Animal Instinct

by Animal Instinct (retail) (epub)

  Violence, War, Cruelty, Disease, Despair, Malice, Greed, Old Age and Death.

  No mention of Insomnia or Being Eaten Alive By Suspicion.

  He picked up the envelope.

  Examined the Cambridge postmark.

  His mind darted from one thought to another, ricocheting like a ball around a pinball machine.

  He saw himself as a teenager, prolonging the anticipation before opening his A-level results.

  Another letter had brought news of his first promotion.

  Then there was the envelope held poste restante during a low-budget safari holiday in Botswana, the letter that broke the news of his father’s death. It was a sign of age, he knew, but in the era of email and instant messaging, Joe was glad the big moments in life were still associated with ‘proper’ letters. He pictured the silver paper knife, a bequest from his grandfather, in the hall at Marlowe Avenue. No such luxury here. An ordinary knife would do. He selected one with a serrated edge, slitting the envelope open with a single clean stroke.

  Dear Mr Cassidy,

  His eye raced over the page. It took a few seconds before his sleep-deprived brain could make sense of the two crucial paragraphs.

  …In the case of Sample A…

  ‘Sample A’ was the buccal swab, the saliva Joe had taken from inside his own cheek…

  …In the case of Sample A, a probability of paternity of 0% means the alleged father is excluded as the biological father of the child. That is to say, he is not the father.

  Joe read the paragraph again. Twice. Then again, to make sure he had understood correctly. All that mattered were the last five words.

  …he is not the father.

  His heart was thumping as he read on, his mouth was dry, the words on the page seemed to haze in and out of focus. He made himself concentrate on the paragraph referring to the second sample he had sent to the laboratory. Sample B. Hugh Duffy’s roll-up.

  …In the case of Sample B, a probability of paternity of 99% means the alleged father is not excluded as the biological father of the child. That is to say, there is a strong likelihood that the alleged father is the biological father of the child.

  The lab had confirmed Joe’s worst fears. Hugh Duffy was Luke’s biological father.

  Joe made it to the bathroom just in time. He threw up, the grinning face of the red-haired DS swimming before his eyes.

  He is the father.

  He threw up again.

  He is the father.

  Then he threw up some more.

  He is the father.

  * * *

  The urge to kick down the front door was overwhelming. Joe forced himself to count to five then rang the bell.

  The early brigade was out and about. Joe nodded at two familiar faces – a paunchy male jogger and a white-haired neighbour walking her dachshund. He rang the bell again, keeping his finger rigid until he saw signs of life behind the frosted glass. Katie opened the door, pulling her towelling robe tighter, her face still crumpled with sleep.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘At crack of dawn? On a Saturday?’

  ‘It’s eight o’clock. I’ve been up all night.’

  Katie shrugged then stepped aside. Joe crossed the threshold and walked into the kitchen. He heard his wife calling from halfway up the stairs.

  ‘Make some coffee. I’ll be two minutes.’

  The bathroom door banged shut.

  Joe looked at the gleaming coffee maker, lovingly polished with baby oil, then set about making a pot of tea. Waiting for the kettle to boil, he studied the family snaps on the fridge door.

  One stood out: Luke’s twenty-first. Flanked by his parents, the birthday boy was blowing out candles on a cake.

  Joe studied Katie’s face. Her smile seemed genuine. Relaxed. Happy. But what had been going through her mind? How many birthdays – how many years – had been tarnished by anxiety about the past? Did she even know the truth? Had she told Duffy? The fact that their fling had coincided with her pregnancy must have preyed on her conscience. Or had she banished the possibility from her mind? Sheer willpower. Sometimes, truth amounted to what people tacitly agreed it had to be.

  All the same, how could she?

  Who was she?

  Joe’s eyes danced across the kitchen. The table already laid for breakfast. Bills on the dresser. The Oracle on the whiteboard. The scene that had once seemed so familiar now felt alien, as if his existence here had been a grand illusion.

  He consulted the Oracle. Aside from Luke’s next court appearance, ringed in red, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Katie’s swimming schedule. An appointment at the hairdresser’s. Luke’s job interview at M&S.

  The column for Saturday contained one word – training – followed by the letter ‘H’.

