“Great!” Sally had exclaimed. “You’d rather talk to one of your employees than your own daughter!” And the conversation had continued in the same tone, despite Roger’s agreeing to fund a new Xbox, the current one having been broken during a party.
In the end he didn’t speak to Kevin until they met up the following day. Doyle punched the air with delight at the news.
“So you weren’t involved in any way?”
“Course I wasn’t. Why would I chuck her off a cliff? There’s no fun if you don’t get to see ‘em suffer.” He cackled with laughter, all the more amused by Roger’s distaste. “Anyway, there’s no way he’s gonna care about a few iffy claims now.”
Roger shrugged. “I’m not so sure. What if Nick Randall reacts as I just did?”
Kevin considered it for a moment. “I’ll make sure I’m covered for the day it happened. You’d better do the same.”
“I already have,” Roger said.
“Maybe he did it?” Kevin added. “Husband’s always the first one they look at.”
Roger tapped the paper. “They say the police aren’t treating it as suspicious. That means suicide.”
“Either way we’re in the clear. Fucking brilliant!”
Roger was far from convinced, but he decided against voicing his fears. A couple more claims had recently settled, bringing in nearly thirty thousand pounds. They’d already acquired cars and taken out insurance in preparation for the next batch, but Roger argued strongly that they should put these on hold for a while. Kevin couldn’t see why, but eventually he skulked out with an agreement to do nothing until Roger gave the word.
Maybe it’s going to be okay, Roger began to tell himself. Maybe we’ve ridden the storm, and now we’re through the other side.
He could say it as often as he liked, but in his heart he didn’t believe it. Either Nick would be back, or someone else would take his place.
***
Howard Franks was in a state of giddy excitement. For days the phone had rung constantly, a stream of journalists clamouring for information on Eddie Randall, and everything was supplied on the strict understanding that they included a plug for the book.
Diana’s call had been a welcome surprise. When she tearfully explained that Nick’s wife had apparently committed suicide, his initial disappointment quickly turned to elation. It took a considerable performance on his part to maintain a sympathetic demeanour when in reality he wanted to whoop with delight. And his agreement to leave Nick alone in no way precluded him from phoning an old friend on the Sun.
To demonstrate that he bore no resentment for the way they had treated him, he sent them a hardback copy of his 1999 biography of a minor celebrity who’d overcome breast cancer, complete with a handwritten dedication: To Diana and Nick: May it inspire you.
Then it emerged that a witness had seen someone with Sarah Randall just prior to her death. Howard began to entertain delicious fantasies about publication being timed to coincide with Nick’s high-profile murder trial, but those were shattered when a Sussex detective asked him to confirm Nick’s account of their confrontation outside Diana’s home.
Providing such a crucial alibi was, in Howard’s mind, an act of selfless generosity that should not go unrewarded. And with his publishers now desperate for a finished manuscript, Howard knew it was time to force the issue.
His stroke of genius was prompted by Lindsay, who’d kept her word and met him for a meal at Almeida. She seemed thrilled by the publicity he was generating, and it was clear that he’d risen in her estimation as a result.
The following Saturday they were discussing the events of the past week after a long and exhausting afternoon in bed. She was lying against him, her breasts squashed against his shoulder, her fingers playfully combing his pubic hair. His strategy was launched on a long forlorn sigh.
“Don’t be sad, honey,” Lindsay said.
“But I need their contribution. I don’t want to give up on it.”
“That’s got to be the last thing on their minds right now.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He fixed Lindsay with a meaningful stare. “What about an entirely fresh approach?”
She snorted. “Why do I get the feeling this involves me?”
“Because you’re remarkably perceptive woman. Among other things.”
She laughed and gave the hair a tug, just the right side of painful. He could feel blood rushing to the area.
“Supposing I employed an attractive research assistant?”
She brushed her hand lightly over his balls. He shivered.
“And just how will you repay this attractive research assistant?”
He thrust his groin towards her hand, which hovered tantalisingly out of reach. “A credit in the book?”
Her hand dipped, squeezed, moved away. “Mm. ‘To the indispensable Lindsay, for providing a full range of services.’ How does that sound?”
He chuckled, feeling his heart rate increase. He hadn’t achieved a second erection this quickly for months.
“Maybe.”
“So what would I have to do?” She shifted on to her knees and moved down the bed.
“Just talk to Nick. Appeal to his better nature.”
“Hmm. I’ll think about it.”
She pursed her lips and moved closer. His penis twitched with excitement.
“You’re gonna owe me.”
“I know. I know.”
“On top of what you already owe me.” Grazing the head of his penis with her teeth. “And always you want more.” Caressing it with her tongue.
He groaned. “Yes. I’m a…”
“Greedy boy.”
“Greedy,” he echoed. He saw her eyes flare but wasn’t sure if she was amused or offended. That was the trouble with Lindsay. He couldn’t read her like he could read most women. Perhaps that was what kept him… what kept him…
But now she had stopped teasing, and rational thought became impossible.
