by Julie Corbin
‘Do yourself a favour,’ she shouts after me. ‘Go get fucked.’
My jog towards home is more of a run, anger fuelling my pace. I feel angry at Amy for her careless, selfish attitude, and I feel hurt on Charlie’s behalf. Teenage heartbreak is hard to bear and it seems that Amy has no intention of sparing his feelings. As far as the sex goes, I’m not annoyed with Charlie. I’m surprised that he did it in Julian’s study – it’s not the sort of behaviour I would expect from him – but I’m sure it was Amy’s idea rather than his. And I can understand why he didn’t want to tell me. He doesn’t like to let me down and he would have been wary of my reaction.
A fine rain is just beginning to fall and this seems to further agitate an already choppy sea. No longer just a collection of water molecules that could trickle through the spaces between my fingers, it takes on an animalistic quality, rolling and heaving, coiling back on itself like a snake readying to raise its head and bite.
I look straight ahead and jog faster, but within seconds my anger evaporates and an intense paranoia creeps over me. My back prickles with discomfort. I have the impression of eyes boring into me. I stop running and abruptly turn round. The pavement is teeming with people. I try to pick out a likely suspect, but most people have their heads down and are walking purposefully, carrier bags in each hand. I scan faces, but no one is looking my way. I start to run again, but the feeling doesn’t lift. It grows. I feel like someone, somewhere is picking on me, that I have been singled out for attention. I stop again and look around me. Still there is no one who seems suspicious. I stare up at the sky, and as if waiting for just such a moment, the cloud above me rumbles. It’s a low sound, like heavy furniture being dragged across a floor. Then it empties a stream of water down on to my face. It feels personal. Worse than that, it feels like it’s all part of the greater assault. I clench my fists and shout upwards, ‘You took my mother. You took my father. You’re in the process of taking my sister and now my daughter is in danger too? Bastard!’
‘Oi! Mind your language!’
There’s a man behind me. He is red-faced and miserable-looking. He has two little girls with him, one either side. They both look under-dressed. Their heads are bare; their faces are pinched with the unseasonably cold weather. ‘Not in front of the kids.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I hold up my hand. ‘I’m having a bad day.’
‘Well, we don’t care about your bad day,’ he says.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again, looking at the children this time. ‘I hope you have a lovely day out.’
‘You need to watch your mouth.’ He is pointing a finger at me now. He comes closer and waves it in my face. ‘This is a public place.’
He’s right up close. He smells like he needs a wash and I move back a step. I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t apologised. ‘I’ve said I’m sorry and now I’m heading off.’
‘I’ll be watching out for you.’ The finger waves in my face again. ‘You keep it clean next time.’
‘Go fuck yourself.’ I say it under my breath, but like the best of busybodies his hearing is extra sharp.
‘What did you say?’ His face is a snarl; his shoulders are back, chest thrust forward, hands in pockets, hips a cocky swagger; he’s transformed into a hard man.
‘You heard me,’ I say, facing up to him, happy to fight, angry enough for ten men. ‘Now back off or I’ll make sure you regret it.’
He raises his fists. The two little girls look scared. One is pulling at his jacket. ‘Daddy, stop now.’
A crowd is gathering and I see a couple of men deliberating about whether or not they should step in. The rain is increasing and umbrellas are going up. As good a weapon as any, I go to grab one from a woman behind me when a voice says, ‘Show over. Break it up.’
It’s Mac. He flashes his ID and the hard man backs off, shouting, ‘She needs to watch her mouth.’
Mac takes my arm. ‘I think you could do with a lift home.’ He marches me to the edge of the pavement.
‘I was fine,’ I say, trying to shake him off. ‘I was dealing with him.’
‘You and whose army?’ His car is parked on a double yellow line and already there are cars sounding their horns. He opens the door for me, then goes round to the driver’s side. ‘It might have turned nasty.’
‘He was all bluster and no substance.’
‘Since when did you go around picking fights?’ He starts the engine. ‘Don’t add to your troubles, Claire.’
‘I just feel so angry. I feel so fucking angry. About Lisa. About Bea. About everything.’
