‘Well, watch it, Ryan, will you?’ said Malcolm lightly. ‘Don’t ever expect too much by way of results. It’s disappointment makes policemen bent. When they cease to see the point of playing by the rules. If you see what I mean.’
‘Yes,’ said Ryan, just as lightly. ‘I do see, as it happens.’
The lawns were filling. Black suits, wives with peacock hats, dark-suited ladies straight out of court, discreetly painted faces with just a hint of a frivolous frill at the neck, colourful against the green and the hats and the old young heads. Only Ryan paused to look back after they had passed the same steps, suddenly, vainly anxious for the boy who would have to account for the bottle.
‘Hey! Mr Cook! I’ve just seen bloody Churcher talking to a lovely redhead, crafty old bugger. No wonder he wanted rid of us.’
‘Good luck to him,’ said Malcolm. ‘I hear he’s a widower. Whoever he talks to isn’t even scandalous. Maybe she’ll soften him up before we ever have to see him again.’
‘Widower? Single man? All right for some. Not a bad old bloke really. Oh, come on, Mr Cook. If we’re going to drink, let’s drink. And not in bloody Fleet Street. I need a beer . . .’
Looking at his own haphazard reflection, Simeon Churcher was aware of something wrong but what it was escaped him. Like why it was the business of his day was so easy if complicated, while the business of his evenings was so awful. All his life he had been setting himself goals, achieving them more or less with the kind of precision useful to Queen’s Counsel engrossed in commercial litigation, but these days nothing came naturally at all, while the mirror showed signs of the now familiar panic and Simeon was forced to recognise in his own lopsidedness not only how useless he was without a wife, but what a hash he was making of finding a replacement.
The incident of her death was remote now, like an old, but well remembered case. Mrs Churcher had usually been ill, but well enough to run her household with an iron hand, frequently discarding any velvet glove. The end result was Simeon in pressed socks and pristine appearance to compensate for years of virtual celibacy and incessant headaches, with his innocence preserved by twice-daily telephone calls to his clerk in order to plot his movements and nourishment as would a general for his army. Pleased to be the subject of such concern, he had never rebelled; but now when he strode down Fleet Street towards the High Court he kept his eyes fixed on the ground to avoid the distraction of what they might otherwise observe, bumping into short skirts with groans of dismay, Simeon was as hungry for an affectionate sexual encounter as he had been at sixteen, with a level of ignorance almost as complete. Two problems compounded by fifty-four years of total respectability. Simeon yearned for adventures with a kindly, instructive mate, and from the depths of his imagination, the new wife rose a phoenix from the ashes, while all the time there was something in his approach which sent all prospects scuttling for cover like hysterical ants in the path of his large feet. They did not walk away. They ran.
‘Jesus.’ Joan was speaking to Sarah. ‘That was that Simeon Churcher. Again. Why didn’t you see the danger signs with him, Sarah? He’s rung for you three times today. It’s like listening to a man fall over himself on the phone. You must’ve bowled him over at that posh garden party you was on about.’
‘My heels were stuck in the grass. I was shrinking by inches, I couldn’t move. Besides, he’s a nice man. He’s taking me out to dinner.’
‘He’s bloody what? You must be mad, and why do you go for such losers? You won’t bloody go out with Charles Tysall, best-looking bloke who ever crossed this sodding doorstep, rich, handsome, gorgeous . . .’
‘I did. Go out with him. Once or twice was enough, and anyway I thought we agreed we wouldn’t discuss it.’
‘Sorry, I’m sure. Won’t mention it again. Was it because he was a client?’ You poor cow, she thought.
‘No. Besides, he isn’t a client. Not one of mine. I only saw him because Ernest was out. Charles Tysall has problems beyond my slender skills.’
‘Well, it ain’t for me to comment, but you must have a screw loose. Bloody good-looking bloke. And rich. Wouldn’t catch me missing a chance like that.’
Sarah stirred, fidgeted. She’s all right, thought Joan. I like her really, and I bloody well owe her plenty, but it doesn’t do any harm for her to worry from time to time. Nice to see it. Makes her human.