  Joe stared at the whiteboard. He considered making a new entry.

  Saturday 8:10 a.m.: meltdown.

  The kettle was boiling as Katie entered the kitchen. She’d brushed her hair and swapped her robe for a tracksuit.

  ‘Tea OK?’

  She shrugged, crossing to the table. He caught a whiff of toothpaste on her breath. She sat down, watching as he warmed the teapot.

  ‘Why the dawn raid?’

  Joe hesitated. He thought back to the hours he’d wasted, deep in depression, slumped in front of daytime TV, watching some sharp-suited huckster deliver DNA results to people who already looked close to a nervous breakdown. He recalled the guilt he’d felt at separating from his wife and son in order to put his own needs first for once.

  Breakdown to breakthrough.

  He put down the teapot. Tea could wait.

  ‘DNA,’ he said. He sat opposite his wife. ‘We need to talk about DNA.’

  ‘What about it?’

  Joe heard footsteps on the stairs. His heart was pounding. If the footsteps belonged to Duffy – if the bastard came through that door, wearing a dressing gown and a smug smile…

  He turned to the door.

  Luke entered.

  His hair was tousled. He wore boxers and a T-shirt emblazoned with a picture of a cannabis plant.

  ‘Morning, all.’

  He yawned, opened the fridge and took out a can of Red Bull.

  Joe couldn’t muster a smile.

  ‘You’re up early.’

  He watched his son snap open the can and sit at the table.

  ‘So,’ said Luke, ‘what’s happening?’

  Katie got to her feet and busied herself with the coffee machine.

  ‘Your dad’s decided this is CSI Canterbury. He wants to talk about DNA.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Luke. He took a swig of Red Bull. ‘Whose?’

  Joe studied his son’s face. The goatee was flourishing. A few more copper hairs were showing through, but the face was the same: traces of puppy fat; an easy smile that reached the eyes. It was the face of a young man pretending to be tougher than he felt – smarter, more confident, more at ease in his skin.

  ‘You OK?’ Luke was frowning.

  Joe nodded. His hands were clammy. He made a decision. This was no time to blurt something they would all have to live with for ever. The matter required sober consideration and the utmost delicacy – not least because of concerns over any medical legacy that might be handed down to Luke by his biological father.

  All that would have to wait.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

  Luke nodded.

  ‘So what’s this about DNA?’

  Joe paused, making an effort to compartmentalize the issues spinning around his head. He set about making tea while telling Katie and Luke about the letters in Lee Harvey Oswald’s coffin. How he had taken the note from Z to the police station, along with the letters and cards Luke had found in Raoul Jonas’s rubbish. How Bryan Messenger had had the grace to thank him and promise that, yes, he’d send the letter from Z for fast-track DNA analysis and yes, he’d phone the moment the results came in. Joe hadn’t believed a word.

&n
bsp; ‘Very cool,’ said Luke.

  Joe reached into his jacket pocket. His fingers closed around a photocopy of the letter he had found in Adam’s study. He placed it on the table.

  Katie stared. ‘Is it a good idea to be showing this?’ she said. ‘With Luke here?’

  Luke glared. ‘It’s family, Mum.’

  Joe managed a smile.

  ‘The boy’s got a good point.’ He nodded to the letter. ‘Tell me what you see.’

  ‘For starters,’ said Luke, ‘whoever this Z woman is, she has no idea about punctuation.’ He read the opening of the letter. ‘ “Dear Mr Pennefeather” full stop. Where’s the comma?’

  Joe smiled. ‘Pedant,’ he said.

  Katie rolled her eyes. ‘God knows where he gets that from.’

  She scanned the letter then looked from her son’s face to her husband’s, as though sensing the two were somehow ganging up her. She got to her feet.

  ‘I can see I’ll have to make my own cappuccino.’

  As she took the coffee from the fridge, Joe’s mobile rang.

  Chrissie McBride.

  He answered the call, turning away from his wife.

  ‘Can I call you back? Now’s not a good time.’

  The reporter was not easily fobbed off.

  ‘I was wondering if you still felt like cooking me that meal?’

  Joe felt Katie’s eyes boring into him.