‘Put your seatbelt on,’ he says. ‘Remember, anger without focus isn’t a strategy.’
‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ I glare at him. ‘Why aren’t you questioning Sezen? The two officers who came for her looked about twelve.’ I pull the strap across my waist. ‘I can’t imagine they’ll get anything out of her.’
‘You’d be surprised. They’re both better – and older – than they look.’
I ram the belt into the clip. ‘Were you following me?’
‘Julian told me you were jogging along the prom. I have some photos for you to look through. You still OK with that?’
‘Of course.’ My temper subsides to a simmer.
‘Any cafés you know around here that we can go to?’
‘There’s one just up here on the left.’
He stops the car on a single yellow line, then stretches behind him to take a folder off the back seat. The café is dense with steam and chatter. Both the female waitresses smile and say hello as he walks us through to the back, where there’s a free table.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asks, handing me a menu.
‘You eat,’ I tell him. ‘I had a late breakfast.’
The waitress comes across. She is about my age, good figure, hair peroxide blonde and pulled back on top of her head in generous waves held stiff with hairspray. She’s all eyes for Mac. ‘Hello there! And what can I get you?’
‘What do you recommend?’
Mac has a slow smile on his face as he listens to her run through the favourites. ‘You’ve persuaded me. I’ll go for the cooked breakfast. And a tea.’ He looks across at me.
The waitress’s eyes follow his. ‘And for you, madam?’
I skim the menu. ‘Just a tea. Thank you.’
‘Not even a scone?’ Mac says. The waitress has told him they’re homemade.
‘I’m OK.’
He looks regretful.
‘Did you want one?’ I say.
‘I thought I might get half.’
I look up at the waitress. ‘And a scone, please.’
‘Coming right up.’ She places a casual hand on Mac’s shoulder, then walks back towards the counter.
‘You’ve not lost your touch, then?’
‘People skills. Part of a policeman’s toolbox.’
‘That’s what they all say.’ I point to the folder at his feet. ‘Shall I look through it now, before the food comes?’
‘Yup.’ He places it on the table. ‘Take your time. You know the drill. Don’t focus on hair or clothes. Look at the shape of their eyes, their nose, bone structure.’
I open the folder. There are A4-size photographs of men, one after the other, about fifty of them. I take my time. Sezen’s lover had a distinctive hooked nose and high cheekbones. Many of the photos I discount at once. They are of heavy, thickset men with small eyes and tattoos. The man I’m looking for is slight, and his features are Middle Eastern, not Eastern European. I get to the end of the folder without being able to pick him out.
‘He’s not there,’ I say, disappointed, passing the folder back.
‘Definitely not?’
‘Definitely not,’ I confirm. Our mugs of tea arrive. I lean away from the table so that the waitress can put them down. ‘I had a clear view of him through the binoculars.’
‘OK.’ He thinks for a moment. ‘Let’s wait and see what Sezen has to say for herself. Then we’ll take it from there.
’
I take a drink of my tea and watch Mac put two spoons of sugar in his. He sees me watching him and pats his small but evident belly. ‘I know. Donna’s working on me. I have to use sweetener at home.’
‘Andrew MacPherson tamed by a woman.’ I take another drink of tea. ‘Who would have thought it?’
He laughs. ‘Marriage,’ he says. ‘The sharing and the caring.’
He gives me a look, one that could lead me into saying all sorts of things I should keep to myself.
‘Are you and Julian managing to hold it together?’
I’m not about to answer that. Instead, I lean across the table until I am six inches from his face and say quietly, ‘You are a crass, predatory ape who just so happens to be a good detective.’
He laughs so loud that several people look across at us. ‘Those were the days,’ he says. ‘Margery Prendergast. Whatever happened to her?’
‘She took herself off to Scotland. Last I heard she was living in an artists’ commune on the Black Isle.’
Margery Prendergast was also a solicitor with the CPS. She’d gone to a girls’ school, was unmarried, didn’t have any brothers or male friends and found men ‘surplus to requirements’. We all suspected that secretly she quite liked Mac, but in public she regularly tried to humiliate him. It never worked, of course, and we started a top ten of Prendergast putdowns that we repeated to Mac at opportune moments.
