No Time To Cry

by James Oswald

‘The length and texture of his tongue, I expect. He’s very good at being nice to the people who matter.’

  Veronica smirks into her coffee. ‘I can see why Peter liked you. And why Gordon didn’t.’ She pauses a while before continuing, the smile drifting away as she remembers why she’s here. ‘I’ll understand it if you can’t tell me either. I know how these things are, when there’s an ongoing investigation and stuff.’

  ‘You know, no one’s actually debriefed me on the operation. Not properly. I gave them a statement two weeks ago, but no one’s told me what I can and can’t say about it. They’re all too busy trying to work out how to hang the blame on me, I guess.’

  ‘But you don’t want to talk about it.’

  It’s not a question, but I can see the subtle probing behind it. I’ve spent enough years interviewing suspects to know when I’m on the other side of the metaphorical table.

  ‘What is it you do?’ I ask. ‘Pete never said. Never talked about you much at all, really.’

  ‘I work in security. Personal protection.’

  I look at her more closely. She’s about my height, about Pete’s age. Not particularly bulky or strong, although it’s hard to tell given her loose-fitting clothes. She doesn’t have the face of someone who spends long hours in the gym or the ring though.

  ‘Admin mostly, these days. And the agency I work for does a lot of private investigation work as well. There’s a surprising overlap. Sorry about the interrogation.’

  ‘Nothing to apologise for. You were only asking questions.’ I sit back in my chair, stare at my tiny espresso cup and wonder if I need another. ‘As to how Pete died, he was working undercover, his cover was blown and the people we were after killed him. Then they set fire to the building he was in to try and cover their tracks, only I was on my way there, arrived before the fire had taken hold. I . . . found him.’

  Veronica’s face darkens into a scowl. ‘Is that why they suspended you? They suspect you of blowing his cover? Ridiculous.’

  ‘They want a scapegoat, and I’m not exactly loved by all in the unit.’

  ‘Let me guess. Not many female detectives.’

  ‘There’s a few of us. I’m probably a bit more free with my opinions than the rest. Less bothered about scrambling up the greasy pole too.’

  ‘Less tolerant of your male colleagues’ wandering hands and casual misogyny, I suppose.’

  I think about the station banter, the rough machismo that always gets excused as a coping mechanism for the stress of the job. Not something I’ll miss, if I’m being honest.

  ‘Did you speak to Pete often?’ I ask, turning the attention away from me and my story. Veronica takes a slow drink from her coffee before answering.

  ‘Not a lot, no. We used to do Christmas cards, but that dried up a few years back. I sometimes emailed him if I needed a favour, but we’ve been divorced almost ten years now. Gone our separate ways. I’ve been trying to remember when I last spoke to him on the phone and it must have been eight, nine months ago? Can’t think when we were last in the same room together.’

  ‘And yet you came to his funeral.’ I pick up my cup, turn it round and round, watching the tiny drip of dark brown liquid pooled in the bottom.

  ‘I didn’t hate him. Well, maybe for a while, but that was a long time ago. We just stopped loving each other, that’s all. He had his career as a detective and I . . . didn’t.’

  ‘Why did you leave? The Met, that is.’

  ‘Wandering hands and casual misogyny probably sums it up best. I’d had enough, and someone made me a better offer.’ Veronica reaches into the small patent leather bag she brought with her, takes out a business card and slides it across the table to me. I pick it up, see a company logo, an address in Birmingham, the name Veronica Copperthwaite and a title that’s somewhat more senior than admin.

  ‘You kept his surname?’

  ‘Call me sentimental. Also, I had enough trouble growing up as Roni Potts. People take me more seriously this way.’

  There’s more to it than that, I can tell. I’m more interested in why she’s giving me her business card.

  ‘I’m not looking for a job right now, you know.’ I go to hand the card back to her, but she doesn’t take it.

  ‘I’m not offering you one right now either. Keep it though.’ She nods at the card. ‘You never know. You might change your mind. And so might I.’

