But not now. Not when her world was turned upside down. She had to finish things and didn’t want to draw Paul in. This had to be done by her alone, or their chance of happiness together would be lost forever.
What am I doing?
Gently, ever so gently, so that he couldn’t possibly think she was recoiling against him, she pulled away. ‘You’ll probably think I’m an awful tease,’ she whispered, her face still close to his. He tucked her hair behind her ears and smoothed it down the nape of her neck with fingers so delicate they could have been stroking a child.
‘Am I to take that as an instruction to back off?’ he asked.
‘I have a horrible feeling that if I don’t go now, I may not go at all.’ She looked into his eyes. She could feel a heat rising through her body as they slowly moved apart. ‘I must go now. I can’t keep Wendy any later.’
At the door she hesitated. She remembered what he’d said outside the police station last night and wondered what it was he had wanted to give her. There was still time to change her mind. Wendy would wait up all night if she needed to and often did.
‘I hate you driving on your own so late. I’ll follow you home.’ There was an unusual gruffness in his voice that he attempted to camouflage by a discreet little cough.
‘I’m fine,’ she said in a whisper. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’
‘That is debatable. Nevertheless, I’ll be behind you.’
He put his hand in his pocket and held up a shiny Yale key. ‘Put this on your key-ring. You never know when you might need it.’
‘Your key? Is this what you said last night you wanted to give me?’
He nodded. She shook her head.
‘No, Paul.’
‘Please.’
She turned the key over in her fingers. It had been purchased recently. ‘Paul. You know this is impossible, don’t you.’
‘Nothing is impossible.’
‘It would never work.’
He put his index finger vertically against her lips.
- 71 -
Turning right into Kingsway at the Tesco clock tower, Julia saw that it was nearly midnight. She had kept Wendy far too long. Increasing her speed on the bypass, she switched on Radio Piccadilly and was startled to hear Paul’s voice in the middle of what was obviously a recorded appeal, since in her rear view mirror she could clearly see his CRX behind her.
‘ . . . last seen wearing grey flannels, white open necked shirt, grey trainers. He is armed and dangerous. He should not be approached, but anyone with information about his whereabouts, or who thinks they may have seen him, is requested to telephone Stockport police station on this number . . .’
Julia flicked off the sound, hopefully banishing her guilt with it. She considered what she liked most about Paul. His kind, gentle manner. His smile. His willingness to listen to someone else’s point of view. His dark brown eyes that tonight were so sad. His devotion to his daughter. And to Nicky. The way he listened to music . . .
* * *
Wendy was in the family room, still watching television when Julia walked in. ‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ she said, then ran upstairs to Nicky’s room. She sat down on the edge of the bed and gazed down at the flushed face of her daughter, surrounded by its halo of unruly curls, so like one of Botticelli’s angels, she thought. She bent down and lightly kissed the dewy forehead, breathing in a blend of Pears soap and puppy smell, then tiptoed out and closed the door softly.
Wendy’s film was just ending when Julia came downstairs. ‘Any calls?’ she asked, pretending not to be interested one way or another.
‘Two,’ Wendy said crossly. ‘And both times he put down the phone when I answered.’
Julia shivered. ‘Some crank, I suppose.’
‘I think you should be ex-directory.’
‘I have to be available for my clients. You know that, Wendy.’
Just then the phone rang. Julia rushed to the entrance hall to answer it. ‘Hello ─ ’
‘Julia?’
‘Oh. It’s you.’
‘Well, don’t sound so disappointed. I’ve only rung to make sure you’re all right.’
‘Yes, fine. Thanks for escorting me home. And for a lovely evening.’
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry about . . . well, I didn’t mean to . . . you know.’
‘My fault,’ he said. ‘I wanted to say . . . ’
‘Paul?’
‘I wanted to say ─ well, just that I’m sorry too.’
‘Why?’
‘I think you know why.’
‘Do I?’ She waited.
‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘We’ll have tomorrow.’
