Floyd roared, that was the only word for it.
Burke didn’t say another word because Floyd’s fist was down his throat by then. Floyd dragged him out the chair by his shirt front and butted him in the face, dropped his crumpled body to the floor and kicked him in the head, heavy army boots breaking delicate facial bones.
And he’d have kept on kicking him, over and over, the red mist enveloping him, until Burke stopped crying and moaning and lay still in a pool of his own blood. But Carl hauled him off, stopped him killing the guy, and dragged him out of the room, screaming at Adamson to call the medics.
Captain Oliver Burke received an honorable discharge and a fat medical pension. Floyd, Carl and Adamson got a dishonorable discharge and a kick up the butt.
Floyd would’ve liked somebody to explain to him who exactly it was doing the dishonorable thing here and who was doing the honorable thing, because it seemed to him they had that the wrong way around.
Floyd put the photo of Donna back in his wallet and went outside to sit on the porch, watch the sun go down. And people wanted to know how come he took things into his own hands these days.
Carl didn’t have to worry about him forgetting what he owed.
Chapter 39
EVAN KNEW WHAT FRANCISCO must have felt like. He was glad it wasn’t him got their daughter pregnant. Despite that, the old man was looking at him like he just said that’s why he was here—to do it again.
He stood on the front step and waited patiently while Colonel Jeffrey Yates, Ret. read his card, holding the very edge between finger and thumb, the other fingers splayed to keep them out of the way as if picking up a dead cockroach by one of its legs. It wouldn’t have surprised Evan if the stuck-up old bastard carried it to the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet.
‘A cockroach?’ Yates said.
Evan’s ears were playing tricks, he didn’t say that. He said private investigator. It was just some days he actually wished he was a cockroach or a water beetle. At least they didn’t choose to be what they were.
‘Who is it, dear?’ a woman’s voice said from behind Yates.
‘It’s a—’
‘My name’s Evan Buckley,’ Evan called over his shoulder.
Punching Colonel Jeffrey Yates, Ret. on his drinker’s nose wouldn’t get him far and it wouldn’t take too much more of being looked at down it before it happened.
‘Invite him in, Jeffrey. Where are your manners?’
Jeffrey stood reluctantly to the side as Evan stepped in and looked around at the massive entrance hall with its matching staircases curving off to the left and right. He was tempted to try a quick yodel, count how many seconds it took for the echo to come back.
Mrs Yates held out her hand. Evan thought about wiping his on his pants leg before he took it.
‘I’m Deborah Yates. Are you with—’
‘I was trying to tell you, he’s a—’
‘United Way?’
‘Private investigator.’
The proffered hand dropped like a stone before Evan had a chance to shake it, a look of relief at a near miss on her face. It was for the best. His was a little sticky. Her husband’s face said it all: Now can I throw him out?
‘Oh.’
Evan promised himself he’d practice saying oh like that until he could do it as well as she did. It was quite something, the amount of feeling conveyed in that one small word. He tried it out in his head a few times.
‘I was expecting somebody from—’
‘United Way? Sorry. I’m actually here to talk to Leighton.’
Nothing happened at first.
Then everything happened at once.
Deborah Yates’ face crumpled, caved in on itself. Before the first squeak escaped her lips, her husband was in Evan’s face, his fists bunching Evan’s lapels. His breath was hot, a faint smell of cigarettes behind breath mints.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing coming here—’
There was a strangled wail from his wife. He pushed Evan away roughly and went to her, put a comforting arm around her, guided her to a chair near the bottom of the stairs. One of the advantages of a big house, Evan thought idly. Always a chair handy for those surprise moments.
He straightened his lapels, held up his hands. You’d have thought he held up a middle finger.
‘Get out! Now!’
He backed slowly towards the door, not sure what Yates would do if he turned his back.
‘Jeffrey, no,’ Mrs Yates said, her voice more under control than her husband’s. ‘Let him say what he came to say.’
Yates looked between the two of them. Evan hoped for the sake of the men under his command, he’d been a lot more decisive back in the day.
‘What harm can it do?’ Deborah Yates said.
‘What harm—’
‘Please. And you mustn’t get so excited.’
He turned on his heel and strode off in the direction of the east or west wing, Evan couldn’t be sure which.
‘I need a drink. And I don’t care what fucking time it is.’
Deborah Yates stood up, gave Evan a polite smile, please excuse my husband and gestured for Evan to follow him. A drink sounded pretty good to him too. By the time they joined Yates in the sitting room—the blue room he assumed from the decor—Yates had lined up three old-fashioned glasses and was filling them with Gin. It wasn’t clear whether they were all for him or it was one each. Given what had happened so far, Evan thought it best to just wait and see.
But somewhere between the hallway and the sitting room Yates had found those missing manners. He passed the drinks around and offered Evan a seat. Both the Yates sat on the couch opposite. Jeffrey downed most of his drink in one swallow.
‘You tell him,’ he said to his wife.
He slumped back in the over-sized couch and rested his head on the back cushion, stared up at the ceiling, his drink nestled in his lap. His wife perched further forward on her seat as if to compensate.
