The Runner

by P. R. Black

  48

  She didn’t, though.

  The dimensions of the restaurant changed dramatically once Freya opened the door. Glass doors gave way to a tunnel in stark white tiling, and a roof that got larger and larger as the end of the corridor seemed to get further and further away. Voices echoed from the far end, and the effect reminded Freya of being at a swimming pool. She was glad to reach the reception, then to be shown through a set of heavy doors into the blast of noise that was a restaurant in full swing on a Friday night.

  She spotted them quite quickly. It was an effort to control her face.

  He was wearing the same odd blue suit she’d seem him on the television a few days previously – she couldn’t quite decide what colour best described it. Gunmetal grey or blue didn’t quite fit, nor did metallic. It was probably best suited to that slightly iridescent hue of an exotic dragonfly, a shade that caught the eye without offending it. He had a glass of wine in front of him, and was in a state of some merriment. She hoped he wasn’t drunk, with what felt like a reflex reaction to a father she’d never known.

  Next to him was Cheryl Levison. She wore a pure white dress, which would have been an invitation for every corpuscle of red wine or red sauce to attach itself, had it been worn by Freya – but she had an inkling Levison might hang that dress back up as pristine as the day she bought it. It was cut deep on her chest, but linked across the collar by a delicate gold chain. She was stunning, there was no other word for it, and her hair had been styled recently, cascades of gold that reminded Freya, ludicrously, of a longed-for pony toy she had asked Santa for, but never received. Every inch of her took effort. She was simultaneously hard to focus on for too long, but impossible to ignore. ‘I can see her in parliament,’ she recalled Glenn saying. As euphemisms went, it was hard to beat.

  Another man was with them, with a high, receding hairline, glasses and a tweed jacket. He had a pinkish hue to his face, as if he’d recently shed his skin. Freya could only categorise his appearance as that of a teacher who frightened you.

  Whatever joke they’d all shared, Freya’s arrival amplified the sense of merriment. All three got to their feet. Levison came first, gripping her by the hand and then the free arm. The gesture was proprietorial, but Freya allowed it.

  ‘Freya. God, you look wonderful! Doesn’t she look wonderful, Dad?’

  ‘Dad?’ Freya said.

  ‘Figure of speech,’ Levison said, without breaking stride. ‘Hey, would you look at this gorgeous girl, Gareth?’

  He took her in his arms without hesitation. ‘My girl,’ he whispered at her ear. ‘My beautiful girl. What a gift. After all this time.’

  She laid her head against his chest. She felt a bubble grow within her, a sensation that was not entirely pleasant; Freya felt as if something must burst inside, that she might emit a sob or a whimper, things she did not want to happen. ‘Well done,’ was all she could say, into his thick chest and shoulders. ‘Well done, you.’

  Freya was amazed to see tears in his eyes as he drew back. ‘You were denied to me. Of all the things that were stripped away, that’s the worst. It’s not being locked up. It’s the lack of you, in my life. All those moments a dad should share… Christmas…’

  ‘Dad,’ was all she could say. The world grew blurry.

  The little man in the tweed coat clasped his hands. ‘My goodness, darling. What a moment! What a moment!’

  Freya turned towards him, rubbing away the tears that dampened her cheek. ‘Sorry, who are you?’

  ‘My name is Just Leaving. Only kidding. Here, I won’t intrude on this any more, I just can’t. But I’ll leave you my card. Your dad and, well, Cheryl can fill you in. We’ll talk soon, I know it. We’ll do great things. I guarantee you.’

  He got to his feet with startling speed, tapped Freya on the shoulder and held out a card for her to take. Set among an arresting domino pattern, the script along a white bar in the centre read: William Blessed, Literary Agent. Even as Freya looked up, he was already heading towards the doors.

  ‘He’s not hungry I guess,’ she said, dropping the card into her pocket.

  At the table, her father pulled out a chair, in between himself and Levison. ‘C’mon, sit down. We’ve got lots to talk about. Hope you’re not hungry, either,’ he said, under his breath. ‘Looks like pretendy-food they serve in here. With none of the trimmings.’