  7

  London’s sweltering under a temperature inversion as I walk across town to my flat. The air is still, exhaust fumes building up to dangerous levels. Sweat clings to my scalp, drips down my back and pools uncomfortably around my waistband. Black might have been appropriate for Pete’s funeral, but it’s the worst possible colour to be wearing outside today. Soon I’ll be home though, then I can strip off and stand under a cold shower until the evening comes.

  I could have caught a taxi, I suppose; they’ve all got air conditioning these days. But it occurred to me around about the same time as Veronica didn’t offer me a job that I’m not exactly flush with cash right now. When I told her I’d quit, that wasn’t exactly true, but it’s only a matter of time before I’m either pushed or I jump. They want someone’s scalp for Pete’s death and the collapse of the whole operation. I know I’m the easiest target for that, even if I know just as well that I’ve done nothing wrong. Even if I can prove that, though, do I really want to work with a team that hates me? Tomorrow’s interview with Professional Standards isn’t going to be much fun.

  There’s a small tupperware pot by my front door when I finally arrive home, fretful and sweaty. Mrs Feltham has taken to feeding me now that I’m home all day and can drop by to chat. I peel the lid off and smell something wonderful and Jamaican that will probably blow the top of my head off when I eat it. Best not to ask what the meat in it is either. Goat, most likely.

  The flat’s too warm, so I go round opening all the windows. There’s no wind to blow through though, just the noisy roar of the city. Popping the curry in the fridge brings a welcome flow of cool air, and for a moment I seriously consider just sitting on the floor with the door open.

  Instead, I go to the bedroom to strip off my damp clothes, then stand in the shower for a while to cool down. I don’t know how long I’m in there, but the tips of my fingers are all wrinkled by the time I step out and towel myself down. The afternoon light seems to be fading towards evening now, shadows lengthening. I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror for a while, not really seeing anything except maybe the puffy bags under my eyes. The same old careworn expression I’ve seen every day of my adult life. Perhaps it’s time for a change, after all.

  Loosely wrapped in a dressing gown, I wander back to the bedroom to get dressed. A thick towel wrapped around your pinky finger’s never the best way to get water out of your ear, which is probably why I’m halfway to the bed before I notice there’s a man sitting in the little armchair in the corner by the open window. His face is in shadow, but there’s something very familiar about the shape of him. Then he moves, and I wonder whether I haven’t caught a bit too much sun walking across town.

  ‘Pete?’

  ‘Hey, Con. It’s good to see you.’

  I still can’t see his face, but there’s no mistaking that voice. Except that Pete’s dead. I know he is. I saw his body. The air in the bedroom is chill, goose pimples rising on my bare arms, but I feel no fear, sense no threat. If anything I’m angry, just not sure who I’m angry at.

  ‘How can you be here?’

  ‘Who says I am? I could just be a figment of your imagination.’

  That sounds like the sort of rubbish Pete would say. He thinks it’s clever and enigmatic, but it’s just annoying. I slump down on the bed, unsurprised when his face stays in shadow. I know he’s not there. It’s just my grief and the stress of the past few weeks. My own guilty conscience taunting me.

  ‘Seriously thoug
h. You’re dead. I’ve just been to your funeral. Just spent an interesting hour talking to your ex-wife.’

  ‘Roni? How is she? Taking everything in her stride, I expect.’

  ‘She seemed fine. Sort of offered me a job.’

  He tilts his head to one side as if considering the news. ‘You’d work well together. You should consider it.’

  ‘Yeah, well. Maybe. Let’s see how tomorrow goes first. They might just throw me in jail.’

  ‘I’m sorry. You should never have got the blame for what happened. If there’s any justice they’ll realise it wasn’t your fault.’

  I can’t quite understand why I’m so calm, so rational. This is an impossible situation. There’s no way I can be having this conversation with anyone but myself. And yet it’s good to hear his voice, see him again. Well, most of him.

  ‘I can’t see your face, Pete. You trying to hide something from me?’

  ‘You don’t want to see it. Trust me on that, Con.’ He leans back in the chair, fading into shadows that shouldn’t be dark enough to swallow a man like that. ‘Be careful. The people who did this to me, they won’t stop there. Not if they think they’re still threatened.’

