‘Quite sure. There’s a patient down there, having a smoke, who saw her. Said she seemed heartbroken. She told him she’d just lost her baby. He watched her being picked up by a car.’
‘A car?’ Imogen was aghast. ‘How on earth . . . ?’
‘Crafty young madam must’ve called someone when she went for her shower. I suppose she’s got a mobile phone?’
‘She has.’ Imogen glanced at her watch. One o’clock, give or take. ‘Was it a taxi?’ Perhaps they could trace the driver.
‘Not a taxi. A young maniac, doing handbrake turns and fishtailing all over the car park. Screaming at Cherie out of the window. A black car, the man said. All jazzed up, with a sound system to wake the dead.’
‘Oh God,’ moaned Imogen. ‘That sounds like Darcy Fox. He graduated straight out of the care system and into the criminal courts.’
‘Okay, that’s a start. D’you know where he lives?’ Jude crossed to a telephone. ‘Maybe we could send someone to pick her up.’
‘Darcy?’ Imogen gestured hopelessly. ‘Pillar to post.’
‘We have to get her back.’ Jude stood at the window, scanning the lights of the city. ‘She had a baby about an hour ago. It’s dangerous. She needs care.’
Imogen dialled Cherie’s mobile with fingers that were, unaccountably, shaking. No reply. She tried again. Then she sent a text.
‘We have to get her back,’ repeated Jude, urgently.
Imogen called Ellen Bayley, waking her up; she was home, but Cherie was not. She tried the police, who promised to look out for the car. Nobody had Darcy Fox’s latest address. Perhaps he didn’t have one.
The end of Jude’s shift had long passed, but she made no move to leave. The two women stood together at the window, willing Cherie to return, listening out for a stereo to wake the dead.
In her crib, the new baby slept on, oblivious.
Shortly after one am, emergency services were called to an accident at a roundabout on the dual carriageway. A black Vauxhall Corsa had collided head-on with a lorry.
The police arrived first, sirens wailing, swiftly followed by the fire brigade and an ambulance. The Corsa was barely recognisable as a car. Its stereo was silent.
‘Must have been going a hell of a lick,’ remarked a fireman as the ambulance crew jumped out. He gestured through the shattered windscreen. ‘There’s nothing you can do for these two. Just kids.’
‘We’ll have to cut them out,’ said his colleague. ‘What a bloody mess.’ And he strode off to organise the equipment.
The lorry had slewed sideways and was blocking the road. A couple of police officers stood talking to the shaken lorry driver; others were setting up cordons and directing traffic.
The older of the paramedics was a bruiser of a man, almost bald. A gold stud gleamed in one ear. He shook his head resignedly at the carnage and then leaned down to the driver’s door, looking in. Street lighting and shadows swarmed across his face.
‘Hang on,’ he muttered, moving closer. ‘That looks like . . .’
‘What’s up, mate?’ asked his colleague.
The older man didn’t answer. He straightened and ran around to the passenger side, squeezing himself between the lorry and what was left of the car’s bonnet. The interior of the wreck was lit rhythmically by the pulsating lights of emergency vehicles. He eased himself forward, peering through the contorted space that had once been a windscreen.
‘No,’ he said, suddenly. His voice was high and splintered. It sounded almost as though he was in tears. ‘Jesus Christ. No.’
Chapter One
I never asked for any of this.
The day started out pretty routine. You’d never guess my life was about to spin off the track and smash into the barriers. The radio alarm began making a racket, I dragged myself upright with my eyes glued shut, and Friday morning was off to a flying start.
I was brushing my teeth when out of nowhere there was Anna, standing beside me, all blow-dried and high-heeled and little-black-suited. She was watching me in the mirror. I didn’t even have my lenses in yet, and I’d nothing on but a pair of boxers. You feel at a bit of a disadvantage when the world’s all fuzzy and your mouth’s overflowing with white froth. I saw her taking a long, sad look at my reflection, and wished I could fit down the plughole.
‘My clock’s ticking, Jake.’
I didn’t like the sound of that, but I couldn’t reply. Not without spitting first, and that really would have upset her.