‘I’m a bit frightened of him, to tell the truth.’
Joan snorted, and hoisted the files from the desk and under her arm. ‘Never known you frightened of anything, Miss Fortune. Not you.’
Simeon considered he was looking rather pukka. As far as he was able to judge. He was a slight man, with grizzled, grey hair, bright eyes, a large mouth and hands which he used for copious gestures in court and could not otherwise keep still. The appearance in the mirror still worried him. Today he wore cavalry twills, and an ancient bluey tweed jacket devoid of shape and unpleasantly hairy, slightly at odds with his nylon shirt of brilliant yellowy-white and a half-purple, striped tie, saddened and twisted in the wash. His new shoes shone like plastic. The combined effect diminished and aged him into a retired colonel, without batman, and if he had wished to complete the general impression of dated ineptitude, Simeon could rely on his manner to do the rest. Excellent choice, the Travellers’ Club. Pall Mall’s faded splendour. It had been himself at fault, and he knew it, crestfallen when she said she had been there before, but how grand it was. Grinning like a pixie he had been when she had found him too early in the entrance, bestowing his smiles indiscriminately on all passers-by in case they were her, hopelessly surprised to find that this warm lady, met so opportunely on the Inner Temple Lawns, would actually arrive. Sarah Fortune had no sharp edges to distract from her neat and confident elegance and transparent intelligence. He did not understand women’s clothes, but the combination of sexiness with complete respectability unhinged him completely. There was the ready laughter in her throat, so lacking in contempt, an understanding in the smile, and despite his twitching, he sank into a state bordering on calm.
Dinner had passed with relative ease, apart from his realisation that he had placed her facing the wall with the token vase of carnations between them, so that he gabbled and she questioned with both of them peering between the leaves. At one stage she had moved it to one side, and he had replaced it nervously without knowing he did so. The hands. He could never control the hands. New shoes were hurting as he tripped on the way down the staircase into the library, crushing her briefly against the banister, but she did not seem to mind. All going well, only three or four gaffes. If Miss Fortune had counted rather more than that, she did not say.
Too successful, of course. Simeon had relaxed too soon. As she lit a cigarette to accompany coffee, an automatic gesture on her part, his own reaction was spontaneous. Smoking had been anathema to Mrs Churcher, forbidden in her house: no smoke, no nicotine, all rooms immediately freshened, and Simeon had copied her set response. As the first curl of smoke trailed from Sarah’s cigarette, he automatically produced a large red handkerchief from his bulging pockets and flicked it absently but loudly in front of him. Among the subdued murmurings of the library, the gesture was flamboyant, certainly clumsy. The edge of the cloth caught the cigarette in the ashtray, sent it flying on to the carpet before the second flick caught the coffee cup she had extended to him. Liquid and cup rose in the air for a brief and graceful moment, then crashed against the table as a huge brown stain appeared on Sarah’s skirt.
‘Sorry,’ said Simeon, his voice manically loud and cheerful even in his own ears. ‘My wife hated cigarette smoke.’
The girl’s face was looking at him strangely, twisted slightly in a kind of grimace, reminding him, surely not, of someone attempting not to cry. ‘Ah,’ she said quietly. ‘I suppose that explains it. Will you excuse me a minute?’
She was off like a shot, out of the long room almost at a run, leaving him to breathe heavily, rumple the handkerchief and wonder at his own offence. Down in the base
ment Ladies, Sarah Fortune relinquished stern control of her face, and collapsed in helpless laughter. He needed help. Carefully she wiped her eyes and repaired the damage.
But alone in the library, subjected to a few curious glances, Simeon was suddenly, blindingly aware of what he had done. People did not deserve to be abused, swatted like flies and covered in hot coffee for the simple antisocial crime of lighting a cigarette. They didn’t deserve it; some people liked cigarettes, judging from those around him, many people. He might have been competent to advise on the devious shameful Mr Charles Tysalls of the world, but otherwise, his ignorance was profound. Being clever, he realised, was a hindrance.
Simeon prepared to leave, stiff with embarrassment. He did not blame her for not coming back, could see no reason why she should.
