Two Faced

by A. R. Ashworth

“I’d feel better if—”

  “It’s hard for me to get to sleep at the best of times. I don’t want to lie awake wondering what could be so important. Tell me now.”

  “—if we could have a real conversation.” Silence. When he continued, his voice sounded harder, resolved. “All right then, have it your way, like always. I’ve been offered a teaching post at the new med school in Austin. Community involvement, good hours, pro bono work.”

  “And you’ve accepted.”

  “I wanted to talk through what it means, face-to-face. You deserve that, and—”

  “When?”

  “—and I deserve that. Term starts in June. I need to confirm with the university by the end of this month.”

  “You’re…” He hasn’t formally accepted. She cleared her throat. “So you wanted to tell me goodbye?”

  “No.”

  “When would you leave?”

  “In a few weeks. Give myself time to settle in.”

  “Please understand. The way I am now, I can’t be good for either of us. But remember what I told you.”

  “I do, every day. I talked with Kate about you. About us.”

  Sister and brother. “And?”

  “She said you’re a woman who keeps her promises. That I’m a damn lucky man.” He gave a sardonic laugh. “Kate knows what she’s talking about—most of the time.”

  “Peter, please understand.”

  “No, you understand that I have to say this. I can’t comprehend what you’ve been going through. But remember that I was there too. When I saw you on the table…” He stopped, his voice breaking.

  “Peter, you know I’ll always be grateful for what you did, and—”

  “What the fuck?”

  “—and I—”

  “Grateful? You’re grateful? I don’t believe you said that. I don’t need or even want your fucking gratitude. I was up to my goddamn elbows in the blood of the woman I love! I watched you flatline! What the hell do you think that did to me? Have you ever wondered that?”

  “Peter, I…” The sound of his breath pulsed in her ears, her heart pounded in her chest.

  “I’m goddamn sick and tired of holding all this in, Elaine. Sick and tired of lying awake at night, wondering how you are. Yeah, I lie awake too. Ever since Diana and Liza died, I’ve gotten bloody good at nightmares, and now I have nightmares about you dying too. And I’m sick and tired of being rejected by the woman I love. Sick of being so bloody understanding when you won’t even give me the chance to talk about it and get it off my chest. Jesus bloody Christ. I don’t think you give a rat’s ass about me.”

  Before she could speak, Peter continued. “Have you ever thought that if you could allow yourself to give, if you could just open up to someone who cares about you, what a difference it could make? I’m not a therapist. I’m a man who loves you. Body and soul, Elaine. I can listen. I can learn. I can be there for you on those nights you can’t sleep. Even if it’s only on the other end of a phone.”

  What can I do? I need to be able to give everything, and right now I can’t. “Let’s get together before you leave. Okay? It’s all I can promise right now.” Oh, Jesus, that was weak.

  The sound of his breathing slowed. When he spoke, he sounded exhausted. “I don’t believe you. You know I love you.” He ended the call.

  The line had gone silent, but she said, “I know you do, Peter.”

  All he had asked for was one meeting at Nelson’s Glory. Two honest pints, a game of darts, and time to tell her about his job and what it meant for them.

  You couldn’t even give him that, Lainie. “Peter, I’m grateful.” Nothing but fucking words. What have I become? Am I as hollow as that?

  A few weeks before he leaves—weeks to find the peace that would let her love him. In a few weeks would she be able to grasp a kitchen knife without retching? Would she be able to stand in a crowded lift without her skin crawling? Or walk into her darkened bedroom without her heart leaping into her throat? For months now, the hot voice of her rage had insisted peace would come only through vengeance, but lately she’d begun to understand wrath could bring no peace, only casualties.

  Elaine ran her fingers through her short-cropped hair. As she stared upward from the sofa, the ceiling appeared to descend lower with each breath she took. She twisted herself right, then left. The sitting room walls crept inward towards her, pulsing in time with her still-pounding heart. She rolled off the sofa and crawled to the French door. It stuck—again, dammit—but she yanked it open and staggered onto her terrace.

