keyboards faltered and died off.
It took a lot longer than he'd thought it would to answer. He was here, in a police station, talking about people he knew, who had brought him into their circle and made him welcome, if only for what they perceived as his antics.
Poole leaned back, resting his hands on the table edges, fixing his gaze on the handkerchief, neat and white and demure, nestling between the evidence he had placed there. "You know, there are times when I think that this isn't happening," he said quietly, and shut his eyes, just for a second, as if giving it all a last chance to go away. When he'd first caught sight of Sasha, twenty-five years ago, on the Great Court of Kings' at Cambridge, and hurried over, there was James, at her shoulder, and Helen behind . . . she was always behind, it seemed, just as James was always at Sasha's shoulder, after this money thing had come out.
Poole let out a held breath, allowing his shoulders to slump and the last desperate hope that this was all some sort of nightmare to go free. "I – honestly don't know about James."
The Inspector reared back again and craned around to his officers. "Fidel, get on to Helen Reed. Check out her background and any criminal activity. And find out what you can about that accident."
"Yes, sir." Best went back to his keyboard, just as if he hadn't been doing that thing already.
"Dwayne, you start on Sasha and James Moore. Anything you can find on them and their software company and its sale in 1999."
"On it, Chief!" It was falsely jovial. Even Poole heard that.
"Mr Poole will give you the details." After a beat the lanky Inspector craned back around at his witness. "That is, if you'd be so good, Mister – well, Richard, if I can?"
Poole flinched, making sure it was only inwardly, and nodded. He had walked in here with this monstrous story; he had to be the one to support any and all investigations the police might make.