Two light hands were on his shoulders, and her face, curtained by sleek red hair, was bending towards his own, her eyes alight with amusement.
‘Do you think I could have that coffee now, from the cup?’
For that deft touch of forgiveness, Simeon could have given her the world. They had managed to speak as if nothing had happened, as if his pockets were not bulging with boy scout detritus and three handkerchieves, and parted, friendly and reserved. In that little absence she had somehow assumed charge, and given him hope.
Words were difficult. Two days later, Sarah reviewed the evening with Simeon and sighed. One task then, before forgetting all others. She had picked up the telephone with something akin to trepidation, telling herself it did not matter. These were the episodes she most disliked.
‘Simeon?’
‘Sarah? I’m delighted you rang. How are you?’
‘Better for hearing you. Now, my dear, what do you think about another meeting?’
No foolish girlish promptings. No clues. No pretending that the circumstances of their meeting had been entirely ordinary or the evening perfect.
‘I think about it all the time,’ he stammered. ‘You know I do, and how much . . . But it won’t do, and I won’t do for you, if you know what I mean . . . I want to, but can’t.’ That understanding teasing voice of hers, he could feel himself melting.
‘Well.’
Strange how he knew what she was going to say before she said it, not the words, but simply the meaning wrapped in a great and sensitive generosity. And did not mind in the least.
‘You aren’t the answer to a maiden’s prayer, any more than I’m a maiden, you know.’ Gently said. ‘You want a wife, and don’t know how to court one. I don’t want a husband, as it happens, but I like you well enough. Would you like it if we were to meet from time to time? Until the maiden answers the prayer? To make you fitter for her? You aren’t at the moment, you know, but you don’t need me to tell you that.’
‘No I don’t. And I agree. I’d love to see you.’
‘Dinner next week, then. Or a play. Or an evening in.’
‘All three,’ he said earnestly. ‘If you don’t mind.’
She laughed, and his fists uncurled at the sound of it. A happy laugh she had, as comforting as a hug and as full of promise.
‘One problem,’ he began.
‘Which is?’ From the first, he loved her mild, questioning voice.
‘What if we don’t get on?’
‘What do you mean?’ Not defensive, simply an insistence that he, rather than herself, should express any reservation.
‘Supposing we don’t accord, I mean, I’m not much used to . . .’He stopped in confusion.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. We’ll be fine.’
Such an airy confidence. He believed in her, felt the burden of inadequacy fall from his stooped shoulders like a pack.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course. I’ll have to look after you if not.’ Again that laughter, entirely free of scorn or condescension. ‘Next week? Wait a minute, I’ll get my diary . . .’
Sarah stretched very shapely limbs on a pretty sofa, sank into her glass of wine in a quick survey of a favourite comfortable room and the prospect of hours of silence. Oh, for a short life and a merry one, but look at the mess. It was not the larger, moral issues which ever troubled her conscience, not any more. They were shrunk into minor dilemmas the way she considered sensible, second to all the endless problems of how to keep the house clean, manage shopping for necessities, and hold all the thin threads which made life possible. She had run out of washing-up liquid again, there was always that irritating pile of cups on the draining-board, clothes to be mended or cleaned. She had avoided the corner shop on the way home, guiltily evading the sad gaze of the lady behind the counter and the thirtieth chapter of her life waiting to be told as the twenty-ninth had been told that morning. Sarah always listened, but sometimes it was harder than others. The fridge contained one egg, a piece of venerable cheese, two onions and a bottle of oil. Difficult to make a feast out of that. She had the depressing suspicion her bedroom was a mess, remembering the tights flung on the floor that morning in the frantic search for a pair with both legs, to say nothing of the earrings, tipped and spilt in the usual hurried search for one to match another. Such sophistication you have, Sarah. What a joke, what a glorious muddle. Home. No food, nor ironed shirts for the morning, place needing a dust. She looked at it from the safety of the horizontal, squinted at the untidiness, saw the box containing new shoes and a sideways view of a favourite painting alongside an open bottle of wine. What the hell. All right, there was an hour or two of chores, then she would be able to sing in the bath while washing away the day, before going out to look at the world again. A night world, different and better balm for restlessness.