She had layers of reddish hair and a pale, wistful face. Sometimes I thought she looked as if she’d stepped out of an elfin kingdom. She drew her eyebrows together as though I was one of her more difficult clients.
‘My biological clock. Also my emotional and financial clocks. In fact, their alarms have gone off.’ She reached across and pulled the toothbrush from my mouth, and I spat into the basin with as much dignity as I could manage, which wasn’t a hell of a lot.
‘Can’t you just press the snooze button?’ I suggested hopefully.
‘I already have, Jake. Several times.’ She rubbed her hand across her eyes. ‘I’ve spent an entire night sitting in the kitchen, thinking. And I need to know, right now. Are you, or are you not, going to show me some commitment?’
I turned off the tap. I was thinking fast.
‘Probably. In the end,’ I mumbled grumpily, like a teenager caught smoking. The fact was, I knew I’d wasted enough of her time.
She smiled miserably. She was wearing a touch of lipstick for the occasion. ‘After four years, we both know you never will. I’m running out of time, and so are you, if you could only face up to it. You’re not immortal, for all your blarney. Your half-time whistle’s blowing, same as mine.’
‘Look, you don’t want kids, Anna,’ I protested. ‘You work about eighty hours a week. Where do kids fit in?’
She was a solicitor, a partner in a city firm, and there were weeks when I was lucky to see her before midnight.
She was staring directly at me now, not at my reflection, and her eyes were unnaturally bright. ‘I’m sorry, Jake. I’ve tried and tried to discuss this, and it’s got me nowhere. I want to have a family, I’ve never pretended anything else. I hoped we might talk about it last night, on the boat.’
I couldn’t seriously deny it. Trouble had been brewing for months. Over the past year, recession had forced her firm to get rid of staff— people with families and mortgages. Guilt weighed on Anna, made her re-evaluate her life. And finally, yesterday had been her thirty-fifth birthday, and that seemed to have an awful significance for her. I’d thrown money at the problem, got her some pearl earrings and—on the advice of Lucy from work—booked a river cruise for dinner.
It was a sound enough idea, bobbing romantically along the Thames among the ripples and reflections, but it was all a bit of a disaster. Anna was moody and quiet, waiting for me to ask what was the matter. I hate that. Makes me feel guilty. So I didn’t ask. I got canned instead, rolled home and fell asleep with my shoes and socks on.
‘You’ve got another thirty seconds,’ she said now, still watching me.
‘Don’t do this, Anna,’ I said. ‘Please don’t do this.’
It was a long thirty seconds. Finally, with me busily drying my face and looking anywhere but at her, I heard her sigh. It was a long-suffering sort of a sigh, like your mother makes when you’ve forgotten to tidy your room again.
‘Okay. I hoped I’d never have to say this.’ She took a long breath. ‘I want you to go.’
I stopped drying my face. Looked at her.
‘I know you’d carry on as we are for another four years. But I can’t,’ she insisted, blinking fiercely. ‘I have to move on.’
‘When?’ It was a staggeringly feeble response, I know. But it all seemed a bit unreal.
‘I’ll be away for the weekend. That’ll give you enough time, won’t it?’
‘Anna,’ I said, taking a step towards her. ‘Wait.’
‘How much longer should I wait?’ She watched me hesitat
e. Then she shook her head. ‘It’s no good, is it?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. Funny thing: even when you expect some kind of a showdown—even when you’ve brought it on yourself—it still comes as a bit of a kick in the ribs.
‘Thank you for everything, Jake Kelly. Thanks for all the fun. And . . . everything.’ Slipping one warm hand around my neck, she kissed me on the mouth. I found I’d wrapped my arms around her, and she leaned against me, her face against mine.
‘’Bye,’ she whispered, and I felt her breath graze my ear.
Then she walked out of the bathroom. Her footsteps paused in the hall; I’d like to think she was waiting for me to call her back, but perhaps she was just looking for her keys.
I didn’t call her back. It wouldn’t have been honest.
Eventually I heard the front door slam and her footsteps on the pavement, fading away. It wasn’t a cheerful sound.
‘’Bye,’ I said.