‘Leighton was killed in 1993.’
Evan wasn’t even surprised. He’d been expecting it even before the outburst in the hallway.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’
He also didn’t know how the hell Guillory’s inquiries had failed to pick that up.
Deborah Yates gave him another polite smile.
‘Thank you. There’s no reason you should have.’
‘Do you mind if I ask what happened?’
‘Fucking hit and run,’ her husband said without moving anything but his lips.
‘Jeffrey, please.’
Yates downed the rest of his drink and got up. It had hardly been worth sitting down. He raised his glass in a question to Evan and his wife. They both shook their heads.
‘As Jeffrey said, it was a hit and run.’
Evan couldn’t be sure because Yates’ back was turned, but he thought he heard him mumble fucking hit and run under his breath.
‘Leighton was killed outright.’
Evan held his breath. The next words to leave this woman’s mouth would determine everything. It seemed as if her husband was holding his breath too.
‘Luckily Sterling was thrown from the stroller. Babies seem to bounce at that age, don’t they?’
Evan had no idea whether they did or not. But at least he wouldn’t have to ask the delicate question he’d been dreading: Did your daughter have the baby she conceived with the Mexican half-breed you disapproved of? Or the second one: And did you force her to give it up?—just like the child’s grandmother.
As is often the case, Deborah Yates simply assumed Evan knew who all the players in her story were.
‘We brought Sterling up as our own,’ she said.
There was a heartfelt grunt from the drinks cabinet. Evan glanced across. Yates was standing with his butt resting against the edge of the cabinet, one arm across his body, the other resting on it, the drink held inches from his mouth. He wasn’t going to make the mistake of sitting down again.
‘Was anybody arrested?’
‘Police didn’t have a clue,’ came the reply from the drinks cabinet.
‘It was very strange—’
‘Deborah.’
Yates had found some of the steel he’d no doubt been renowned for as a leader of fighting men. His wife’s mouth clamped shut. She looked down at her hands, clasped together in her lap.
‘My turn,’ Yates said, fixing Evan with his gaze. ‘What are you interested in all this for? It was twenty-five years ago—’
‘Twenty-four.’
Yates smiled at his wife, acknowledged his error.
‘It’s not actually Leighton I’m interested in,’ Evan said.
For a moment it looked as if Yates was about to explode again.
Then what the hell are you doing bringing all this up again?
‘I’m interested in Sterling.’
Neither of them said a word. Yates’ drink stalled on the way to his mouth. His wife searched for something in the folds of her skirt.
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything else until I speak to Sterling.’
‘Well you’re going to have to wait—’
‘What my husband means is Sterling is away at the moment—a conference in Geneva, won’t be back for another two days. It’s something to do with Médecins Sans Frontières. Sterling’s very committed to helping the less fortunate.’
Coming out of Deborah Yates’ prim and proper mouth, less fortunate sounded like a particularly nasty communicable disease to be avoided at all costs.
The way things were going with the case so far, Evan didn’t fancy the chances of the passengers on the plane back from Geneva either. It was bound to crash.
‘Damn doctors, ought to spend more time with patients in their own damn country, less time in the bar on conferences. We didn’t have—’
‘What Jeffrey means is he’s very proud Sterling’s done so well. That is what you mean, isn’t it Jeffrey?’
Full of booze or not, Jeffrey had the sense to give an affirmative grunt.
‘Have you got a number, an address?’ Evan said, getting an appreciative nod from Jeffrey for diverting his wife’s attention away from him.
‘Yes, of course.’
Deborah Yates led the way back out to the hallway, over to a small table by the chair at the foot of the mountain, sorry, stairs.
‘I really should remember it. My memory’s not what it was.’
Evan would have bet everything he owned there was nothing the matter with her memory. She wanted to talk, away from the censoring influence of her husband. He made things easy for her.
‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’
She opened a drawer in the table and pulled out an old-fashioned address book, found the page she was after. Evan tapped the details into his phone.
‘I suppose I should keep all this in my cell phone,’ she said.
‘Was there anything else?’
She looked quickly behind them, made sure the door to the sitting room was firmly closed. Evan considered suggesting they go in one of the other wings, into the pink room perhaps. She dropped into the chair. Evan sat on the bottom step like a naughty little boy.
‘He’ll kill me if he finds out I’m telling you this.’
‘Don’t worry.’
She took a deep breath, held it while she rearranged the folds of her skirt.
‘Leighton blamed Jeffrey for Francisco’s death. She said if he hadn’t been such a racist snob—those were her exact words—Francisco wouldn’t have been so desperate to impress him. She said the only reason he joined the Marine Corp was because of Jeffrey. They had so many filthy arguments.’
She glanced nervously at the door to the sitting room.
‘Would you feel more relaxed outside?’
She nodded and they both stood up. She opened the door as if she’d just found the door to her cell in the serial killer’s basement had been unlocked the whole time. Outside, she relaxed visibly.
‘Leighton always picked her arguments when Jeffrey had a drink inside him.’