  ‘That’s not going to work,’ he said.

  ‘OK,’ said Chrissie. ‘Maybe catch you later.’

  Joe pocketed the phone then turned to see Katie fixing him with a stare.

  ‘What?’

  The doorbell rang. His wife shrugged, heading for the hall, calling over her shoulder.

  ‘I’m wondering why you sounded so weird on the phone.’

  Luke waited until his mother had left the room then grinned at Joe.

  ‘Was that Miss Australia?’

  Joe frowned. ‘Don’t cause trouble.’

  Luke gave a shrug. He took a banana from the fruit bowl and began to peel it. Joe could hear Katie talking in the hall. It took a moment before he recognized the man’s voice.

  H.

  ‘Mum’s started jogging,’ said Luke, biting into his banana. ‘She’s doing a sponsored marathon for Macmillan Nurses.’

  A second later, Duffy entered clutching two Starbucks coffees. He wore new Adidas trainers and a tracksuit. Maroon with a yellow stripe on the seam. He smiled at Joe.

  ‘I’d have got an extra latte if I’d known.’

  He put the coffees on the breakfast bar, along with his iPhone and keys, then extended a handshake.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Joe pretended not to see the outstretched hand. He put his mug in the dishwasher. Luke lobbed his banana skin into the bin.

  ‘Places to go, people to see,’ he said. He patted Joe on the shoulder. ‘Talk later.’

  Joe watched his son leave. Silence descended. Katie entered, prising the lid from her latte.

  ‘I’ll be with you in a second,’ she said to Duffy. ‘Just need to find my trainers.’ She followed Luke out of the kitchen.

  Hugh raised an eyebrow, sensing an atmosphere.

  ‘Is everything OK?’

  Joe nodded. ‘Never better.’

  Duffy took a sip of coffee.

  ‘Anything planned for the weekend?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Do you jog?’

  Joe shook his head.

  ‘It’s worth thinking about,’ said Duffy. ‘We’re not getting any younger. And Katie’s really into this charity thing.’

  Joe didn’t reply. The man took another sip of coffee.

  ‘Nice work yesterday,’ he said. ‘Hats off to Mr Cassidy.’

  Joe said nothing. Silence descended. Unnerved, Duffy scratched his head.

  ‘Mind if I use your toilet?’

  Joe shook his head.

  ‘Right,’ said Duffy. ‘I’ll just…’

  He left the kitchen. Joe heard the door to the downstairs lavatory close. He turned to see the cat-flap opening. He stooped to pick up Spike, cradling the cat in his arms, feeling the familiar shape of his head.

  Duffy’s iPhone beeped. The screen lit up with a text. Joe crossed to the breakfast bar as the text appeared. Above the message was the sender’s name.

  Chrissie.

  Am free 2night after all. Lets stay in? Might let you take down my particulars again!! xxx

  The screen went blank, the message disappeared. Joe heard the flush of the toilet. Moments later, Duffy came back into the kitchen. Joe looked him in the eye.

  ‘Where are you living?’

  Hugh picked up his latte.

  ‘Beckett Avenue. I’m renting at the moment. Trying to sell my flat in London.’

  Joe knew Beckett Avenue. A tree-lined road, ten minutes away. Luke’s guitar teacher lived at number seventeen. Joe had once driven there, to collect his son on the way home from work. He lowered the cat to the floor then watched as Duffy bent down, offering Spike a hand to sniff.

  ‘Hello, puss,’ he said.

  For a glorious moment, Joe thought the creature might sink his teeth into the man’s hand – it wouldn’t be the first time he’d bitten a visitor – but Spike had other ways of making his feelings known. He ignored the hand then raised his tail and loped slowly past Duffy, disappearing in the direction of the hall just as Katie entered the kitchen.

  She was wearing Adidas trainers. Pristine. Box-fresh. Like Hugh’s.

  Joe found it hard to look at her. He couldn’t think of anything to say. The time for the truth would come. But not here. Not now.

  Avoiding his wife’s eye, he followed the cat into the hall. He opened the door and stepped into the fresh air. He didn’t close the door.

  Nor did he say goodbye.

