by Helen Black
‘Everyone?’
‘The wife, kids, Crystal and her husband,’ he said.
Liberty sat up. ‘Crystal’s married?’
‘Yup. Nice bloke as it happens. Sound.’
Liberty rubbed her face.
‘Frankie might even make an appearance,’ said Jay.
Liberty tried to speak. She opened her mouth but no sound came out. Just a horrible rasp.
‘Pick you up at seven?’ Jay asked.
Dinner with Jay, Crystal and Frankie. The thought made Liberty shiver. Jay, Crystal and Frankie. Her family.
‘So, what do you reckon?’ he asked.
‘Okay,’ she said.
Jay’s home was not what Liberty had expected. What had she expected? Not this farmhouse built of York stone, nestling at the end of a winding drive. The tyres crunched on gravel as Jay pulled up outside. ‘The missus chose it,’ he said.
Liberty smiled. ‘It’s lovely.’
Jay beamed. He’d always needed approval. Didn’t everyone? She needed to tell him that she’d changed her mind about the alibi, but didn’t have the heart right now. She’d let him show off tonight: his home, his life, his family. Then she’d text him. Better to do it that way. Or was she just being a coward?
Rebecca met them at the door. Another surprise. A solid woman in sensible clothes. Jeans, long-sleeved Breton top, loafers. Her hair was short, well cut, but remained a defiantly undyed mousy blonde. The wife of a middle-aged businessman. She smiled warmly at Liberty and spoke in a deep voice, the accent local but nowhere near as pronounced as Jay’s. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘After all these years, Jay’s found you.’
Liberty winced. Rebecca had made it sound as though Jay had been looking for her. Surely that wasn’t right. Not after all this time. ‘Weird, huh?’ she said.
‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns,’ Jay did an exaggerated Bogart, ‘and she walks into mine.’
Rebecca rolled her eyes at Jay and led Liberty through the hall-way to an enormous kitchen with views on to the garden beyond. Two little boys somersaulted on a trampoline, screaming and whooping.
‘Liam and Ben,’ said Jay.
‘Should I call them in?’ Rebecca asked.
Liberty shook her head. The night was still warm, the children happy. ‘Let them play.’
Rebecca laughed. ‘You’re as bad as Jay. He’d leave them out there all night if they were having fun.’
Liberty caught his eye and, for a second, was transported back in time. Little kids in a damp flat, hiding in a bedroom with the dressing-table pushed against the door for protection. A whoosh of warm air touched her cheek as her sister-in-law opened the oven. ‘I hope you’re hungry,’ she said, and pulled out a tray lined with roasted tomatoes, each topped with a blackened leaf of basil.
‘I am now,’ Liberty replied.
‘Something smells good,’ came a voice from the hall.
And three people stepped into the kitchen. Two men, one woman. The first man was unfamiliar. Tall, blond, an easy smile. But the other two were unmistakable. The second man, dark, a younger version of Jay. The woman, beautiful with creamy skin and a mane of auburn curls. Frankie and Crystal.
‘Is it really you?’ Frankie asked.
Liberty didn’t trust herself to speak so she nodded.
Frankie looked to his older brother, as if he needed further confirmation. When Jay nodded, Frankie laughed. ‘Total headfuck.’
‘Language,’ Rebecca admonished. ‘The little ones are around.’
‘They’d need bionic hearing from out there,’ Jay said.
Frankie laughed again, moved to Liberty and, before she knew what he was going to do, he hugged her. The feel of him was overwhelming. Her baby brother. His hair tickling her mouth, the smell of him in her nose. Aftershave, fags, something acrid yet minty. He stepped back, still laughing.
‘He’s still not the full ticket,’ said Jay.
Next, the blond man moved, his hand held out. ‘Harry,’he said. ‘Crystal’s other half.’
Liberty shook it, embarrassed because she knew hers was sweating. Over his shoulder she could see Crystal staring. Her eyes were impossible to read.
‘Lib,’ she said.
Liberty had a word ready on her tongue but it dissolved. Her blood was pounding so hard that her chest physically hurt. The room swam dangerously.
‘Any chance of a drink, Jay?’ Harry asked.