The flat seemed to hold its breath. I sat down on the edge of the bath. I could still smell her scent. By now she’d be halfway to the tube station, stopping to buy a newspaper. She’d be getting wet, rain plastering down her hair, undoing all the blow-drying. I could easily grab some clothes and catch her up, but then I’d have to ask her to marry me.
I seriously considered this option. It was a perfectly valid one. She was a fantastic girl, Anna. Clever, confident and vivacious. Far too good for me. I could almost see the church doors flying open and my bride gliding radiantly through them with about five of her clumsiest and ugliest friends trailing along behind her, wearing shiny purple dresses and looking like fat fairies on a tree. I could actually hear the thunder of the organ. I’d fly my mum over, and she’d wear her best dress and sob happily in the front row.
But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The very thought of spending the rest of my life tied irrevocably to Anna—or anyone else, for that matter—made me feel claustrophobic. Perhaps I was a fool, because I gave up a hell of a chance that day.
I got dressed, turned on breakfast television and made some coffee. Then I began to wander around the flat in my socks, lobbing things into cardboard boxes, feeling lousy, trying not to dwell on what I’d just lost. She wanted me out, she’d have me out. Today. This was her place, after all.
I was pretty decent about it, if I do say so myself. I left the stereo and most of the CDs, although I couldn’t resist the Van Morrison collection. It was odd to see just how entangled our lives had become. Depressing, really. We’d surrounded ourselves with objects and memories that belonged to us both. Who actually forked out for that Moroccan rug by the bed? Who owned the Balinese statue we’d brought back in our hand luggage? It had fallen out of the overhead locker and floored that air hostie. Served her right, stroppy sow.
I spent all morning packing up, and in that time I made some decisions. Rather monumental decisions, actually.
Life in the City was changing, fast and furiously. The financial world was barely recognisable; it wasn’t a fun place to be any more, and I reckoned it could get a whole lot worse. I’d been thinking about getting out for a while. Anna just gave me that final shove.
I left a note, a short one, just saying thanks. It was pathetic. Then I piled the stuff into my car and let myself out—for the last time—into the rain, which put on a special performance to mark the solemnity of the occasion. I stood on the doorstep for a minute or two, jingling the keys to the flat from one hand to the other and wondering where the hell I was going to be sleeping that night. It felt a bit odd, after four years, to be posting my own door keys back through the letterbox and hearing them thud onto the hall carpet. Final. Not my home any more.
I didn’t cry, though.
Obviously.
The rain paused for breath as I arrived in the City. I left the car in an underground car park and walked the rest of the way. I’ve never quite got used to wearing the suit and tie and shiny shoes; makes me feel like a confidence trickster—which is more or less accurate, I suppose. They were digging up Moorgate again, and I inhaled the life-giving tang of burning tarmac and exhaust fumes as I marched in through the mirrored doors of Stanton’s.
I headed straight up to Delaney’s office. My boss was pretty friendly, in his slithery Californian way.
‘Jake! Pull up a chair. What can I do for you?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve come to tell you that I’m leaving, Barney.’ Jeez, I enjoyed those words more than you can possibly imagine. I still smirk at the memory.
He looked vaguely impatient, turning in his swivel chair, peering at me like a hungry lizard. Then he crossed his legs and switched on his reptilian smile.
‘So, Jake. How much?’
‘No, really,’ I protested. ‘This isn’t a device to lever more money out of you.’
He sighed cynically. ‘C’mon, Jake, I wasn’t born yesterday. Let’s cut to the chase. What’s the figure we’ve got to match?’
‘No, no, Barney.’ He’s gone mad, I thought. Does he seriously believe I’m here to make demands, in the middle of a financial meltdown? ‘I’m really leaving.’ I dragged a slightly scruffy letter out of my pocket, scribbled in the car park. ‘Here it is in writing.’
I pushed the paper across his desk. He stared vacantly at it, his smile fixed. Then he flicked his tongue. I’m sure it was forked. ‘Perhaps you’d care to tell me why, Jake? I presume you’re going elsewhere.’
I laughed out loud. ‘Elsewhere? You think I’m jumping ship? Barney, wake up! Everyone’s getting fired, for God’s sake!’
