Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [35]
Placing a glass of steaming peppermint tea carefully on the table in front of her, she sat down. ‘Good morning, Inspector,’ she began, shifting a large pair of sunglasses to the top of her head. ‘Thank you for coming.’
Carlyle made a humble gesture. ‘No problem.’ Instinctively, he looked her up and down. As always, Rosanna was well turned out, looking sternly sexy in a rather sombre but expensive grey trouser suit and a pearl-coloured blouse which had just enough buttons undone to arouse one’s interest. Looking tired and a little jumpy, she seemed to have lost quite a bit of weight since he’d seen her last, which was all to the good. On the other hand, even the inspector could see that her roots needed retouching, which was not so good. Overall, Carlyle thought, you’re not looking great, but it’s nothing that a couple of weeks in the Caribbean or The Priory, England’s health farm to the stars, wouldn’t put right.
She looked at his plate. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’
Carlyle smiled. ‘If you insist.’ He took a large bite out of one quarter of his Danish and washed it down with some coffee. For the next few minutes, they sat in amiable silence while he scoffed the rest of his pastry and she sipped demurely at her tea.
She waited until he had popped the last morsel into his mouth and was wiping his lips with a napkin before speaking again. ‘I have a slight problem.’
Still chewing, he opened his eyes wide and waited.
‘There’s a man . . .’
More silent chewing.
Rosanna let out a large sigh and cut to the chase. ‘I’m being stalked.’ She took another sip of her tea and sat back in the chair, clasping her hands together as if preparing to launch into prayer.
‘Isn’t that normal?’ He tried to present what he hoped was a cheeky grin.
She looked at him uncomprehendingly.
He kept digging. ‘Aren’t celebrities like you supposed to attract stalkers – the price of fame and all that?’
She gave him a hurt look that suggested his juvenile attempt at humour had overstepped the mark.
‘Sorry.’ He held up a hand, indicating a willingness to take her problem seriously. ‘What’s been going on? Give me the background.’
‘He’s a guy called Simon. I don’t know his surname. I guess he’s in his late thirties or early forties. He started hanging around outside my apartment building about two months ago. He’s standing there when I leave the flat. Sometimes he even follows me to work.’
Carlyle reflexively glanced out of the window.
‘Not today,’ she continued. ‘Not every day. Maybe once or twice a week. And there have been a couple of times when I’ve seen him hanging around in the evening, too.’
‘Has he physically or verbally threatened you?’ Carlyle asked in his best official tone.
Her brow furrowed. ‘No, he’s not threatening. It’s more just . . . creepy. He always keeps his distance like he’s too embarrassed to talk to me.’
Mentally ill, thought Carlyle. Another one. What must it be like, he wondered, to be a bit simple? Do you understand what kind of disadvantage you’ve been handed?
She noticed him drifting off into thought and started drumming her expensive-looking nails on the table. ‘He sends me letters too.’
Letters? How old-school. ‘What kind of letters?’
She almost blushed. ‘Marriage proposals,’ she said, staring into her lap. ‘Six of them, so far.’
‘Saying what?’ he asked, his interest not really piqued by the thought of a harmless nutter with a crush.
‘Saying just that: that he thinks we should get married and that he wants to look after me.’
If ever there was a girl who