Something in Evan’s face gave him away. She smiled. It wasn’t a polite one this time. There were even some teeth on show.
‘I know what you’re thinking. It would be difficult not to.’
Evan denied it.
‘Don’t be too hard on him. The whole situation got to all of us, him included, however much he’d like to pretend it didn’t.’
She cocked her ear towards the door, then relaxed again.
‘I think Leighton was suffering from Postnatal Depression. Maybe I’m just making excuses. It doesn’t really matter. But with that and Jeffrey’s drinking they both said the most dreadful things. I’m sure neither of them meant it once they’d calmed down.’
She wrapped her arms around her body, hugged herself.
‘You know what the really sad thing is? Jeffrey secretly admired Francisco for joining the Marine Corp. He was a jarhead. Such a silly name. He was one of the first to be sent to the Gulf War. And one of the first to ...’
She looked at him, her eyes full of what might have been, what should have been, asking him, what is wrong with this world we live in?
‘But he’d never admit it.’
She shook her head.
‘Not if his life depended on it.’
‘His Country Club membership?’
She surprised him, laughed and wagged her finger at him. It didn’t last long. She glanced at the door again.
‘That’s why he won’t talk about it. Deep down he feels guilty. He knows Leighton was right. If he’d been more welcoming—less hostile would have been a start—Francisco would never have joined the Marine Corp, would never ...’
She cleared her throat. No kleenex appeared from her sleeve, not in a house like this.
‘He’s ashamed too. I’ve never heard two people scream at each other like that. The things he said about Francisco. I’m sure I don’t have to spell it out for you.’
She looked directly at Evan. The implication was clear—someone like him would know exactly the sort of dreadful words she meant.
‘Of course fate’s always got one last trick to play on you—’
‘You didn’t get the chance to make things right.’
‘I can see you know a thing or two about regret.’
He thought about asking her if she’d like to buy the book.
‘We had no idea the effect this was having on Leighton. No idea what she was up to behind our backs. The investigator told us—’
Evan felt as if the stone portico above them had just collapsed on his head.
‘Are you alright?’
He nodded. A shiver ran up his spine. He felt beady black eyes on the back of his head, heard the flapping of black wings.
‘Sorry. I’m getting ahead of myself. When the police failed to apprehend anyone—’
She suddenly laughed, a guilty sound that made him think of a small child laughing at a rude word.
‘I shouldn’t encourage him. Jeffrey said they couldn’t find their asses with both hands tied behind their backs.’
Evan smiled with her.
‘A private investigator approached us.’
Evan’s palms were suddenly clammy. This couldn’t be happening.
‘He approached you?’
‘Yes. He said he’d read about it in the paper. Said he’d like to help. He was a very strange man.’
Elwood Crow
‘How on earth did you know that?’
Evan recoiled, his forehead creasing. Had he spoken the name aloud?
‘It’s why I’m here. He was the one gave me your names.’
He knew where this was going now, felt all the threads drawing together. He also felt manipulated. Crow could have told him all this.
‘Mr Crow told us Leighton was trying to find Francisco’s family. We knew there was something unusual about his background. She was trying to get to the bottom of it.’
‘But why?’
‘I’ve always assumed it was something Jeffrey said, what she said, I mean. What she said because of what Jeffrey said.’
She stopped, compressed her lips, her nostrils flaring. She tried again.
‘I don’t remember what exactly Jeffrey said but her reply was, I’m not bringing up my child in a house with a racist pig like you.’
A pink flush tinged her cheeks, her eyes moist.
‘She didn’t actually use the word pig, she used another word that I refuse to repeat.’
Her mouth had turned down just at the memory of it.
‘You think she wanted to find them to go live with them?’
She shook her head, all too much to think about.
‘Who knows? The baby was as much his parent’s grandchild as ours. Don’t those people all live together in one house?’
Deborah Yates had let herself down. Maybe she wasn’t such a bad match for her husband after all.
The irony of it made Evan want to scream.
If Frank Hanna’s father, George, had known the breeding of the young woman who went looking for him, he might have welcomed her with open arms. Instead, he heard the problem he thought he’d dealt with all those years ago was back. And he was a man who didn’t make the same mistake twice. Last time he sent Thompson to scare the girl off—and look how that turned out. If he’d told Thompson to deal with the problem permanently, it wouldn’t be happening all over again.
He wouldn’t—and didn’t—make the same mistake this time. Except that he did. Leighton’s baby had been thrown clear, had survived and grown to adulthood.
‘That was all Mr Crow found out,’ Deborah Yates said. ‘He had no more luck finding the culprit than the police.’
Evan looked up at the sky, closed his eyes, felt the breeze on his face.
If only you knew.
‘When your husband interrupted you earlier’—she glanced again at the door as he said it—‘you said it was very strange. What did you mean?’
‘About a week after Mr Crow told us he couldn’t find anything, the police contacted us again—’
The Evan Buckley Thrillers: Books 1 - 4 (Evan Buckley Thrillers Boxsets) Page 79