‘She wasn’t cut out for the law.’
‘She wasn’t cut out for you lot, more like,’ I say. I scrape some spilled sugar into my hand. ‘Do you know Megan Jennings? She works for the CPS. She’s assigned to Georgiev’s trial.’
He nods. ‘Posh bird? Likes to think she’s a bit superior?’
‘That’s her. Does she have a boyfriend?’
‘Nobody seems to have shagged her, and a couple of good ones have tried.’
‘It couldn’t be that she just doesn’t fancy any of you?’
He makes a point of considering this. ‘Unlikely.’
‘She was chatting up Faraway just now, but she has had designs on Julian.’
He shakes his head. ‘Nothing’s going on.’ He waves his arm to attract the waitress’s attention and mimes eating with a knife and fork. ‘I would know about it.’
‘Your cop’s antennae?’
‘Not just that. You know what a goldfish bowl that place is.’ He takes a long drink of tea. ‘Anyway, Julian would be a fool to take her over you, and he’s no fool.’
I raise my mug up to his. ‘Cheers for the vote of confidence.’
The food arrives. My scone is perfect; soft and sweet-smelling, it looks like it’s been baked by everyone’s favourite grandmother. ‘Did DCI Grubb ever get himself on Mastermind?’ I say, splitting it in half and spooning jam on to one side.
‘Still trying to get through the selection process. He’s changed his specialist subject twice since you were around. He’s moved on from the Super Bowl, was stuck on the animals of Madagascar for a while, and now he’s discovered Voltaire.’
‘Voltaire?’ I think. ‘“May God defend me from my friends; from my enemies I can defend myself.”’
‘Did Voltaire say that?’
‘I believe so. I shared a flat with an arts graduate when I was in my third year at uni. He used to stick quotes up all over the walls.’
‘Not a bad piece of advice.’ He takes a forkful of food and finishes chewing it before saying, ‘Dave and Barry are in training for the Berlin Marathon in September. You wouldn’t recognise them.’
‘No more doughnuts, then?’
‘Rabbit food all the way.’
I laugh. ‘You’re going to make me miss you all in a minute. I’ll forget the frustration, the wasted leads, the relentless round of paperwork.’
‘When all this is over, you should come back, part-time even. I can’t believe you get off on staying at home all day. There’s only so much daytime TV you can watch.’
‘I’ve never had the opportunity to get bored. First there was the moving down here, settling the kids into schools, having work done on the house, my dad dying, Bea arriving and, more recently, Lisa’s illness.’
‘And now this.’
‘And now this.’
‘Seriously, Claire.’ He gives me a sympathetic smile. ‘How are you holding up?’
‘Well . . .’ I almost laugh. ‘It’s not easy. I don’t feel like I can trust anyone. I thought Sezen was genuine – she isn’t. Mary Percival acts strangely around me. Turns out she’s my half-sister.’ I make a face. ‘I haven’t had time to think about that yet. And then there’s Jem.’ I throw my arms out. ‘I knew she was a bit fidgety around the police, but GBH? That’s a serious crime.’ I take a bite of scone. ‘And these are three people I previously trusted with my child.’
‘I agree that they’re all hiding something, but there are no direct connections to Pavel Georgiev or organised crime of any sort.’
‘Even Sezen?’
‘We’ll see what turns up today, but thus far her life looks transparent enough. She lived in Paris for four years. She worked for the French Embassy as a chef. They were extremely sorry to see her go.’
‘But it appears she was brought up in Bulgaria and Georgiev is Bulgarian, and, like you say, they have a tendency to keep it within the family or at least within their own culture. Is she still insisting she’s Turkish?’
‘Yeah.’
I think back to her meeting at the roundabout. ‘Do you know who Lara’s father is?’
‘She was born here. No father’s name is recorded on the birth certificate.’
‘I wonder whether the mystery man is Lara’s dad.’
‘Could be.’
