It was Friday. He mentally cursed himself for not asking for cash.
He wouldn't be able to deposit it until Monday, and until he did, it was nothing more than a piece of paper. It wasn't that he was short of money – he had several bank accounts, both in the US and in Switzerland – it was more that he hated loose ends, and an uncashed cheque was the worst sort of loose end. He was so busy thinking about the piece of paper in his inside pocket that he didn't see the two men until they were upon him, one on either side, gripping his arms with hands as strong as pincers, smiling as if they were long-lost friends.
'Smile, you piece of fucking shit,' said the one on his left, a bruising linebacker of a man with a dark wool overcoat and a thick red scarf around his neck. The man's left hand was thrust deep into his pocket.
The man on Derbyshire's right was a slightly smaller man with an unkempt moustache and orange-peel skin. His hair was slicked back and he had a shaving burn where his neck met his chin. His right hand was also hidden in the pocket of his raincoat.
He stepped closer to Derbyshire and pressed whatever it was he was hiding against Derbyshire's groin. 'You're not smiling, shitforbrains,' he whispered, an insane grin on his face, his voice a nasal New Jersey whine. 'Smile or I'll blow your nuts off.'
Derbyshire smiled weakly. Orange Peel nodded. 'Good,' he said. 'Now, let's go for a ride.'
Derbyshire started to protest but the gun was pressed against his groin once more and he did as they wanted. He knew there was nothing he could say: they were just messengers, come to bring the bad news. He knew too that there was no point in struggling. They were professionals, bigger, stronger and faster than he was. He shuddered and the two pincers tightened as if the movement was a prelude to an escape attempt. 'Okay, okay,' he muttered.
The two heavyweights gently frogmarched him out of the station and towards a taxi rank where the drivers of yellow cabs waited with ill humour. A black Towncar pulled up with a squeal of brakes and Derbyshire was hustled into the back seat. Four hands patted him down as the Towncar accelerated away from the kerb. 'I'm not carrying,' he said.
'We'll check for ourselves, if you don't mind,' Orange Peel said.
. The driver, a bull-necked giant wearing Ray Bans, gave a quick look over his shoulder as he powered through an amber light. 'Got him, then?' he asked redundantly.
The two heavyweights ignored the driver. Red Scarf thrust his left hand into the pockets of Derbyshire's pants and pulled out his wallet. Derbyshire said nothing. This wasn't a mugging.
Red Scarf flicked through the credit cards and driving licence, and sneered at the few banknotes the wallet contained. 'Times tough, are they?' he said, slipping the wallet inside his overcoat.
He checked the pockets of Derbyshire's jacket and pulled out the envelope containing Nelson's cheque. Derbyshire's face remained impassive. He was in deep shit, no doubt about it, but he didn't want to give the messengers any idea of how worried he was.
Red Scarf flipped the envelope open with one hand and slid the cheque out with his thumb. He whistled theatrically and showed it to Orange Peel. 'Business must be looking up,' he said.
The body-search over, the two men sat in silence, their guns still hidden in their coats. Derbyshire put his head back and stared at the roof of the car, wondering if he'd be able to put together any sort of workable cover story, and if he'd get the chance to tell it.
The car headed for the Lincoln Tunnel, joining the converging ranks of cars and trucks fleeing Manhattan. Derbyshire looked surreptitiously out of the side windows, half hoping that he'd see a police car, but knowing that even if he did there'd be nothing he could do. Before he'd have time to react, he'd have a fist in his groin at best, a bullet at worst, and the Towncar was as soundproofed as a brass coffin. The homebound commuters were all on automatic pilot, their eyes staring blankly ahead, listening to their car stereos or talking on their cellular phones or picking at their various orifices. A normal Friday rush hour.
Freeman knocked on his daughter's door. 'Mersiha?' he called.
There was no answer, but Freeman didn't open the door. Ever since she'd first arrived in his home he'd known how important it was that she have her own space, a sanctuary where she could hide from the world, if that was what she wanted.
