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“I was early for my job interview…”
O’Sullivan nods. We’ve explained about the assistant position we’re hiring for so there was no confusion as to why Summer was here, alone.
“… and the front door was open.”
“Was it wide open?”
“No, it was ajar. I pushed it open. The main gallery was dark but there was a light down the corridor at the back. I called out, there was no reply. I went to look for someone but there was no one here. I figured whoever was here had gone out for a moment.”
“Were you surprised they’d left the door open?”
She shrugged. “Not really. I figured they’d gone out for a minute, maybe next door. I didn’t give it any thought. I just waited.”
“Did you notice anything about the door? The lock?”
This is it, I thought. I bowed my head and waited, feeling my face burn.
“I didn’t look closely,” she said, and I held my breath.
The detective nodded, took notes. “And what did you do then?”
“I looked at the photographs in the second gallery, the lighting was better there. The front gallery was in darkness.” Then she added, sweeping a lock of hair from her face, “I’m an art photographer. I have a special interest in that kind of work.”
“What happened then?”
“I heard someone call out from the front and I came back out and met Laura. That’s when I found out there had been a robbery.”
“Anything else?”
And then, I caught Laura smashing the front door lock. I was already mentally rehearsing my response which included chuckling with disbelief at the suggestion. Of course not! She must have misunderstood. I was trying to fix it, that’s all.
“Laura called you,” she said, “then she took me out to the storeroom. I was by myself for a while. I went to the kitchen where I saw a coffee machine. I came back out to see Laura at the front and…”
She glanced my way. And that’s when I saw Laura hacking at the lock. She was really manic. She had a hammer.
“And then?” O’Sullivan prompts.
“I asked her to show me how to use the machine,” she said simply.
I stared at her. That’s exactly what happened. I’d looked up and there she was, staring at me from behind the glass, her face as expressionless as a mannequin in a department store. Then she asked for a coffee.
“I saw you have an espresso machine out the back—” She’d jerked her thumb behind her shoulder. “Could I have one? I don’t know how to use it.”
I could feel my whole face trembling, heat rising up my neck and into my cheeks. “Coffee?” I said.
“Yes.”
“I’ll make it,” I said after a decade or so.
“You sure? I don’t mind doing it.”
“No, that’s okay, you won’t know how to…use the machine.” Sweat was prickling on my forehead which I wiped with the back of my hand, and that’s when I realized I was still holding the hammer.
She smiled sweetly. It was like nothing was going on, nothing strange at all about the hammer, the nail file, the door lock, me shaking like a leaf. So, I closed the front door and she followed me back to the cupboard where I returned the tools, then to the kitchenette where I made her a cup of coffee, black, two sugars.
And that was that.
Then later that morning, the police took our statements, then left, and Bruno asked if I was all right, and I said yes, I’m fine thank you, a bit shocked, that’s all, and he said, yes, we all are, very unfortunate, and he went to call the insurance company, and later I asked for an advance because I couldn’t wait. I was still a little shaken and he must have taken pity on me because he said, yes, of course, Laura. That’s no problem. And I was so relieved I could have cried.