‘Yes, Jay, drinks all round,’ said Rebecca, her voice spilling into shrill. ‘There are three bottles of bubbly in the fridge.’
Sol brought the thick green liquid to his lips. It had the texture of milk of magnesia – did people still use that stuff? – and the taste of rotting grass.
‘You don’t look like you’re enjoying that,’ Hassani said.
He looked down at the smoothie his wife had decanted for him into an old water bottle. He’d returned home to the threatening sound of the liquidizer turning things you wouldn’t want to eat whole into things you still didn’t want to eat but liquid. Natasha had smiled up at him, a bunch of spinach in her hand.
He’d been grateful to receive a call from Hassani suggesting they meet, but Natasha wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily.
‘I don’t think enjoying it is the point,’ Sol replied.
They were outside the security office in the hospital, waiting for the man on duty to locate CCTV footage from Tuesday. It had already been forty-five minutes and Sol was losing the will to live.
‘What’s in it? Hassani asked.
Sol held the bottle up to the strip light. ‘The secret of life.’
Hassani laughed and Sol noticed her teeth: small, even, sharp. Despite the long hair and dramatic black eye-liner, there was something distinctly boyish about her.
‘Are you sure it was Jay Greenwood you saw?’ Sol asked, for the tenth time.
She nodded.
‘But you were busy on another job,’ Sol pointed out. ‘How much attention were you paying?’
‘Daisy was being patched up,’ Hassani replied. ‘Her bite had got infected. I came to hold her hand but she didn’t need it.’
‘You weren’t distracted?’ Sol asked.
‘Not really. I sat around, waiting, just like we are now.’
Sol took another swig of his smoothie, winced and placed the still full bottle in a bin without a sound. ‘What happened when he came on to the ward?’
Hassani sighed.
‘Humour me,’ said Sol.
‘He spoke to the sister at the desk,’ Hassani replied. ‘I didn’t hear exactly what was said, but soon there were raised voices so I moseyed my way over.’
‘Did you say anything to him?’
She shook her head. ‘By the time I got there, he was leaving. But I got a proper look at him. It was definitely Jay Greenwood.’
‘And you know him how?’
‘Is there a copper round here that doesn’t know who Jay Greenwood is?’ Hassani asked, with a laugh.
Sol narrowed his eyes.
Hassani rolled hers. ‘I’ve been in the Black Cherry several times when he’s been in there. I’m telling you it was him.’
So why would the solicitor lie? Sure, Sol had met bent ones in his time. Just like bent coppers, they usually did it for the money. Chapman didn’t seem like she needed the money, though. A few phone calls had confirmed she worked for some smart outfit in London. Rance had instructed the big boys. Or his daddy had at any rate. Chapman was at the top of her game and it radiated from her. But Jay Greenwood? What the hell was Chapman doing having lunch with him? Greenwood’s business had grown in recent times, but enough to afford legal rep like that?
It didn’t make sense.
‘We’re going to question the family, right?’ Hassani asked.
‘We’ll get zilch from Crystal,’ Sol replied.
‘Then we target the wife,’ said Hassani. ‘She might be interested to know that her loving husband is visiting his lap-dancers in hospital.’
Sol put up his hand. ‘We need to tread carefully. At the moment the alibi is cast iron. Talking to his wife could be seen as harassment.’
‘I keep telling you that his alibi is bullshit,’ said Hassani. ‘You’ll see for yourself.’
The door to the security office opened and the manager emerged, smelling suspiciously of skunk. He gestured them inside towards a monitor. ‘I’ve isolated the date, time and ward,’ he said.
He sat in front of the monitor, Sol and Hassani standing behind him. Together they watched the screen. A grainy image of the desk appeared, a figure moving behind it.
‘That’s the ward sister,’ said Hassani.
A moment later, another figure came into shot. A tall, well-built man, with his back to the camera.
‘It’s Greenwood,’ said Hassani.
Another moment passed and a third figure came into shot. The man turned to it briefly, then moved away.
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Sol. ‘That’s you.’
Back in the car park, Sol pulled out his e-cig. He took two drags, waiting for the scratch, but these things didn’t work like that. What could you expect?