‘Paul, I can’t go with you tomorrow. I told you. I’m taking Nicky to The Wizard of Oz.’
‘Goodnight, Julia. Sleep well.’ And he was gone.
‘Obviously wasn’t that crank again, was it?’ Wendy asked.
‘What? No, it was Paul. He followed me home. Don’t you worry about the crank, Wendy, he’ll soon get tired of it. Will you have some tea before you go?’
‘I’ve put the kettle on.’ She looked at Julia and frowned. ‘There was a picture of that murderer on the telly again tonight.’
Julia kept her eyes on the screen. It was amazing how the media had latched on to this case. ‘Oh, really? How did he look?’
‘No different. Blond hair. Mean eyes. Beard. You should know. You’ve seen him often enough.’
Twice she’d seen him lately. Or was it three times? And every time he’d had no beard. ‘Yes,’ she said, still looking blankly at the telly. All his records showed him with a beard. He didn’t grow it and cut it off and grow it again and cut it. No one had seen him without that beard. Not as far as she knew.
But I have, she told herself, and I should have told Paul. I should ring him back now. Her silence appalled her. If she told him they could do a Photofit of him clean shaven, put that on the telly instead. But then Smith would know she was talking.
Wendy brought in the tea. ‘It’s frightening, really,’ she said. ‘Like you said last week, they look quite ordinary, murderers. No different from anyone else. No tails. No horns. No slimy scaly skins. Yeah. Frightening.’
SATURDAY
- 72 -
Sam wasn’t sure what had woken him. It could have been Ada yelling but was probably a siren or an early train. Or even a rat squealing. Straining to lift his head he peered through the cobwebs. The bare windows framed a grey sky splodged with ink-dark clouds. It was still too early to try phoning Julia again. He might even decide to give it a miss and let her wonder what he would do next.
He felt as though nails were sticking into every inch of his body. Even moving his arms was excruciating, but if he didn’t get cracking soon he would stiffen up even more. Besides, he’d been here long enough. It would only be a matter of time before someone saw him coming and going and recognised him in spite of no beard. If that abandoned looking white Fiesta was still in the car park he could head for the hills right now, before it got too light.
He sat up. The pain knifed through his stomach. He needed something to wrap around it, to hold it in tightly. Peering through the gloom he saw amidst the piles of cardboard and rusty tins a length of old mutton cloth, filthy, but it would have to do.
Once on his feet, the dizziness subsided. Moving around was clearly what he had to do. No more of this feeling sorry for yourself, Smith. Gritting his teeth he walked a few steps, then stopped and bent over from the waist.
‘Don’t let go now,’ he said aloud. ‘Not with the first, the one and only glimmer of hope in all your life within your reach.’
The pain is the enemy. A red fiery ball. An army of soldiers in every corner of my body. At a signal they will march to the centre. At another signal they will charge. They will conquer the enemy. They will throw the red fiery ball out of my body and I will watch it sail through the caravan window, flying through the sky getting smaller and smaller
The patches of sky were
becoming lighter. A siren grew louder, then faded. Kneeling down on the uneven earth, he wound the rag around his stomach as tight as he could and tied a flat knot. Then he closed his eyes.
Get on the alert, you bastards. Now. March. Good, you’re nearly there. Charge. Grab the enemy and throw him out.
He opened his eyes, and there it was. The red fiery ball flying through the air against the pale dawn sky. Over the canal, over Dukes Bar, fading until it disappeared beyond the city skyline.
He smiled through his tears. It had worked, as it always did if he concentrated hard enough. The pain was gone.
From Joe’s survival plastic bag he changed into a pair of clean jeans and one of the khaki shirts Joe had kept after his younger brother had died in Northern Ireland. Leaving the dirty clothes for the rats, he walked under the archway towards the dusty white Fiesta.
- 73 -
It was the not knowing that Julia could no longer stand. She’d been awake all night wondering if he was alive or dead and whether she’d hear from him today or not. Have I sunk as low as he has, she asked herself.