He never entered her bedroom without her permission. He knocked again.
'Come in,' she said, her voice slurred with sleep.
He pushed open the door. 'Are you decent?' he said, knowing that she would be. He'd never seen her naked. Even before she began to develop the physical signs of womanhood she was shy, and he had always respected her desire for privacy. She had the quilt pulled up to her chin when he looked in. She was squinting at her bedside clock. 'What time is it?' she asked.
'It's late,' he said. 'Almost eight o'clock.'
Mersiha groaned. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I forgot to set the alarm.'
'That's okay – I haven't had breakfast yet. You get ready, I'll put the coffee on. Do you want anything to eat?'
'A high-cholesterol, low-fibre Scottish fry-up?' she said.
'Your request is my command, Oh mistress,' he said. 'Get a move on,' She giggled but kept the quilt under her chin as he closed the door.
Freeman was frying eggs, using a spatula to splash hot fat on the yolks, when she appeared in the kitchen. She was dressed for sailing – black Levis, Reeboks, a baggy white pullover and her hair tied back with a red bow.
'Get the orange juice, pumpkin,' Freeman said, sliding the eggs on to their plates. From the grill he added bacon, sausage and halved tomatoes and put the plates on to the table with hot toast and butter. Mersiha filled glasses with fresh orange juice from the automatic juicer and sat down opposite him.
She picked up her knife and fork and set to with a vengeance.
Freeman watched her, amazed at the speed with which she tackled food. She always finished everything on her plate as if she never knew where her next meal was coming from. It didn't take a psychiatrist to understand why she ate the way she did. It wasn't too many years ago when she'd been close to starvation.
'What?' she said.
'What do you mean?' he asked.
'You're staring at me,' she said, her eyes shining.
'You're so pretty. I can't believe I have such a pretty daughter.'
Mersiha tutted and raised her eyebrows, but she was clearly pleased by the compliment. 'I bet you say that to all your daughters,' she said.
'Only the pretty ones.' Freeman started eating his breakfast, but he was only halfway through by the time Mersiha had finished. 'Get the sandwiches – they're in the fridge,' he said.
'Grab some cans of Coke too.'
'You made sandwiches?' she said, impressed. 'You'll make someone a great wife.'
'Watch it,' Freeman laughed. Mersiha picked up his duffel bag and put it in the boot of the Lumina while he finished eating. She was in the passenger seat when he came out, her seat belt already in place.
'Did you say goodbye to Katherine?' Freeman asked.*¦ 'She was asleep,' Mersiha said quickly. Freeman looked at her. There was something in her tone which suggested that she hadn't tried to say goodbye. She turned away and looked out of the window. 'This is going to be a great day for sailing,' she said.
'Look at the tops of those trees.'
Freeman smiled despite himself. Mersiha had Katherine's knack of changing the subject. He started the car and headed down the driveway. In his driving mirror he caught sight of Katherine watching from the bedroom window. He waved his arm out of the window but he didn't see her wave back.
The drive to Annapolis took less than an hour. Mersiha chatted happily, about school, about sailing, about her fast approaching birthday. Freeman had suggested that they arrange a party for all her friends, but Mersiha kept insisting that she'd rather have a quiet dinner. 'Just you and me,' she said.
'And Katherine,' Freeman said.
'Yeah. Of course.' Her voice had gone suddenly cold at the mention of Katherine. Freeman didn'
t ask her what the problem was, and within seconds she'd changed the subject again, asking him when the boat was due to be lifted out of the water for its anti-fouling treatment. Art Brown's file on Mersiha had emphasised how pointless it was to confront her directly. She would react by dodging the line of argument, and if pressed she'd withdraw into herself and simply stop talking. Freeman had noticed that himself, of course, but seeing it written down on medical reports made it appear to be a genuine mental problem and not just shyness.
The file had also spelled out Mersiha's reluctance to make friends, something else which Freeman and his wife had noticed.