FOURTEEN
Woken in the early hours of Sunday morning, Nick heard a ferocious gale hurling rain at the windows. He shivered and turned towards Sarah for warmth. It was only when he rolled on to the empty mattress that he remembered, and the shock was nearly as great as it had been the first time. He pulled the duvet around him, curled into a foetal position and sobbed loudly enough to obscure the howling wind.
The day dawned fresh and bright, the wind easing as the weather front moved eastwards. Nick slept late, and it was only the simultaneous ringing of his phone and the doorbell that finally roused him.
He trudged downstairs to find Diana peering through the window, her mobile clamped to her ear. Patrick and Ryan were watching anxiously from the car.
“Where have you been?”
“Sleeping.”
“It’s nearly lunchtime.”
“I had a bad night,” he snapped, and then regretted it when she gave him one of her reproving looks.
“I’ve brought some food,” she said, as Pat popped the boot and got out of the car.
“Why?”
“I remember the state of your fridge when you were a student. Lager and a lump of cheese, am I right?”
Nick shrugged. “I had to bin the cheese.”
“Pat’s going to take the kids to the Lagoon while we start on the clear-out.”
“But the police might want…”
“DCI Pearce gave me the okay.”
Nick frowned. His sister and the detective had been colluding.
“She thought it would do you good,” Diana added. “Part of the healing process.”
They went inside, and for a brief period the house rang with noise and laughter as Ryan ran manically from room to room, perplexed by the concept of a home without toys. Diana had told him that Auntie Sarah was living in France for a while, sparing Nick some awkward questions. The real explanation could wait until he was older.
Once they’d gone, Nick trudged upstairs behind his sister, who was wielding a roll of heavy-duty plastic
sacks. It was a grim task, but one he knew he must confront: a way of disabusing himself of the notion that it was all a terrible mix-up, that one day soon she would return.
After the funeral Sarah’s sister had asked to keep anything Nick would otherwise discard. Unsure where to begin, he hung back as Diana opened the large double wardrobe and surveyed the contents.
“A hoarder,” she said sadly.
“You haven’t seen the shoes yet,” he said.
Diana rolled up her sleeves and quickly got to work, chattering brightly about nothing in particular while Nick sat on the bed, contributing a well-timed “umm” or “uhuh” when he felt it was required.
“What about the rest of her things?” she asked, when the first wardrobe contained no more than dust and empty hangers. “Her jewellery?”
“She left it to me,” Nick said. “I guess I’ll give it to Elaine and her parents.”
“You’re allowed to keep it, you know.”
“But why?” he said, when really he meant, I don’t feel entitled, and Diana didn’t press him.
On top of the wardrobe there was a large box full of old records and cassettes. Diana fetched a duster and gave each item a wipe before handing it to him. Most of the records had warped with age, and none had been played for years. Nick shook his head sadly as he studied them: Shalamar, Wham, Depeche Mode; it struck him that they were dismantling a life.
“Leave them,” he said. “Let’s put them back.” And he could hear his voice didn’t sound right, Diana watching him with a terrible pity, and then her image blurred and he knew he was going to weep for the first time in someone else’s presence.
She held him and let him sob, soothing him as she would soothe her children, protecting him as he had once protected her when Dad died and Nick, at nine, became the man of the house.
“I feel so guilty,” he said at last. “To think she might have been seeing someone, someone who was responsible for her death, and yet I have no idea who it could be.”
“None of it makes sense,” said Diana. “I think the witness must be confused, perhaps saw someone else. I’m sure Sarah was on her own. It was just a dreadful accident.”
Nick gave her a fond smile. She was choosing to ignore the hotel staff who’d seen Sarah climbing into the black Focus. And the calls to her mobile that had been made from an untraceable phone.
Still, DCI Pearce’s advice had been to choose whichever explanation offered him the best chance of peace. She hadn’t actually used the hideous word closure, but that was what she meant. Maybe they were both right, he thought.
Later he helped her load the bags for Elaine into the car. Sarah’s family were refusing to have anything to do with him, so Diana had volunteered to deliver the possessions to their hotel.
“For what it’s worth, I think they’re being pathetic,” she said.
He disagreed. “I wasn’t a good husband to her. They have every right to blame me.”
“No,” Diana said. “You’ve got to stop thinking like that.”
That night Nick came across one of his dad’s movies on Channel 5: On The Tide, a gritty thriller with Eddie, aged thirty-six, playing a police sergeant. It was an unwelcome reminder that Nick had given no further thought to Howard Franks, and the allegation that Dad was responsible for murder.
Another prompt that he couldn’t ignore. Life had to get started again.
***
Sunday evening, Roger Knight was sitting on the sofa, a beer and a bowl of peanuts at his side, watching an old film starring Eddie Randall.
Roger immediately saw why Nick had looked familiar. It wasn’t just the likeness in build and features, but something in the way Eddie moved, the quick expressive face, always seeking a laugh. Although it was a drama, Eddie had clearly been cast to lighten the mood: raising his eyebrows at a barked order from his boss, then colliding with a tea trolley on his way out of the office.