‘Problem?’ Hassani asked.
Sol blew water vapour at her. ‘Total waste of time.’
‘It proves I’m right,’ said Hassani.
‘No, it doesn’t,’ Sol replied. ‘It proves someone came to the hospital to see Kyla Anderson. It doesn’t prove who it was.’
‘I can say who it was.’ Hassani pressed her palm to her chest. ‘I say it was Jay Greenwood.’
‘And a solicitor says it wasn’t.’
Hassani crossed her arms. ‘She’s lying.’
Sol raised an eyebrow.
‘I’ve had two dealings with that woman and they both reeked like an over-full bin bag,’ said Hassani. ‘On my case she convinces Daisy not to testify. On yours she alibis a person of interest. The only real person of interest. Something’s going on with her and we both know it.’
Sol nodded. Something was going on, and Miss Liberty Chapman seemed to be up to her pretty neck in it.
‘We should go to the Chinese,’ said Hassani.
Sol’s stomach growled in response. He could murder some crispy duck.
‘Greenwood and Chapman say they were eating in the Jade Garden,’ said Hassani. ‘So let’s ask the manager if they’re telling porkies.’
The smell of hot fat hung low and thick in the air of the restaurant. Amira ran her top teeth over her tongue, surprised not to find a solidified layer coating it. Dad was forever deep-frying kibbeh at home, even though she had told him you could bake it in the oven, which wouldn’t make their clothes smell or clog their arteries, but this was way worse. As if the oil hadn’t been changed in decades.
A woman with a smooth round face greeted them with a huge grin. ‘I help you?’ she asked, in broken English.
Her grin dropped when Connolly produced his warrant card and her eyes flicked nervously towards the kitchen. ‘We’re not Immigration,’ he said.
‘I get manager,’ said the woman, and scuttled away, shouting something in Chinese.
Amira and Connolly waited in the reception area, watching fish swim round and round and round in their tank, ignoring the plastic shipwreck at the bottom. At last a man appeared, the smile on his lips not making it to his eyes. ‘Come through,’ he said, and led them to a large round table set for eight. ‘Take a seat.’ He waited for them to sit, before taking a chair himself, then called behind him in Chinese. Almost instantly the receptionist reappeared with a tray containing two glasses of water and a plate of prawn crackers, which she placed in front of Amira and Connolly without a word.
‘Thank you,’ said Amira
The woman nodded but did not look at her.
‘Now, what can I do for you?’ the man asked.
‘You’re the manager?’ Connolly asked in reply.
‘For my sins.’
‘And your name?’
‘Song Chen.’
Amira took a prawn cracker and bit into it. Stale. She forced it down with a gulp of tepid water.
‘Mr Chen, I’d like to ask you about last Tuesday,’ said Connolly ‘You were open?’
Chen nodded. ‘We’re open seven days a week.’
‘Lunchtimes and evenings?’ asked Connolly
‘People must eat.’
Amira opened her notebook and took out a pen. So far Chen hadn’t said anything noteworthy but the point was to show that she was listening attentively. She’d learned early on that a lot of police work was about perception.
‘Do you know a man called Jay Greenwood?’ Connolly asked.
‘Of course,’ said Chen. ‘He owns the Black Cherry.’
‘Does he ever come in here?’
‘All the time.’ Chen was still offering his cold smile. ‘Our food is very good.’
‘And was he here on Tuesday lunchtime?’ Sol asked.
Chen didn’t miss a beat. ‘Yes. He had lunch with a lady friend.’
Amira looked up from her notebook. Chen hadn’t even paused to think about it. Either he had a fantastic memory or he had been expecting this question.
‘Do you recall when they arrived?’ Sol asked.
‘Around one.’
‘And when they left?’
‘Around four, I believe,’ Chen replied. ‘Perhaps a little later.’
Too slick. No ums or ahs. No ‘Let me think.’
‘You seem very sure,’ said Sol.
Chen bowed his head slightly and Amira glanced at Connolly who gave her a little frown. This was bullshit and they both knew it.
‘If that’s all . . .’ said Chen.
He was too clever by half, but Amira was about to knock the stupid smile off his face.
