“When do you plan to tell Lucy?”
“I don’t know. She’s taking some time out so we’re going away. I might tell her then.” She half-smiled and her fingers moved to her rings – she was getting cold feet about telling Lucy the truth. I myself had given it more thought since yesterday morning and changed my mind, if for no other reason than Lucy could still hear it from Quintin from behind bars. If of course they kept him there – he would no doubt have a team of lawyers who would prove it was Trisha’s fault she had died – a woman can’t enjoy sex for its own sake without being judged.
“Do you still think I shouldn’t tell her?” Sylvia was asking.
“It doesn’t really matter what I think,” I said.
“Yesterday you made a passionate plea for me to tell her nothing.” She raised her eyebrows questioningly. They looked unnatural in their arched perfection.
“I don’t know. What you said made sense, about the burden of carrying around secrets. I don’t mean about the video, or how she was conceived – in a way that’s your business. But the question of who fathered her is her business. What I’m trying to say, not very well, is that if you’re carrying a secret about someone else, someone you love, then I think they have a right to know. Otherwise your relationship is built on a pretence.” I was spouting stuff I wasn’t sure I believed but I was worried she had lanced one boil only to cover another in makeup.
“I still need to think about it.”
“Where are you going?”
“Pardon?”
“Next week, where are you going?”
“Somewhere we’ve never been before.”
“An excellent choice, if I may say so.” We both smiled and I gazed meaningfully at the other envelope in her hand.
She cottoned on and handed it over. It had Jason’s name on it.
“I know I’ve paid you but this is specifically for Jason. Erm, cash, compensation for his injuries.”
“That’s really not necessary,” I said, taking it from her.
“No, but it would make me feel better.” I shrugged and we stood up. I walked her to the door.
“He and Lucy have grown quite fond of each other,” I said. She stopped and turned to me, putting her hand on the door to stop me opening it.
“In light of his relationship to you, and yours to me, I’m not sure it’s healthy for him and Lucy to, erm, maintain contact, do you?”
I thought it extremely healthy but I knew what she was really saying. She’d made it clear when she’d given me money for Jason: her daughter was not going to date someone she had employed.
“They are adults,” I said, out of pigheadedness. She nodded, but we were no longer having a discussion.
“We’ll be moving away from Cambridge when we come back; obviously we can’t continue to live at the college and I think a fresh start would be good for both of us. I’ll be discussing it with Lucy when we’re away, but I’ve already made enquiries this morning about getting her transferred out of Emma.” It sounded like they’d be having a fun mother and daughter trip, and I felt sorry for Lucy; in one respect nothing had changed for her, except she had lost her real father because of her biological one.
* * *
After Sylvia was gone Sandra rang and I reassured her I hadn’t forgotten about dinner. I left the office, passing Nina in the hall, who blanked me. Fuck her, or not, as the case now seemed to be. I drove home and mooched about. I tried to set up a new puzzle on the chessboard but the heavy pieces just reminded me of my father, and his reverence of the Armenian chess grandmaster Tigran Petrosian. I packed the chess pieces into their felt-lined box with the sliding lid and took them and the board to the car, which I pointed towards Cottenham. I’d have to face him at some point.
He wasn’t in his room. I followed the sound of the decrepit piano to the day room – he was there with the other residents. Someone was playing Gershwin songs quite badly, but still a pleasant contrast to the TV being on full blast. I saw Megan, the care assistant, standing behind my seated father, her hands on his shoulders. Unseen, I went back to his room where I put the chessboard on the small table used for flowers. I set up the pieces and left before the piano playing stopped.
* * *
Back home I remembered my invitation to dinner at Sandra’s. But I didn’t feel I could face her, especially not to go over everything again. I rang to tell her I was knackered and needed some rest. I could hear the disappointment in her voice as she told me to take it easy. I could have rung Kamal and asked him to come round but hesitated; the truth was that I wasn’t ready to talk to anyone just yet. I would have to at some point, if only to stop it eating away at me, like it had eaten away at Sylvia.
I fiddled around on the computer but decided it wasn’t what I needed. I didn’t know what I needed, just what I didn’t need. I knew I was hungry, but a search of the kitchen revealed nothing. I decided I needed to go out, out of my father’s house.
* * *
I drove round Cambridge for a bit, finding myself on the road to Morley College. I stopped at the McDonald’s.
Sundays, Mondays, and Tuesdays Cathy worked there, and it was a Monday. I was hungry, after all.
EPILOGUE
THE COUNTY COUNCIL PUT GATES ACROSS THE ENTRANCE TO the Magog Downs car park a few weeks later, so no one could have sex in cars there, not after hours anyway. I guess they just found somewhere else.
* * *
As if to give the finger to my cynicism Quintin Boyd was sentenced to life imprisonment for murder, although his team of lawyers are planning an appeal. His stiletto-wielding sidekick Kevin was convicted as an accessory. Mark the driver was acquitted, since he wasn’t present when it happened.