  A waiter came over to take Solomon’s place, and helped push her seat in. A menu appeared in her hand not long afterwards.

  ‘You’ve got no idea what a novelty all this is,’ Solomon said. She noticed he was sweating a little. ‘Not that I ever did this too much back in the day. Heh!’

  ‘Glass of wine, Freya?’ Levison brought the bottle over and tipped a burgundy measure in, without waiting for affirmation. ‘Best of stuff. It’s all on me – order what you like. Fillet steak. I believe they do turbot as well – worth having. That’s a fleshy fish.’

  ‘Do they do fish and chips?’

  ‘If you ask, they’ll probably do it. Or ask you to leave, one of the two.’

  Freya took a sip of the wine, glancing around at the other tables. There were suits and fancy dresses everywhere. Freya had opted for black dress trousers she had worn during a stint at a casino eighteen months ago, which mercifully still fit; her blouse over the top was loose and flowery, not her favourite, but her most expensive and unstained top. She had opted for flats after an agony of indecision, but had regretted it the moment Levison had towered over her. The lighting was perfect, as was the seating, allowing for a little privacy among pools of light on the circular tables. The design feature of the restaurant was to remove any and all sharp edges, particularly on a gantry-way that separated the lower floor from an upper tier of seating. It was unmistakeably stylish, but in some places it made the décor look unfinished.

  No one appeared to realise who the thick-set, jolly-looking man in their midst was.

  ‘You’re looking well,’ Freya said to him now. ‘I mean, what’s the deal – they basically let you out?’

  ‘Yep,’ he said, cheerily. He had wider nostrils than her – something she hadn’t inherited. They flared, comically, as he took in the bouquet, the tip of his nose inches from the surface. ‘Once you’re free to go, you’re free to go. I’ll get a nice parcel of books and whatever from the jail. But that’s it. And I’m never going back.’

  ‘What a feeling,’ Freya said.

  ‘Don’t I know it. You know what they call it – culture shock? Like that?’ He glanced at Levison, who nodded, eyes narrowed behind her glass. ‘Mobile phones, computers… I knew about these things, but I didn’t know how widespread they were. Everything’s piped right into your eyes and ears – the news, your music… even your friends’ faces. Or a mockery of them. When I first went to jail, a computer was a green screen about the size of this table. You could defrost a turkey on top of it in half an hour. Now they fit in your hand. Now it’s all headphones and wireless and God knows what else. Amazing. Like space movies, back in the day. They had an internet when I got locked up, but it was pretty basic. There weren’t even pictures. It was all restricted. Now, my God… If you’d told me that the technology was wired right into people’s minds, I’d believe you. But listen… there’s a whole world to talk about. And I’m so glad I get to talk about it with you.’

  ‘How about literary agents?’ Freya asked. ‘Were they around, back in the day?’

  ‘Mr Blessed is one of the most renowned literary agents in the country,’ Levison said. ‘The next time you see him, you should probably genuflect.’

  ‘And I take it he had some good news for you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Solomon said, leaning forward. ‘And for you. If you want.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘You can write your story,’ Levison cut in. ‘In tandem with your dad’s. Your search for your father. Discovering the bodies. Exonerating him – or, helping to. And then the relationship you’ve cultivated. Think about it. It’s a great
story, you have to admit. An innocent man, framed for a murder he didn’t commit. And then the daughter he never met, helping him regain his freedom. It’s got everything. An amazing story.’

  ‘You want my story? For sure?’

  ‘Yeah, absolutely.’

  Levison laid a hand on Freya’s arm. ‘We are talking, “not having to worry about anything ever again” money. You up for it?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  Levison frowned. ‘You look like you have a doubt?’

  ‘Well… I’m not interested in money. I’ve said it before. Mr… what was it again, Blessed? I’ve had contact from people from his world before. They’ve read my articles. There’s a lot of interest, you know that. It’s just… I think I’ll tell the story my own way. A book, I mean, I just don’t know…’

  If Levison was discomfited in any way by this revelation, she shrugged it off. ‘Of course – take in any and all offers, then come back to us. That’s how it works. Top offer is the best offer. Best way to look at it.’