‘You keep a record of each meal served?’ she asked. ‘Each bill paid?’
‘The taxman would not have it otherwise,’ Chen replied.
‘So you’ll have a record of what Mr Greenwood and his companion ordered,’ she said.
‘Of course.’
‘And you’ll have the bill going through the till, presumably with the time recorded on it?’
She and Sol exchanged a mental high five.
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Chen.
Amira put down her notebook. ‘Mr Chen, this is something we can easily check. We can get a warrant if necessary.’
‘I’m afraid a warrant won’t assist you,’ Chen replied.
‘Because?’
‘Because I did not charge Mr Greenwood for his meal on Tuesday.’ Chen stood. The meeting was clearly at an end. ‘I never charge Mr Greenwood.’
Dinner passed in a blur. The food looked and smelt delicious. A huge leg of lamb, studded with sprigs of rosemary, sliced into thick pink ribbons. Hot cubes of potato, their skins crisp. The roasted tomatoes and bowls of oily olives. All served on pristine white plates in the dining room, patio doors flung open to let in the warm night air.
But Liberty could barely eat. She felt panicked and over-whelmed. The air was hot, the children endlessly jumping down from their seats. Frankie’s laugh was loud and there was a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. Her mouth was dry so she glugged down some wine. That calmed her enough to force down some food. It tasted of nothing. A mouthful of cardboard.
Frankie took several pictures of Liberty on his phone, then grabbed hers and took one of them both. Her smile looked wild.
When everyone had finished, Jay and Rebecca began to ferry the plates back to the kitchen and Frankie went outside to smoke. Harry smiled at Liberty and put a hand on hers. ‘We know what you’re doing for Jay and we appreciate it.’
Liberty gulped.
‘The police,’ Harry continued. ‘They want to ruin Jay. They don’t care how hard he’s had it. How far he’s had to come.’
Liberty picked up her glass, drained it and reached for the bottle. She was drinking too much, eating too little. Her head was spinning. The sound of Jay and Rebecca’s laughter filtered from the kitchen.
‘I know you’re probably wondering why he’d get involved with another woman when he’s got such a good thing going here,’ said Harry.
Liberty shrugged. People had affairs all the time at work. It wasn’t her business.
‘He’s a good bloke,’ said Harry. ‘A bloody great brother-in-law, but he’s got a self-destruct button.’ He flicked a glance to the open patio doors. ‘Frankie as well.’
Liberty looked at Crystal. They had said very little to one another. Then again, Crystal hadn’t said very much to anyone.
‘I don’t suppose you can live through the things that you lot did and come out of it untouched,’ said Harry.
Liberty didn’t break eye contact with Crystal as she wondered how much her sister had told Harry. If she knew Crystal, it would be very far from the whole truth. More the edited highlights. As kids, they’d got very good at that, cutting and pasting, depending on who was doing the asking. But Harry was right about one thing. What had happened had marked them all. ‘I don’t really understand why I have to give the alibi,’ said Liberty. ‘Jay should be asking his . . . friend.’
‘He can’t do that,’ said Harry. ‘For one thing, she’s not the sort of person the police are likely to believe.’
‘A girl from the club?’ Liberty asked.
Harry nodded, at least having the decency to look embarrassed.
Liberty sighed.
‘We’d really rather keep her out of it,’ said Harry. ‘For every-one’s sake, especially Becca’s. If she found out . . .’
Liberty groaned. If Rebecca found out that her husband was having it away with one of his lap-dancers, what might she do?
‘Anyway.’ Harry gave a cough. ‘We really appreciate it.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Don’t we, babe?’
Crystal’s eyes flashed at Liberty. ‘Yeah.’ Her voice was even. ‘Really appreciate it.’
And, in that second, Liberty knew she was not going to call Sol Connolly to tell him she had made a mistake.
Chapter 9
September 1985
She’s dead.
Gone.
I feel like I ought to cry, but I can’t.
‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ says Dad.
I can’t believe he just said that. Then again, I can’t believe anything he says or does. It’s like somebody made a bet with him to be the biggest arsehole in the world and every day he does his best to win the prize fund.