* * *
I’ve not heard from Sylvia, or Lucy for that matter. I looked Sylvia up once, to see that she was a trustee on the board of a high profile national charity based in Oxford. I have stopped looking at other women online, as it doesn’t really do anything for me anymore, that sort of thing. I’ll always associate it with Sylvia’s tape, and the sort of people who watched it. Although to be honest, it’s easy for me to take this moral stance since I’m having regular sex. When that stops my standards will no doubt slip. As for the dating website, I let my account gather cobwebs, much like my father’s shed, and eventually Sandra gave up bothering me about it.
* * *
I still haven’t come clean to Sandra about Lucy, but I did get it off my chest. I ended up telling Cathy about it one Sunday morning, as she lay next to me in my parents’ bed. She laughed hysterically, which is exactly the response I was looking for.
GEORGE KOCHARYAN WILL RETURN IN
THE RUNAWAY MAID
MARCH 2017
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I’M GRATEFUL TO ANGUS, PAM, JONATHON, JOHN AND MARY, all of whom helped by being generous with their professional know-how.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
E.G. RODFORD IS THE CRIME-WRITING PSEUDONYM OF AN award-winning author living in Cambridge, England. Rodford writes about the seedier side of the city where PI George Kocharyan is usually to be found.
COMING SOON FROM TITAN BOOKS
HACK
AN F.X. SHEPHERD NOVEL
KIERAN CROWLEY
It’s a dog-eat-dog world at the infamous tabloid The New York Mail, where brand new pet columnist F.X. Shepherd accidentally finds himself on the trail of The Hacker, a serial killer targeting unpleasant celebrities in inventive—and sometimes decorative—ways. Luckily Shepherd has hidden talents, not to mention a hidden agenda. But as bodies and suspects accumulate, he finds himself running afoul of cutthroat office politics, the NYPD, and an attractive but ruthless reporter for a competing newspaper. And when Shepherd is contacted by The Hacker, he realizes he may be next on the killer’s list…
“A witty and incisive mystery set in the raucous world of tabloid journalism. Laugh out loud funny and suspenseful.” Rebecca Cantrell, bestselling author of The Blood Gospel
“A rollicking, sharp
-witted crime novel.” Kirkus Reviews
“It’s a joy to read and captures the imagination from the start.” Long Island Press
AVAILABLE NOW
TITANBOOKS.COM
DUST AND DESIRE
A JOEL SORRELL NOVEL
CONRAD WILLIAMS
Joel Sorrell, a bruised, bad-mouthed PI, is a sucker for missing person cases. And not just because he’s searching for his daughter, who vanished five years after his wife was murdered. Joel feels a kinship with the desperate and the damned. He feels, somehow, responsible. So when the mysterious Kara Geenan begs him to find her missing brother, Joel agrees. Then an attempt is made on his life, and Kara vanishes… A vicious serial killer is on the hunt, and as those close to Joel are sucked into his nightmare, he suspects that answers may lie in his own hellish past.
“An exciting new voice in crime fiction” MARK BILLINGHAM, No. 1 bestselling author of Rush of Blood
“Top quality crime writing from one of the best” PAUL FINCH, No. 1 bestselling author of Stalkers
“Take the walk with PI Joel Sorrell” JAMES SALLIS, bestselling author of Drive
TITANBOOKS.COM
THE BLOOD STRAND
A FØROYAR NOVEL
CHRIS OULD
Having left the Faroes as a child, Jan Reyna is now a British police detective, and the islands are foreign to him. But he is drawn back when his estranged father is found unconscious with a shotgun by his side and someone else’s blood at the scene. Then a man’s body is washed up on an isolated beach. Is Reyna’s father responsible? Looking for answers, Reyna falls in with Detective Hjalti Hentze, but as the stakes get higher and Reyna learns more about his family and the truth behind his mother’s flight from the Faroes, he must decide whether to stay, or to forsake the strange, windswept islands for good.
PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR
“Unmissable and thrilling fiction… a tough-talking, brutally honest lesson in the harsh realities of youth crime.” Lancashire Evening Post
“This is bound to be a highly successful series.” Hearthfire
AVAILABLE NOW
TITANBOOKS.COM
WRITTEN IN DEAD WAX
A VINYL DETECTIVE NOVEL
ANDREW CARTMEL
He is a record collector – a connoisseur of vinyl, hunting out rare and elusive LPs. His business card describes him as the ‘Vinyl Detective’ and some people take this more literally than others. Like the beautiful, mysterious woman who wants to pay him a large sum of money to find a priceless lost recording – on behalf of an extremely wealthy (and rather sinister) shadowy client. Given that he’s just about to run out of cat biscuits, this gets our hero’s full attention. So begins a painful and dangerous odyssey in search of the rarest jazz record of them all…
“An irresistible blend of murder, mystery and music.” Ben Aaronovitch, bestselling author of Rivers of London
“The Vinyl Detective is one of the sharpest and most original characters I’ve seen for a long time.” David Quantick
AVAILABLE MAY 2016
TITANBOOKS.COM
For more fantastic fiction, author events, competitions, limited editions and more
VISIT OUR WEBSITE
titanbooks.com
LIKE US ON FACEBOOK
facebook.com/titanbooks
FOLLOW US ON TWITTER
@TitanBooks
EMAIL US
[email protected]
The Bursar's Wife Page 27