  30

  Beckett Avenue at dusk was like any middle-class enclave on the outskirts of Canterbury. Rows of cars and red-brick houses. A few bow-fronted villas to add a touch of grandeur.

  Hunched behind the wheel of the MGB, Joe could see Duffy’s silver Ford parked on a curve in the road, ten doors away. He had been here since six o’clock but there was no sign of Chrissie or her car. He had no plan except to confirm the facts before he took action.

  What action?

  Not a clue.

  He was no longer thinking rationally, merely operating on instinct.

  A Dolly Parton song played on the radio. As the record faded, ending with a plea for temptress Jolene not to steal the singer’s lover, Joe turned off the radio. He was maudlin enough.

  Twenty minutes passed before his patience was rewarded. He saw the hack’s car cruise along the avenue, pulling to a halt near the house he’d identified as the likely home of Hugh Duffy. The garden had an air of neglect. The occupant was most likely a renter.

  Joe watched Chrissie check her make-up in the rear-view mirror. She got out of the car and took her laptop from the passenger seat, along with what looked like an overnight bag. She rang the doorbell. Joe craned his neck to be sure of a clear view. Sure enough, the door was opened by Duffy. The man greeted his visitor with a kiss. He ushered her inside and closed the door. Joe waited a couple of minutes then drove away. He’d seen all he needed to see.

  He passed the evening without talking to another soul, taking a blustery walk along the beach at Dungeness. Just seabirds for company. Supper was a chunk of plastic masquerading as Cheddar, a scoop of marmalade and the best part of two bottles of Rioja. He managed to notch up a few restless hours of sleep, tossing and turning in a tangle of sheets and lumpy pillows.

  Sometime in the early hours it began to rain. Groggy with sleep and booze, Joe stumbled around the shack, setting out buckets and pans while making a solemn promise: he could no longer live like this.

  On waking, bleary-eyed and furry-tongued, he knew a swim was the only way to shake off his hangover. He regretted the decision within seconds of hitting the ice-cold water.


  After breakfast at the Beach Cafe (the full monty, complete with fried bread and baked beans) he bought three Sunday papers and took them back to the shack, where he promptly fell asleep for five hours. He awoke with a start and a pounding heart. Two mugs of tea later, he could no longer put off the showdown that had been looming since he’d opened the letter from the Cambridge lab.

  There was also the matter of the text Duffy had received from Chrissie. Joe had been wrong about the reporter’s source. He’d done Bryan Messenger a disservice: the informant wasn’t the veteran copper, making a few quid on the side, it was Detective Sergeant Duffy showing off to an ambitious hack hungry for information.

  Joe showered, shaved and took his time getting dressed. Wearing a suit made him feel more in control. As dusk fell, he got into his car and drove back to Beckett Avenue.

  No sign of the silver Ford or Chrissie’s car. Duffy’s house was still in darkness. Joe rounded the corner and pulled up outside a cafe. A Coke and a cheeseburger helped to quell the last of his hangover. He returned to his car and cruised past the house on Beckett Avenue.

  No sign of his quarry. He checked his watch. Just gone nine p.m. He thought for a moment, considering his options, then drove away.

  Ten minutes later, he was outside the house on Marlowe Avenue. The downstairs lights were ablaze. Katie’s car was parked in the driveway. But there was still no sign of the Ford. Feeling like a stalker, Joe drove on, joining the traffic on the road to Dover.

  The ten o’clock news came on the radio as he reached the deserted industrial estate. He slowed the MGB by the dimly lit tunnel where he had first encountered Tiffany and her feisty friend. The scrawny teenagers were nowhere to be seen. Rounding the corner, he finally found what he was looking for. The silver Ford. The car was parked outside the row of terraced houses. He pulled over at a discreet distance and turned off his engine. Then he settled down to wait for ‘Blondie’.

  Ten minutes later, the blue front door opened. Duffy emerged, strolling towards his car, carrying his holdall over his shoulder. He was followed by Tiffany and her friend. Both lit cigarettes, or maybe spliffs. Joe watched as the sex workers exchanged a brief word with their punter before heading in the direction of the industrial estate. He turned his attention to his quarry, watching as Duffy put the holdall in the boot then sat behind the wheel of the car. The man began to roll a cigarette.