Brown had hypothesised that the early death of her real parents and brother had left her incapable of making emotional commitments, that she was frightened of letting anyone get close in case they were also taken from her. That made sense to Freeman, but once again it had seemed that all Brown had done was to state the obvious. And a reluctance to hang out at the mall with the local cheerleaders didn't explain her sudden coldness towards Katherine. Getting to the bottom of that was going to take some gentle probing.
Brown had been right about Mersiha's file being little more than a diary. He'd been very efficient in recording the sessions, all with dates and times, presumably to help with his billing, but Freeman had discovered no insights into the workings of his daughter's mind. If he'd seen the file sooner, he would probably have suggested to Katherine that they put an end to the treatment. Brown himself admitted several times in the file that he was making little progress in persuading Mersiha to open up. The key to her problems, Brown said, lay in what happened to her as a child, but she had built an impenetrable wall around that part of her life.
Freeman could barely imagine what it would be like to lose both parents at such an early age. It was no wonder that she always seemed so interested in what he was doing and where he was going. Having lost her real parents, she must have lived in fear that her adopted family would also be taken away from her, no matter how many times Freeman reassured her that she was in America to stay. The violent death of her brother, the attempt to kill her in the basement, her time in the Serbian internment camp, any one of those events would be enough to scar a child mentally for life. It was a constant source of wonder that Mersiha hadn't turned out to be a bed-wetting sociopath rather then the bright, beautiful girl she was. Sleepwalking, insecurity and a little secretiveness were a small price to pay for what she'd been through.
She looked across at him and smiled. Her teeth were perfect, her smile that of a cover girl, and it was all natural – she'd never needed retainers or any dental work beyond a couple of small fillings which the dentist blamed on too many sweet things when she'd first moved to the States. Freeman wished that her real parents could still be around to see how their girl had grown.
They'd have been very proud.
'What?' she asked.
'What do you mean?'
'You're grinning at me.'
'So? I'm happy.'
Her smile widened. 'Yeah? Me too.'
He drove in silence for a while. 'Have you and Katherine had an argument?' Freeman asked eventually. He kept his eyes on the road.
Mersiha sat without replying for a while. Her hand reached for the radio controls but she pulled it back at the last moment as if she realised that it would be impolite to disturb the silence with music. 'No, we haven't argued,' she said.
'It seems to me that you're not talking like you used to. You used to enjoy hanging around with each other. You used to behave like sisters.'
'Maybe I'm just getting older.' Mersiha sounded suddenly sad as if a melancholy memory had just intruded into her thoughts.
'You don't think she resents you, do you?' he asked.
'You sound like Dr Brown,' she said.
'Sorry,' Freeman said, 'I didn't mean to. It's just that you're becoming a young woman, and Katherine has always taken a real pride in the way she looks.'
'I remind her that she's getting older, you mean?'
Freeman smiled. 'Pumpkin, we're all getting older.'
Mersiha ran a hand through her thick black hair. She could be a model, Freeman realised. She had the look, and the confidence. 'I don't know what's wrong,' she said. 'I've just been a bit low lately, that's all.'
'Thinking about home, you mean?'
She shook her head. 'This is my home,' she said.
'Good,' Freeman said. 'I'm glad you feel that way. Really.' He saw the marina in the distance, the masts of countless yachts standing to attention like soldiers on parade. 'Can you do me a favour?'
'Sure.' She replied without hesitation.
'Make an effort to reassure Katherine, will you? She loves you, she really does. She takes any sign of coolness personally. She might not say so, but inside I know it really hurts her. She needs reassurance, too.'
Mersiha sighed. 'Yeah, okay.' Freeman held out his right hand, his little finger crooked. Mersiha interlinked the little finger on her left hand with his and they shook. That made it an unbreakable promise. Mersiha took her hand away first. She looked out of the window and sighed again.