  Below her, the trees lining the Grand Union Canal whipped to and fro in the north wind, the susurrus rising and falling with the gusts that carried the scent of water to her nostrils. Elaine clung to the frigid steel rail and gasped as the crisp air pierced her lungs. Her knees weakened, and she slumped to the cold concrete, her back to the railing. After a few breaths, the drumming rhythm in her chest slowed.

  Peter. Refuge. Trust. The three words melded in her mind and heart. She hadn’t been seeking refuge in his bedroom that first time, when he had revealed his scars to her, trusting her not to pity, not to recoil. She had wanted truth, and he’d opened his grief to her, exposing his life’s love and joy, sorrow and guilt. He had allowed her to draw her own conclusions.

  Now, she might never again hear him play piano and sing the ridiculous Cole Porter tunes he loved. Or lie silently with him on his bed, her head on his chest, moonlight streaming through the huge window, the distant lights of Canary Wharf glittering, until passion again enveloped them.

  Throughout her career she had been driven to find the truth that would condemn killers. She had done her best and had desired nothing more than to be allowed to solve murders for the rest of her life.

  What did she want now that the refuge of her work was gone? Would peace and Peter be enough? Which should come first? Could she give up and move to Austin, where she could bask in the sun almost year-round? But what would she do there? Stay at home? Volunteer? Go fucking shopping every day? She’d go mad.

  Her thoughts stopped short. This was madness. How could she think he even wanted her there? He’d only said he wanted to talk about what his move meant to them. He hadn’t asked.

  He certainly wouldn’t ask her to join him until she opened up to him. Was she willing to make the choice? To go with him, she would have to give up her search, admit that the traitor and revenge on Anton didn’t matter as much as a future with a loving man. A forked road. She wondered what was at the end of each path. Wondered what it truly was she was looking for.

  What else had he said? That he was hurt too. She’d never acknowledged that. Hadn’t given it much thought beyond an empty expression of gratitude. She was a heartless bitch who didn’t deserve his love. She had no right to it.

  And Liz and Bull had been so loyal. To acknowledge their pain and sacrifice now, to say the words she should have spoken long ago, would just seem an afterthought. As sincere as a two-quid thank-you card. A gesture as empty as she must really be. Would doing nothing be better than that?

  Elaine pulled herself to her feet. Tomorrow she would tail Jacko after he finished in court, so she needed to get to sleep. Back inside, she stripped and turned on the hot water, wondering who she would see in her dreams tonight—and if she was beyond salvation.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Tuesday evening, Shepherd’s Bush

  Elaine stood inside an organic greengrocer on the Uxbridge Road, munching an apple. Darkness had fallen, and Jack O’Rourke sat at a table in the brightly lit front window of the restaurant across the street. For ten minutes he’d done nothing but gulp red wine and glance at his mobile every thirty seconds.

  She’d eaten at Ristorante Gionfriddo once, with a pretentious date who had waxed poetic in Scottish-burred Italian over the pappardelle al ragu di cinghiale con pecorino. Elaine had finally silenced him by asking why he fussed over wild pig stew with cheese and noodles. She told him it was likely the boar had grown up on a farm in Ken
t; that its grunts had never echoed through a Tuscan forest. The pretentious Scottish foodie hadn’t asked her out again.

  Before her rape and injuries, Jacko had regularly asked her to his apartment for Tuscan-grilled steaks, Montepulciano wine, and a bit of relaxation, which he promised would include a full-body massage. His enticements, in themselves, were attractive, but not Jacko. She’d had her fill of bores.

  A voice startled Elaine from her thoughts just as a black cab arrived at the taxi rank near the restaurant.

  “Excuse me, ma’am. May I help you find something? Mm?” A greengrocer in a white apron stood next to her, gesturing at a tray of Spanish plums.

  She flashed her warrant card and returned her attention to the restaurant. “DCI Hope. Sorry, I’m not sure how long I’ll be here. I doubt for—”

  She froze as she saw Jonathan Hughes pay the taxi driver and enter Gionfriddo’s. Seconds later he took a seat at Jacko’s table.