Caitlin came in holding a script and a bottle of Sol. She had landed a small part in a piece of experimental theatre at the Komedia in Brighton, with rehearsals beginning the next day. Roger knew he’d been too preoccupied to offer her the encouragement she expected, and it had become another source of conflict between them.
“Budge up,” she said, sitting at the other end of the sofa and resting her feet against his thigh. He stroked her leg and remembered the time not so long ago when her body had inspired a permanent state of adolescent lust.
On screen, Eddie Randall was chasing an armed robber through the London docks.
“Anything else on?” said Caitlin. “Something made this century, for instance?”
“I’m only watching it because of this guy.”
She peered at the screen. “Didn’t he used to be in that awful sitcom?”
“Eddie Randall. My uncle knew him in the sixties.”
“Really?”
“I met his son the other day.”
“Is he an actor as well?” She was interested now.
“He’s an insurance investigator, believe it or not.”
“Is he?” Caitlin drank some beer. “What’s he investigating?”
Roger experienced a twinge of unease. “Just a car we repaired. He thought it might be involved in a fraudulent claim.”
“And was it?”
“I’ve no idea. We simply fixed it and invoiced the insurer.”
“What’s his name, this investigator?”
“Nick Randall.”
She turned to him, frowning. “Wasn’t there something in the paper about…?”
“His wife died a couple of weeks ago. Fell off Beachy Head.”
“So when did you meet him? Before his wife died?”
Roger shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t like the way her questions had taken on a forensic tone. “What do you mean by that?”
He realised he’d snapped at her. Caitlin swung her legs round and retreated to the far end of the sofa. She studied him for what seemed an age.
“Are you involved in something illegal?”
It was the question he’d been dreading. The one that required an all-out lie.
“What?”
“With Kevin Doyle. Something to do with insurance claims.”
“Where did you get that idea from?” He could feel his face heating up, sweat prickling on his forehead. He stared at the TV, where an unarmed Eddie Randall had now cornered the robber.
“I’m not stupid, Roger. I notice things.”
“Things?”
“A brand new Range Rover in the drive, for starters. Lynn and the kids on an all-inclusive in Antigua.”
Roger jumped to his feet. “This is because you’re still jealous of Lynn. It’s bloody ridiculous.”
“It has nothing to do with that.”
“No? Well, my business has nothing to do with you, okay? You do all right out of it. That’s all you need to know.” It was a cheap comment, and unjustified, but he was beyond the point of reasoning. It felt as though all the frustration and anger he felt at Doyle and Nick Randall and his ex-wife – and most all at himself – was just aching to be unleashed on poor Caitlin.
“Jesus, Roger. I don’t want to see you end up in jail.”
“Don’t be so fucking stupid. I know what I’m doing.” He stormed out of the room, spraying peanuts across the floor. Caitlin drew her knees up to her chin and buried her head in her arms. She heard gunshots, a cry from Eddie Randall as he caught the fatal bullet, and then the sudden inane chatter of commercials.
***
Tuesday was sunny till lunchtime, when Nick met Morag outside the offices of CBA Insurance. They walked down North Street under darkening skies, and as they crossed the road towards the Lanes it began to rain.
“Bloody weather,” Morag grumbled.
“It’s still better than Scotland, isn’t it?” Nick said.
“Aye, I guess so.”
The Lanes were crowded with a mix of office workers at lunch, an early influx of Easter tourists and kids on their school holidays
. Threading a path between beggars, buskers and buggies, they settled on the Bath Arms because it was traditional rather than trendy, and you could hear yourself talk.
The previous morning he’d finally gone through his business post, which had included a sympathetic letter from Morag, suggesting the case could be transferred to another investigator if he needed to take a break from work. He’d rung and suggested a meeting, to which she had agreed on the condition that it be ‘semi-social’.
“In the pub, you mean?” he’d said.
“Precisely.”
Now he handed her a pint of Guinness and caught her appraising him. “I didn’t think we’d see you for a while yet.”
“I need to keep occupied. Otherwise I’m just sitting around in an empty house.”
“So really I’m doing you a favour here?”
There was the hint of a wicked smile on her lips, and Nick had a sudden flashback of their night together. He gulped down some beer.
“Where are we, then?”
“We checked both vehicles and got nothing.” She opened a leather document wallet and brought out a sheaf of paper. “Then we spoke to the other insurers about their policy history. Squeaky clean, or so it appeared.”
He grinned. He knew she was bursting to tell him.
“They mentioned a named driver on their policy. We ran his details and found two matches, both recent claims. Spoke to those insurers and came up with another eight claims. Then we find it’s the same solicitor in more than half the cases. A guy called Barry Harper?”
Nick shook his head: the name was unfamiliar.
“Oh, he’s bent,” Morag said. “And that’s not all.”
“Go on.”
“Knight’s Accident Repair Centre crop up on one other claim.”
“Excellent. Shame it’s only one.”
“Yeah. Could be coincidence, I suppose.”
“No. It’s not.”
“I agree. But any half-decent lawyer will shred this lot in less than five minutes, and the police won’t take a sniff till we’ve done all the hard work for them.” She smiled. “So bring me some lovely evidence.”
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