Exhausted even before the compulsory game of hide-and-seek with Nicky and Duchess, she’d finally taken them both down to the family room to watch the Saturday TV for children. Alone at last, she picked up the phone next to her bed and dialled Martin Bedlow’s home number, hoping he had not already left for the hospital.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you so early, Mrs Bedlow, but could I speak to Martin? This is Julia Grant.’
‘Oh yes, Julia. Martin’s often spoken about you. Hold on and I’ll get him.’
Although an orthopaedic surgeon, Martin was the only doctor Julia knew well enough to ask about puncture wounds without risking awkward questions. He’d been a contemporary of Simon’s and Ben’s at Manchester University. In the heady days after they’d all qualified and embarked on their lives as working professionals she’d seen a lot of him and his first wife: night clubs, opera, pop concerts, dinner parties, weekends at the Lakes ─ it had been a non-stop merry-go-round of social activity.
She’d lost touch after Simon’s death, so she’d never met his second wife.
‘Julia. Great to hear your voice. How are you? Nothing wrong, I hope.’
‘I’m fine, Martin. But I need your help with a case I’m working on. Not exactly your field but . . . ’
‘Fire away. If I can’t help I’ll ask someone who can.’
Julia wished she’d rehearsed the questions, put them into order in her mind. ‘Well, if someone were stabbed in the stomach with - with say a hatpin, what condition would this person be in? That is,’ she added cautiously, ‘if he could not get medical attention.’
‘I presume then, that he’s on the run,’ Martin said quickly.
Damn. ‘Yes,’ she said. She couldn’t risk saying more.
‘It would depend on the length and condition of the hatpin. We give injections into stomachs these days and they don’t do any harm.’
‘Three inches. A bit rusty.’
‘Hmm. Below the belt?’
‘Yes.’
‘Without seeing the patient I can’t be accurate, you understand that, Julia. But the hatpin may have punctured the bowel in several places and from these tiny puncture wounds there’d be a bit of leakage into the peritoneal cavity, like a perforated ulcer.’
‘And what would happen then?’
‘The body would try to close up the wounds, but would probably eventually fail. Then general peritonitis would set in.’
‘How long would he keep going?’ Is it really me asking these questions, she wondered.
‘Hard to tell, Julia. Depends on his general health.’
‘Thin. Wiry. Pretty fit.’
‘In that case, he’ll do quite well. Four, five days. Possibly ten. Maybe more.’
Oh no. What have I done, she asked herself for the hundredth time.
‘How will he feel?’
‘Feel? Up and down. Not too bad at first. Then some local pain and tenderness. Afterwards there’ll be bowel obstruction. Nauseous. Just a bit at first. Thirsty. But if he drinks he’ll bring it up. Eventually he’ll get weaker, with gradually increasing pain.’
‘And how will he look?’
‘Initially, quite normal. Depends on his immune system. Later he’ll look drawn, pale, jaundiced. Pinched from dehydration because nothing will stay down. If fever sets in he’ll be flushed, lose weight, have difficulty in walking. Septicaemia will set in. In the end he’ll collapse and become comatose. He’ll look bloody awful then.’
‘That bad?’ She could feel her skin contracting as though she’d been immersed in a bath of icy water.
‘Well, imagine a case of untreated appendicitis. It’s a slow, nasty process.’
A rush of darkness swept across her vision. ‘How slow?’
‘Depends again how fit he is.’
She’d stuck the hatpin into him on Wednesday. God, how could she have done it? This was Saturday. Day four. Yet it seemed much longer. And damn it, Martin was still not telling her exactly how long.
She hung on to the edge of the bed. ‘And then?’ she asked, barely able to breathe.
‘You mean, if he still gets no treatment?’
‘Yes.’
‘Almost certainly he will die.’
- 74 -
Wendy blinked at the early morning light streaming in through the window. She wished Janey would stop talking.
‘Should have come with me to the King William,’ Janey said, ‘instead of moping all by yourself just because Alan didn’t want to see you. Then you wouldn’t be so grumpy now.’