I could tell he didn’t believe me. He didn’t live in the real world. ‘Sure you don’t just need a holiday?’ He was going through the motions now. We both knew it.
‘Quite sure.’
He tossed his head, huffily. ‘Well. I’m afraid I can’t rule out the possibility that you’re defecting. So you’d better clear your desk immediately.’
It didn’t look as though he was going to thank me for the years of loyal service.
I arrived at my corner three seconds before Kenneth, the security man, fetched up to escort me from the building. That’s the Stanton’s way, although I’d expected to be given a bit longer. It’s the same in most investment banks, I should think. You’ve become a spy, potentially, for the competition. So once you’re out, you’re out, before you start stealing secrets. Kenneth planted himself beside my desk, raised his eyebrows at me, and then turned his uniformed back.
I opened the drawers and took out my things: half a packet of glacier mints, and a fluffy kiwi sent by Mum as a hint because she wanted me to come home. It lived zipped up snugly in a miniature felt rugby ball, and many a happy hour we’d spent with it in the office, practising drop kicks and passes. Only last month, Len Harvey broke a tooth after a truly spectacular tackle on my part landed him face down in the wastepaper bin. Mum would have been proud.
Len glanced up briefly from his screen and nodded at me. Like most of my ex-colleagues he was in his shirtsleeves, hair tousled, looking wild and desperate like someone in a casualty ward.
By contrast, at the next desk Lucy Harrison was yakking enthusiastically on the phone. It was as though she’d been filmed in colour against a black-and-white background. She’d been away earlier in the week, dealing with some family crisis; then straight on to Oslo for work. I was pleased to see her before I left. I’d finished my packing, but I waited to speak to her.
‘Jake.’ She glanced up at the clock as she finished her call. ‘How good of you to put in an appearance.’
‘Hi, Luce. All good at home?’
She flapped a hand, dismissively. ‘Mad as hatters.’
‘How about Oslo?’
‘Waste of time.’
She began dialling again, but then spotted the security guy. He was standing still, legs apart, waiting with the patience of a very bored person.
‘Is Ken your new bodyguard?’ she asked.
‘No. I’m out of here. Barney’s sent him to stop me walking out with the desktop stuff
ed down my pants.’
She dropped her phone, rage in the bottle-green eyes. ‘They haven’t given you the push?’
‘Nope. I jumped first, but it was only a matter of time.’
‘But you’re better than everybody else.’
‘No, just more expensive.’
Her gaze fell forlornly onto the little black rugby ball I was holding. I lobbed it over, and she reached out and caught it with one hand.
‘You can’t slink off without buying me lunch,’ she insisted, standing up and grabbing her jacket from the back of her chair. ‘Shall we ask the others?’
I looked around at the familiar faces. I’d probably never see them again. And you know what? I didn’t care. I shook my head, and she shook hers, too.
As we left, both our desk phones were ringing.
We had lunch in a wine bar on Finsbury Circus. I bought a bottle of something that cost enough to feed a Sudanese refugee family for a year, and drank most of it myself. Lucy seemed a bit distracted, and I wasn’t on top form either. She was a very deflating audience, drumming her long fingers on the table and scowling at the crowd mobbing the bar. Normally she’s engaged, lively, cheerily flirtatious.
The waitress arrived with Lucy’s minestrone, my steak sandwich, and the largest pepper grinder in the world. It made me feel inadequate. When she’d gone, Lucy leaned towards me.
‘Now. Tell me why you’re going.’
I didn’t need to feel guilty. I’d done right by the girl. Been her manager until twelve o’clock that day. In fact, I’d interviewed her for the job in the first place. She was clearly outstanding. The boys leered, said she was outstanding, all right. But it honestly wasn’t about her Wonderbra bust—she wore little green blouses that matched her eyes—or her spectacular legs, or the nifty boy’s haircut that showed the nape of her neck. No. It was the way she looked at the world. She seemed to find it all rather funny. She was bright too, complete with a scary degree and three languages. Next to her, I felt like a hillbilly, which of course is exactly what I am.
Lucy and I had one of those entertaining friendships with an edge. But I’d never laid a finger on her, honest. It would have been harassment.
Freeing Grace Page 2