  The greengrocer craned his neck to see over the plums, studying the street outside, clearly trying to identify what she found so interesting. “It appears you’re on ‘obs,’ as they say on the crime shows. I understand, DCI, um, Hope. But you’ve been rooted here for twenty minutes, gnawing that apple and staring out the window. Mm? Just that it’s a bit, um, unsettling for the clients, as you might understand. Myself included.”

  “Would it help if I bought something?”

  The little man smiled and wiped his hands on his white apron. “We have some nice mandarins, just in this morning.” He indicated a display of the small oranges. “Perhaps some of those would suit you? The aubergines are especially nice also.”

  Elaine glanced across the street. Hughes and Jacko appeared deep in conversation. She picked out a few mandarins and two of the small, purple aubergines and paid the grocer. By the time she returned to the window, three middle-aged women had commandeered her observation point.

  Two women peered over the plums, eyebrows raised, their attention on the street, while the third assessed Elaine.

  “You’re a ’tective?”

  Elaine gritted her teeth and forced a smile. “Detective Chief Inspector Elaine Hope.”

  “Oooo. Chief Inspector.” The woman tipped her head towards her friend but kept her eyes on Elaine’s face. “She’s important, Rose. Dressed in blue jeans and a donkey jacket. Must be undercover, then. Are you watching summat we should know about? Should we go out the back way? Be extra careful?”

  Her friend Rose peered out the window over the plums, unsteady on her tiptoes. “Is it those two men having a row on the pavement there ’cross the street? In fronta Johnfreeda’s?”

  Hughes and Jacko stood outside the door of the restaurant, arguing. As Elaine watched, Hughes jabbed his finger into Jacko’s chest, forcing the larger man to take a step back. Jacko’s response was to laugh. He returned to the restaurant and took his seat at the window table. Hughes watched for a moment, then entered a taxi.

  Jacko dialled his mobile. While speaking, he motioned for a waiter, who brought a second wine glass and placed it across the table from him.

  The argument she’d just witnessed could have been a disagreement over a case, which happened from time to time. But that was something they would have kept behind closed doors. She couldn’t imagine either of them jeopardizing a case by discussing it in public.

  “That was personal,” she muttered, without realizing she’d spoken aloud.

  “Oh, it certainly looked that way,” the greengrocer said. “It’s a wonder they didn’t come to blows. Getting close to seven, ma’am. I’m closing.”

  She smiled sheepishly and handed him a fiver. “Sorry, just thinking aloud. Thanks for your patience. No chance I could wait here?”

  “Sorry, luv.” He nodded towards the door. “The missus will have tea ready.”

  Elaine debated whether to give up for the evening, but she was curious whom the second wine glass was for. So she stepped outside into the shadow of the shop doorway and pressed against the wall. Jacko appeared busy with his smart phone. A few minutes after seven, a slender blonde woman alighted from a black cab, entered Gionfriddo’s, and took the seat across from Jacko.

  Elaine clicked a photo. She felt the woman was vaguely familiar, but couldn’t put a name to her face. More to the point, could she be Barefoot Woman? Possibly, but word was that Jacko had several girlfriends. Still, she was blonde, elegant.

  The blonde took a huge gulp of red wine and began speaking to Jacko. Click. As Elaine watched, the woman’s face became more animated. If only she could hear what the woman was saying. Click. The conversation appeared to flow back and forth. First the woman appeared to rant, then Jacko would reply. With each exchange they became more animated. Click. The maître d’ now stood at the table, gesturing. Click. The woman stared out the window. Jacko threw several bills on the table and, with a word to the maître d’, left the restaurant. Click.

  First you argue with a senior police officer, then have a spat with your girlfriend. This just isn’t your night, Jacko. But who is she?

  The woman didn’t leave immediately. After checking to make sure Jacko was out of sight, Elaine dashed across the street and strolled past the restaurant, casually looking inside, as if she were considering a meal. When she passed, the woman looked up.

  Elaine almost stopped in her tracks and stared, but her tradecraft took over and she continued her stroll past the window. I’ve met her. Once she was out of view, she leaned against the wall. The woman wasn’t a cop—Elaine would have remembered if she were. A reporter?