Sarah moved with energy, crossing the hall by the mirror, into her bedroom, waving at the glass dismissively. Don’t ever look in the mirror, she had warned herself, for signs of what life does to you. You chose it, you can always opt out, but don’t damn well pity it. Don’t look. You only ever grow old and ugly by surrounding yourself with malice. And discontent. And that office. You only stay sane by doing exactly as you please as nearly as you can, with as much honesty as time allows. Which is what I think I do. Too many years of doing the opposite, being good for nothing else but being good, whilst being good to no one.
The kitchen depressed her as usual. Maybe one day she would have somewhere in a wilderness with all the total independence she craved, free from the dual tyrannies of mortgage and employment. Maybe she would borrow some children, paint pictures, live without a bloody answerphone. She played back the messages on her own, absently dusting the table on which it stood. All lawyers, all business. ‘Hallo, Sarah. How about lunch next week?’ (She must remember to take the book he had wanted.) Another. ‘. . . Just phoning to say thanks for conference the other afternoon. When next? Soon, I hope. Please phone.’ Measured English tones: John’s voice, Judge Henry’s voice, Albemarle et al. No, thought Sarah. I mean, yes. Yes I will have another glass of wine. Cottage in the country, room in a lighthouse. Yes. But not yet, not for a while. I like this secrecy, I like this life.
And today my horse won. Pink Jade again, backed by Fred. Not bad for a girl.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘How long have you been in the police, Mr Ryan?’
‘Oh Christ. Since I was born.’
‘No, I can’t put that. Perhaps that’s just what it feels like . . .’
‘Thirteen years, then.’
‘Lucky for some. Any substantiated complaints?’
‘No, not yet. There’ve been some unsubstantiated.’
‘Never mind. Those don’t count. Any commendations, Commissioners’ or judges’?’
‘One.’
‘Married? Children? Sorry to ask, but we have to know for the witness statement.’
‘Yes to both.’ And sod off if you want to ask anything else. He was sick of it. Two interviews in one week, one with CIB, MS14 or whatever the hell it was those maniacs investigating complaints against police officers called themselves these days. All because that bastard Tysall had (a) made
a formal complaint about the seizing of documents from the offices of his computer company, even though they had all been returned, and (b) followed it up with a High Court writ against the Commissioner for damages. First, the interview by that faceless Scot with the obsessive gleam in his eye and the plain-clothes demeanour of a crafty thug, but at least a policeman, and then this friendlier chat with an equally faceless solicitor from the Commissioner’s small fleet. All had been explained. ‘The Commissioner is liable for the acts of his constables, by law. He is sued a few hundred times every year.’ ‘Oh yeah?’ Ryan had joked. ‘That’s worse than the gas board. Now who would want to work for a man like that?’
Malicious, tight-fisted bastard. Tysall could spot money under a stone, and if he fell into his own cesspit, he’d come up smelling of roses. That’s what Eton and Oxford does for you. Solicitors’ department was airless, slotted into an ugly block along with Catering, Medical and Surveyors above a foyer smelling of onions from the traffic wardens’ canteen in the basement. The complaints office was aptly placed in a building resembling Alcatraz on the south side of the river. Ryan almost missed his smaller, colder office in the Fraud Squad, and for a moment thought of it with affection.
‘Listen, sir. Me and Fraud, we’re incompatible, that’s what.’ So he had told Superintendent Bailey who had pinched him from District. ‘I’m not too good at reading and writing, sir,’ he had finished lamely. ‘Too bad,’ Bailey had said. ‘You need the promotion and your wife needs the regular hours.’ Stitched up good and proper, and to start with he could feel the thread cutting into his skin.
Paperwork forever, he thought. No street pounding, no pubs, no chases, no great gulps of outrage, only money. But that was before Tysall, before Ryan understood how he should have trusted Bailey after all. Fraud wasn’t so bland, not once he cottoned on to how Bailey had got him on the squad to get his teeth into Tysall. There was a roomful of Tysall, and Ryan hated Tysall with a passion. Exactly as Bailey had intended.
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