‘Perhaps he’s the one who knows Georgiev. Perhaps Sezen’s only job was to open my front door. When the time came.’ I swallow a mouthful of scone. ‘In retrospect, all that business about her accommodation round the corner falling through – she knew I would offer a room in my house. I need to change the code for the burglar alarm. Just in case.’ I finish the last of my tea. ‘What was it Grubb used to say when he was in his American-football phase?’
‘Linebacker mentality – read the game and then react.’ He uses his fork to point at his plate. ‘Want some?’
‘What?’
‘You’re staring at my food.’
‘Am I?’ Somehow that mouthful of scone was my last and Mac’s right – I’m now eyeing up the last of his breakfast. I use my fingers to break off a piece of his toast. ‘Actually, I am quite hungry.’ I take a bite. It’s soggy but warm from melted butter and egg yolk. ‘You drumming much?’
‘Still doing the rounds of the clubs.’
‘Is that how you met Donna?’
He nods. ‘She’s a yoga teacher, but she trained as a singer. Jazz mostly.’
‘So are you in a band together?’
‘Of sorts. We have a few gigs coming up at the end of June. I can email you details.’ He sees my face. ‘Or maybe not.’
‘No offence, but I don’t think I’ll be allowed out of my safe house. Talking of which,’ I say lightly, ‘if you were to just give me the name and whereabouts of the witness, we could skip the safe house. Save all that taxpayers’ money.’
He stares at me, trying to gauge whether my request is an idle one or whether I mean it. ‘It’s putting away a man like Georgiev that makes this job worth it. You know that. This trial is the culmination of years of investigation. For over fifteen years policemen have been gathering evidence against Georgiev and finally we have a rock-hard case that even the smartest defence won’t be able to break. This is . . .’ He searches for the right word.
‘Exciting?’ I say.
He looks uncomfortable.
‘Well, pardon me for not sharing your excitement, but my daughter’s safety is not a fair trade for a successful conviction.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ he agrees. ‘We will keep Bea safe. You know that. You know we’ll do everything we can.’
‘And if
that isn’t enough?’
‘It will be enough.’
‘I’m not so sure.’ I stand up. ‘I may have to persuade you to my way of thinking.’ I look down at him. I hold his eyes. It’s a warning shot across the bow. He feels it. I watch him pull his arms into his sides. ‘Thank you for the scone.’
As I walk away, I’m aware of his eyes on my back. I don’t turn round.
15
By the time I get home it’s two o’clock. The first thing I do is change the four-digit code on the alarm. Then I go inside to check on Lara and Bea. They’re in the kitchen. Wendy has delivered a gingerbread house covered in icing and jellied sweets. There are several indents in the icing where sweets have been taken off.
‘It wasn’t me,’ Bea says. There’s icing around her mouth. ‘I had two.’ She holds up four fingers.
‘She’ll never be a mathematician,’ Charlie says. ‘Do you need any shopping, Mum? I thought I’d go out for a bit.’
‘Just some milk.’
Fortunately, he doesn’t have to go further than the end of the road. I don’t intend to tell him that I saw Amy kissing someone else. His feelings will take enough of a bashing as it is without me wading in.
‘And you could do with some bread,’ Wendy chips in, opening up the bread bin so that I can see there’s very little inside.
‘And bread.’ I look at Charlie. ‘Take some money from the jar.’
‘Where’s Sezen?’ Wendy says.
‘Yeah, where is Sezen?’ Charlie echoes.
I look over at Lara. She’s beside Bea. They are kneeling on chairs and have their elbows on the table, leaning into the gingerbread house, looking through the windows and discussing which part looks the best to eat.
‘Well . . .’ The truth will only lead to questions that can’t be fully answered. I don’t want to scare anyone and I don’t want to have them crossing bridges that might not need to be crossed. I am having enough trouble dealing with my own anxiety. ‘She’s gone out to meet up with someone and should be back later. I said we’d look after Lara until then.’
‘Be good for her to get some time to herself,’ Wendy says. ‘Lara’s a super little girl, but single parenting can’t be easy. Now, here.’ She passes me a tray with a pot of tea and spelt toast and honey. ‘This is for Lisa.’