  An image came to her mind of the woman, kids, and a big hairy dog. The photo on Hughes’s office wall. His wife? Bloody hell. Hughes had introduced her to the team at some awards do or other, maybe two years back. Her name began with “F.” Felicia? Faith? Damn painkillers. Fuzz in the brain. Fiona. Right, Fiona. Okay, here we go.

  Elaine turned to enter the restaurant and almost collided with Fiona, who was leaving.

  “So sorry. Clumsy of me. I—don’t I know you? Fiona Hughes, isn’t it?”

  “No worries. Sorry, you’re mistaken.” Fiona brushed past without a glance and continued up the street.

  Elaine caught up after a few steps. “Please, my name’s Hope. Elaine Hope. I was a DCI in your husband’s division. I’d like to talk to you about something. It shouldn’t take long.”

  Fiona stopped and stared up at Elaine, her eyes wide. “DCI Hope, you say? Show me your warrant.”

  Elaine opened her warrant card. “DCI Elaine Hope. I used to be in Murder Investigation, but not anymore.”

  “Not anymore?” Fiona’s forehead creased in thought. “Hope. Now I remember. Jonny pointed you out once.”

  Elaine noticed a quiver in Fiona’s voice. She held her hand out as if to push Elaine away, and looked all around, past Elaine and up and down the street. “You’re alone. What do you want with me?”

  Does she think I’m here to arrest her? Elaine said, “This is unofficial. A personal matter. I want to talk to you about Jack O’Rourke. It looks like you know him.”

  “You? Talk about Jacko?” She looked up at Elaine’s face. “Right. Like I believe that.” Fiona stepped around Elaine and backed up the pavement. “Stay away from me. I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

  Elaine watched as Fiona hurried towards the taxi rank. After a few steps, she glanced over her shoulder. Elaine waited a few seconds, then followed. She kept about ten yards distance between them.

  Fiona turned. “Don’t follow me. Leave me alone.”

  “I’ll let you go, luv.” Elaine pointed. “But I need a taxi too.” She allowed the distance between them to grow. As Elaine watched, a dark-coloured van turned off a side street just ahead and crept slowly up the street, hard against the kerb.

  Fucking kerb crawlers. They think she’s a prostitute. In this part of town, though? She increased her pace as the van stopped a few yards ahead of Fiona, who swerved away from the street.

  The van window rolled down, and Elaine
heard muffled words. Fiona screamed as the sliding door of the van opened and a man emerged.

  Elaine felt in her pocket for the metal bulk of the asp she carried. She yelled, “Hey, scrote! Police! Leave her alone!”

  The attacker stopped. Elaine advanced on him, holding her warrant card in her left hand while flicking her asp open to its full two-foot length.

  The man on the pavement froze, undecided for a moment, before flinging himself back into the van. The door banged shut, and the van accelerated away. Elaine stepped off the pavement to read the number plate, but it was obscured.

  Fiona stood in the shadow of a shop door, her shoulders heaving as she sobbed. Elaine waited until the sobs had slowed before she spoke. “Come on. You’d best not be alone after what happened. Where were you planning to go just now?”

  Fiona took a deep breath. “Home.” She was trembling.

  Elaine considered. “Me too. My flat’s only ten minutes from here. You need to get off the street. I’ll drive you home after you’re feeling a bit more yourself.”

  “No, I don’t—”

  “I could take you to your place. Is your husband at home?”

  “No—I mean, yes, probably.” Fiona shook her head. “I don’t want him to see me like this.”

  She knows he’s not at home. Elaine smiled. “No worries. You can freshen up a bit at mine. I have a cat. Is that a problem?”

  Fiona looked puzzled. “No, no problem with cats. But maybe we should go back to the restaurant.”

  “We could. But after, you’d still need to get home. Those bastards took a huge risk and almost pulled it off. They could return. Better for you to get away from here. Somewhere they can’t follow.”

  Fiona glanced up and down the street. “No. I suppose you’re right. I’d feel better if I was with someone.”

  Elaine opened the taxi door and spoke. “Brentford, please, driver. Near the locks.” She climbed in after Fiona. “In twenty minutes we’ll have our shoes off and be sipping a cheeky little red. There may be some crisps and cheese in the pantry too.”

  Tuesday night, Shepherd’s Bush