Ernie Derbyshire's head felt as if it was going to explode. He tried lifting it, to ease the pressure, but the strain was too much and he flopped back. Breathing hurt, swallowing hurt, everything hurt, but the anticipation of what was to come was worse than any physical discomfort. He closed his eyes and thought back to the days when he was a child, hiding under his bed from a father who drank too much and who took a perverse pleasure in beating his offspring with a studded leather belt. At five years old his backside was as scarred and marked as a deep-sea fisherman's hands.
Derbyshire had hated his father, hated him with a vengeance, and he'd have run away from home if only there had been somewhere for him to go. He'd tried closing his eyes tight and wishing that he was somewhere else. The young Derbyshire had convinced himself that if only he could imagine a place in perfect detail it would become real, and he could escape there, away from the damp basement flat and the abusive father. It was a field with a grass that was greener than he'd ever seen in the Bronx, with buttercups and dandelions and big spreading trees and a cloudless blue sky. Small songbirds sat in the trees, singing and calling, and through the middle of the field bubbled a stream of icy-cold water. Derbyshire could picture himself paddling in the stream, his socks and shoes off, smooth hard pebbles pushing up between his toes.
A railway track skirted one end of the field, wooden sleepers and gleaming steel rails lying on a bed of gravel. Derbyshire had walked along the rails, jumping from sleeper to sleeper, promising himself that if he avoided treading on the gravel he'd be able to stay in the safe place for ever. He'd never seen a train, though occasionally he thought he'd heard its shrill whistle in the distance. The young Derbyshire thought it was the train which was the problem. Until he could picture the train, the place would never be real, but no matter how hard he tried it remained elusive, just around the corner, out of sight, and whenever he opened his eyes he was still underneath the bed, his face down in the dust, hiding from the belt and the beating.
He heard the rattle of the bolt that kept the cold-room door locked and he opened his ice-crusted eyes. His breath plumed around his face and through the misty vapour he saw two pairs of legs step through the door. He'd been hanging upside down for so long that his brain automatically rerouted the signals from his eyes and he had no problem identifying Red Scarf and Orange Peel. They were wearing thick coats with wool scarves around their necks and leather gloves. They were carrying baseball bats.
Derbyshire began to tremble.
The two heavies circled Derbyshire, scraping the bats along the concrete floor. It was a game they played, a game they'd been playing for almost six hours. They'd left him alone all Friday night, letting his imagination run riot, then they'd questioned him for an hour or so, smiling and offering him cigarettes and telling him that if he played ball with them then they wouldn't play ball with him. Red Scarf had laughed loudly at that, but his eyes
had remained flint hard and Derbyshire knew that he'd been lying. For most of the time he'd been hanging by his chained feet from a hook in the ceiling, surrounded by sides of prime beef.
They'd got physical for the first time just after eleven o'clock. He remembered the time because Orange Peel had made a point of looking at his watch and asking his partner when they were going to have lunch. Red Scarf had said something about not being hungry just then, and as he finished speaking he'd whacked the back of Derbyshire's legs with his baseball bat like Babe Ruth going for a home run. Derbyshire never knew where the next blow was going to come from. They took a perverse delight in catching him unawares, varying the rhythm and the target areas, extending the torture way beyond what he'd have believed was possible. His legs were a mass of screaming nerves, and he was sure his left knee had splintered. Red Scarf had aimed most of his blows at Derbyshire's stomach and groin, and the detective had almost choked on his own blood and vomit.
The routine was always the same. They taunted him. They beat him until he passed out. They left him alone. Derbyshire had no idea how many times the routine had been repeated.
He had no recollection of individual beatings, just the cycle of pain.
'How's it going, shit-for-brains?' Red Scarf asked.
'Just hanging around,' Derbyshire mumbled. He had a sudden feeling of deja vu, as if he'd made the same quip before.
'He's a funny man,' Orange Peel said from somewhere behind him.
'A very funny man,' Red Scarf agreed.
The birthday girl Page 15