  I can hear the concern in his voice, and now I am scared. I stand up, cross the room to where he’s sitting, but the closer I get, the more indistinct he becomes. I blink away the tears that have sprung from nowhere, and when my vision clears, he is gone.

  The pub’s full of people and noise, just the thing I want after whatever it was that happened in my flat. I didn’t have a conversation with my dead boss, I’m sure of that. Fairly sure. I mean, ghosts don’t exist, do they? Only on those rubbish telly programmes I’ve seen sometimes when night shift buggers up my internal clocks. Never mind the watershed, daytime television should come with a health warning.

  I like this place. It’s only five minutes’ walk from the flat, and the usual crowd are young, carefree. London bohemians who don’t take themselves as seriously as the hipsters in Peckham and Shoreditch. It won’t last, property prices are pushing everyone who doesn’t work in finance further and further out from the centre. Soon places like this will be no more than glorified wine bars, or worse yet gastropubs selling burgers for twenty quid and fries five quid extra.

  But for now it’s got a bit of life to it, and a band who aren’t half bad. I’m almost tempted to get up and dance like some of the other customers in here, but maybe I’m a little bit old for that. And it’s been a long day, a shitty fortnight.

  ‘Connie? Connie Fairchild? No way!’

  I thought I’d hidden myself well enough in the corner, nursing a bottle of Peroni with the wedge of lime left behind on the bar. I like this place because it’s full of people, but people who don’t know me and aren’t trying to hit on me. The last thing I need is to be recognised. I risk a look in the direction of the voice and my heart sinks even further. It’s been a dozen years now, but some people never change.

  ‘It is you. Oh, this is just perfect. Shove up, shove up. I have to talk to my friend.’

  Charlotte DeVilliers was always pushy. Back in school I learned early on just to go with the flow. It was always too much effort to try and thwart her when she decided she wanted something. We weren’t really friends, but we’re much the same age, and grew up in the same village. Her dad and mine were so close they could almost have been twins. It was inevitable we would become allies when we were both sent away to the same boarding school, even though we moved in very different circles there. I don’t think I’ve seen her since I left that place, but she embraces me in the kind of hug a child gives her favourite aunt. I try not to be too rigid as she squeezes me tight.

  ‘You’re all muscle, Connie. What happened to the puppy fat?’

  She’s shouting to be heard over the noise of the band, more’s the pity. I don’t need a conversation right now, and really can’t face a reunion. Much to my dismay the song ends and the singer announces they’re taking a short break. I know deep down it’s not going to be short enough.

  ‘Charlotte. How have you been?’ I think that’s the right thing to ask. It’s been so long since I’ve spoken to anyone like her I can’t be sure. I left that life behind a long time ago. Happily.

  ‘How have I been?’ She rolls her eyes like an out-of-work actress. ‘Is that the best you can do? It’s been twelve years and not a word. I thought we were friends.’

  I should just tell her the truth, that I never really thought much of her, that I tolerated her attention because that was easier than brushing her off the whole time. Some behaviours are ingrained though. I slip so easily back into old ways.

  ‘What are you up to, then? You live around here, or are you stalking me?’

  She stares, her face a picture of surprise at my directness, and I suppose I haven’t quite slipped all the way back.

  ‘I’ve just moved into a new place round the corner. Elmstead Road. You know it?’

  I do. It’s expensive, but then so’s Charlotte. I say nothing, hoping she’ll do all the talking for both of us.

  ‘It’s all a bit of a ’mare, really. I got divorced. Jack was shagging his secretary or some intern or something. Stupid idiot. I wouldn’t have minded so much, but he got the poor girl pregnant.’

  I tune out. It’s an old survival mechanism I’d long since forgotten. I didn’t even know that Charlotte was married, have no idea who Jack might be. Nor do I much care. She represents all that I’ve been running away from for the past twelve years, and yet here she is, in my local.

  ‘Anyway, I was talking to Ben the other day. He said something about you working for the police, but that can’t be right, can it?’