‘I wish you’d shut up and let me sleep another five minutes. I was baby-sitting, wasn’t I? I couldn’t have gone to the pub if I’d wanted to.’
‘He didn’t waste any time, you know.’
Wendy opened her eyes wide. ‘What?’
‘He was with that Gloria woman. Blonde skinny one. Tall. You know.’
Silently Wendy reached for her gown, her hands trembling as she rushed to the bathroom. In five minutes she was dressed and into her car, her mind finally made up.
It was only a short drive to Alan’s sister’s house in Handforth. A bit early for a Saturday but if she didn’t go now she’d never catch him. She parked the Mini outside Dawn’s and rang the bell, still numb with shock. Now that she was here, what on earth was she going to say?
Alan answered the door. He was dressed, but his hair was uncombed and he hadn’t shaved. ‘Wendy, what the hell you doing here? You’d better come in.’
He took her into the front room and closed the door softly. She sat down on the sofa and he stood looking down at her, hands on his hips.
‘What’s up?’
‘You were with Gloria last night.’
‘Shh. They’re all still asleep.’
‘At the King William.’
He walked over to the window and opened the curtains. ‘So what? She was on her own. So was I. We’re old friends. What you expect me to do? Ignore her?’
The numb feeling was wearing off and Wendy felt the first signs of panic. ‘Are you in love with her?’
‘You nuts? Look, she means nothing to me. I was working late as it turned out. I dropped in for a pint, took her home and that was all. Wendy, don’t look so bloody miserable. Anyway, I still think we shouldn’t see each other for a few weeks. Maybe after a break you’ll calm down a bit. Okay?’
Wendy closed her eyes. It was now or never. She had nothing to lose. He’ll probably kick me into touch, she thought in a torment of unhappiness, but he’s got to know some time.
‘I’m pregnant.’
‘What?’ He held his hand to his throat, fingers spread wide. ‘You sure?’
‘Positive. I did a test.’
‘How far?’
‘Two months. I think. Maybe three.’
It was as though she’d hit him in the chest and knocked the air out of him. He just stood there and stared at her with his mouth wide open. His jaw moved fro
m side to side but he didn’t say another word. Then he looked at his watch.
He spoke softly. ‘Look, I got a call-out just before you came.’ He walked over to her, gently took her arm and saw her to the door. ‘I’ll be in touch. Take care.’
Wendy drove home in a daze, trying to figure him out. He could have said something. She’d expected him to rant and rave, but he took it so calmly, and she hadn’t the faintest idea now whether he was angry or not.
Or even whether he cared a damn.
- 75 -
Julia and Nicky arrived early at the dance school. While Nicky went to put on her tap shoes, Julia joined the group of mothers behind the glass doors, some waiting to fetch their children from the pre-primary class, others delivering their children to the next class.
A young, thin, harassed-looking woman standing next to Julia smiled. ‘I’m Sandra’s mum. You must be Nicky’s mum,’ she said, peering at her. ‘I never seen you before, but you look just like her.’
Julia did her best to return the smile. ‘No, I don’t often come in, but I’m being allowed to watch today.’ She laughed awkwardly. ‘A special treat,’ she hurriedly explained.
The woman looked impressed. ‘Wish I could watch.’ She looked lovingly at her dark-eyed child whose hand she tightly held. ‘You got a job then?’
‘I’m a lawyer.’
‘Really.’ Sandra’s mother’s eyes opened wide. ‘Shocking all these burglaries. Rapes and murders and stuff,’ she said. ‘That monster with the beard. Even hanging would be too good for him.’
Julia nodded half-heartedly. What would the woman say if she knew who the monster really was? Or really might be. And what would she say if she knew Julia was negotiating to give him a quarter of a million pounds to keep him quiet and get him off her back?
She felt sick. She wished the class would start, then the woman would stop talking.
The pre-primary class had just ended. Sonya, her dark hair in a sleek bun, greeted Julia with a dazzling smile and indicated the row of wooden chairs along the wall.
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