  ‘When you say “us”,’ Freya said, ‘are you talking about me and my dad, or does that somehow include you?’

  Levison and Solomon shared a look; the latter laughed first. ‘That’s my girl! All business, I told you. That’s the way it’s done. Look at her, isn’t she gorgeous?’

  ‘She is,’ Levison agreed. ‘Amazing bone structure. And those eyes… Now where have I seen those before, eh?’

  Solomon looked abashed. Almost like a normal father, struggling to take a compliment, Freya thought.

  ‘Mind you, in terms of photoshoots, you might want to consider changing the hair colour.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Freya almost choked on a mouthful of wine.

  ‘It’s an honest opinion, one professional to another. It’s OK – the blonde suits you, suits your style. Part of me would consider it for the sake of contrast, but contrast isn’t what you need. Imagine you and your dad on the front of a weekend supplement, or the cover of a book. We need to draw people in. You suited black very well – I can see you both in black, in fact. Goes with the eyes.’

  ‘And the eyebrows,’ Solomon said, ‘though I don’t have the hair any more.’

  ‘Yeah, we can do something about your eyebrows, too, sweetie.’ Levison turned back to Freya. ‘You’ve got something of the Italian widow about you, bit like Asia Argento. You know who she is? It’s such a distinctive look. I mean when I first met you, you were more like Siouxsie Sioux, you know? And fair play. But you’ve got that something about you. Something dark and mysterious. Mysterious as death. You know that, right? Boys must tell you that all the time. You’ve been hiding it behind all these weird colours, and it’s a look, I’ll give you that. But you’re more… what’s the word?’

  ‘Incredulous, is the word,’ Freya said, dabbing at the side of her mouth. ‘Let’s forget about talk of deals and contracts, please. I’m still trying to get my head around this situation. I’m not sure I ever will. So I think we can hold our horses, with all this.’ She felt a surge of anger, and went with it. ‘Incidentally, I’ll wear what I like, when I like. God, are you actually my mother?’

  Solomon laughed hard at this. Levison, again, might have been talking about the weather. ‘As I say. Advice from one professional to another. Anyway. However it turns out, I think we can all do well out of this.’

  ‘Especially when the police force settles up,’ Solomon said. ‘Which they will.’

  ‘I think there’s another question needs answering.’ Freya looked directly at her father. ‘Who’s the killer?’

  ‘That’s somebody else’s problem.’

  ‘I mean, I know this will have occurred to you before now, but… They already fit you up for June Caton-Bell’s murder. They’ve got four more they can fit you up for. And a cynic might say… There’s a lot of circumstantial evidence tying you to those ones, too.’

  Solomon paused. ‘True. But not enough to bring charges – no forensics, no witnesses, nothing. So, it’s unlikely they’ll bring charges now. And it’s much harder these days to fit someone up, with all the forensic science available. It’s probably changed since I went inside. And – you’re forgetting these new lasses. The ones who disappeared this year. Now, what everyone can agree upon is – I couldn’t have done those ones.’

  ‘So the guy who did the new murders… he’s still on the loose?’

  ‘It could be a copycat. Or it could be the real Woodcutter. It doesn’t much matter, as far as we’re concerned.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘But I’d be worried, if I was you, frankly. You’re not safe.’

  ‘The police have been all over it,’ Freya said, dismissively.

  ‘You know, I’m staying somewhere safe,’ Solomon said, in a more serious tone. There was something about the way his eyes caught the light, when the lines in his face relaxed a little, that utterly fascinated Freya. ‘They’re probably watching me, too, but all the same – offer’s there. There’s enough room, where I am. And if there’s someone out there wanting to take a swing at you again, well… he’ll have me to deal with.’

  ‘Not necessary. But thank you. I’m presuming they’re watching my flat. So, I’m probably safer than I’ve ever been. Personally, I do think the guy who contacted me is the real Woodcutter. But I don’t know for sure, so we can’t rule out a copycat. But there are other theories on the go. I’m sure you know them all.’

  ‘We’ve got all night,’ Levison said. ‘Let’s hear them.’