  The words break through my mental noise-cancelling headphones. ‘Ben?’

  ‘Are you even listening to me, Connie?’ Charlotte makes that face of hers that I really haven’t missed. ‘Your brother, remember? Benevolence? I never could get the hang of your family and its weird names.’

  ‘I know who Ben is, Charlotte. Just wondering why it is you’re talking to him. I thought you hated his guts.’

  Charlotte’s eyebrows are thin and painted on, but they still arch up in surprise. ‘That was when we were like, seventeen? Come on, Connie.’

  I try to shake off the fug of the day, the horror of Pete’s death, the stress of his funeral and the weirdness of his ghost. It’s too much of a coincidence Charlotte being here now. She has to have been looking for me.

  ‘What is it that you want, Char?’

  ‘Want?’ She feigns innocence as badly as she rolls her eyes. ‘I’m just pleased to see you. Is this your local? Are we, like, neighbours?’

  I pick up my bottle of beer and neck what’s left in it. I’d been hoping to stay put until they threw me out. Maybe find some uncomplicated boy to go home with. Looks like my plans for the evening have been ruined.

  ‘Sure. See you round, then.’ I thump the bottle down on the table a little harder than necessary. Push my way past protesting drinkers as I make good my escape. As if on cue, the music starts up as I step out into the night.

  One bottle of Peroni’s not nearly enough to give me a buzz, so the way I’m feeling right now probably has more to do with the chance meeting with Charlotte than any alcohol. Chance. Yeah. What’s that Scottish expression? Aye, right. The only language in the world where two positives can combine to make a negative. She was looking for me, which means someone told her where I might be found. It doesn’t take a genius to see the unhelpful hand of my brother in all of this.

  At least the air’s cooled now, a light breeze playing on my skin. The night-time city’s never quiet, but it’s hardly the bustle of traffic you get during the day. Not this far out anyway. There’s only a few people about, and I lean back against a grimy tree for a moment, stare up through its branches and leaves and imagine I can see the stars.

  My phone buzzing in my pocket
ruins the moment. I pull it out to see a missed call from my brother. Of all my immediate family, he’s the only one who has my number, the only one I’ll even consider talking to. Right now I don’t want to talk to any of them though. Not when my life is falling apart like this. I’d either get the cold shoulder I deserve or, worse, sympathy. It would be too easy to run home, tail between my legs, apologise for all the harsh things I said and beg forgiveness.

  The hollow laugh that slips out of my mouth startles a couple walking past. Things would have to be a great deal worse than they are for me to consider going home.

  I’m staring at the screen of my phone, wondering if I’ve got the energy to call my brother back and find out what he wants, when a text pops up on the screen.

  Hey Con. You might get a visit from Char D.V. Soz about that. She’s OK really. Speak soon, Ben.

  I stare at the words until the screen cuts out, then slip the phone back into my pocket. At least it confirms my suspicion that bumping into Charlotte in the pub wasn’t a coincidence. She wants something, and my brother’s in on it. Nothing good can possibly come from that combination.

  Trying hard not to sigh, I push myself away from the tree and walk back along the street towards my flat. In hindsight, it’s probably for the best I don’t get pissed tonight; I’m being interviewed by Professional Standards tomorrow morning, after all. That was always going to be a nightmare, but now I’ve got the added bonus of worrying what my brother’s up to. Could things get any worse?

  8

  They’re not ready to see me when I arrive at the station for my meeting with Professional Standards. I could go down to the canteen and drink bad coffee, but the looks I’m getting from all the other officers in the building makes the relative calm of my desk in the corner of the CID room more appealing. I grab a paper cup of equally bad coffee from the vending machine and head for the first floor.

  I may be on suspension from active duties and likely to quit if I’m not thrown out, but that doesn’t mean paperwork hasn’t accumulated on my desk in my absence. There’s stuff related to the operation that’s gone so spectacularly badly, a few timesheets to fill in, even a neatly printed document from the union rep, telling me about all my options and how the union can help me. Nice of them to send me an email, or maybe even call.