  ‘OK.’ Freya cleared her throat, and leaned forward. ‘There’s one theory that says not all the Woodcutter killings were carried out by the same person. That’s one that intrigues me. That they might not be a series of killings after all – more like some random attacks with similarly messy consequences. A bit like they say about Jack the Ripper – there’s a theory that there isn’t a “canonical five” there, at all. There’s another theory that June Caton-Bell was murdered to make it look like the Woodcutter got her. I’m sure there’s other weird and wonderful ones I haven’t got around to. And there’ll be more to come out, once all the forensic work is complete. Hopefully that’ll take us closer to the truth. Because there is an answer in there, somewhere. My God, that must be a busman’s holiday at the pathology department. Four brand-new jigsaw puzzles to complete. Can you imagine?’

  Solomon barked laughter. ‘Hey… You might be onto something there.’ He signalled a waiter. ‘Champagne please. The most expensive bottle you have.’

  This broke Levison’s composure. ‘Uh, make that the third-most expensive bottle you have, in fact. We’re celebrating, but we’re not millionaires. Not yet.’

  ‘Understood, ma’am,’ the waiter said, a study in discretion.

  Solomon cheered when the bottle was popped – giving Freya the first ‘please don’t, Dad – I can’t believe you’ moment of her life. Her glass was filled, and the treacherous bubbles tickled her all the way down.

  ‘Cheers!’ Solomon said, as they clinked glasses again. ‘To freedom. To success. And to us.’

  Freya was gulping down the champagne, wondering what starter she might have out of the bewildering list of foodstuffs in front of her, when the chair next to her slid out.

  Bernard Galvin’s flat-nosed face peered over the top of a menu. ‘Bloody starving, me. Do they do fish and chips in here, love?’

  49

  Cheryl Levison sprang from her seat. For a moment Freya was sure she was going to run across the table to physically tackle the newcomer.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she yelled. ‘This is a private dinner, and you aren’t invited.’

  ‘Settle down, love. As it happens, I have a booking. Just happens to be the same time as you.’

  ‘Yeah, that’ll be right – out. Now.’

  Every face in the restaurant was turned towards them; every conversation stilled.

  ‘I just want to talk. You can behave yourself, love.’

  ‘Call me “love”, one more time. Just once more.’

  ‘C’mon, no
w,’ Galvin said, his grey eyes passing from Levison to Solomon. ‘There’s no need for unpleasantness. We’re all on the same side here, aren’t we?’

  Levison stood in between Solomon and Galvin’s seats. ‘You’ll have to convince me of that, Bernard. Make it quick. This is a decent place. Let’s not have a scene.’

  ‘Only one causing a scene is you, Miss Levison.’

  Solomon didn’t move. His features became quizzical, edging towards bemused. He affected relaxation, but had his body fully turned towards Galvin. His glass was cradled between his middle fingers, and the bottle of champagne was an inch or two from his left hand. ‘Stunning coincidence, you turning up, Bernie,’ he said. ‘And on your own, too. Haven’t you got a date?’

  Galvin smiled, mirthlessly. ‘Looks like she skipped out on me.’

  ‘Shame. You’ve got no luck with the girls.’

  ‘I just wanted to talk. That’s all. You can relax, Miss Levison.’ Galvin stressed the honorific with the impudence of a child. Although she’d already seen him cave in Mick Harvie’s face, this was the first moment Freya wondered if he was truly deranged or not. Her legs quivered with tension, and her bladder seemed to shrink with every passing moment. ‘Sit down, please. I’m not here for a fight. Mind if I have some champagne?’

  Solomon moved his hand to cover the bottle; Levison got closer to Galvin as he did so. ‘I very much mind,’ Levison said.

  ‘As you please. Tad expensive in here, all the same. So, what we having, then?’ Galvin raised a menu and affected nonchalance. He raised his eyebrows, turning the pages. ‘Some of this is a right mouthful. I thought a roulade was something you played?’

  ‘Just hurry up and say what you’ve come to say,’ Levison snarled. ‘This is a night of celebration. You’re not celebrating, are you?’

  ‘Could be,’ Galvin said. ‘I could be celebrating very soon.’