Bye Bye Baby

by McIntosh, Fiona

  Peter arrived in the lounge to see his dad glued to the TV. It looked like a police press conference onscreen. ‘Here,’ he said, putting the tray on his father’s lap. ‘Don’t let it go cold.’

  ‘Shh,’ came his father’s reply.

  Peter sat down to watch as well, giving his mother a smile when she came in with his tray.

  ‘If anyone has any information that can help us with our inquiries, please call our incident room on the number now showing onscreen, or you can call freephone to Crimestoppers where your details will be treated anonymously,’ a silver-haired policeman said. ‘These are particularly brutal killings and anything at all, no matter how irrelevant it may seem, could further our investigation.’

  The report cut to a reconstruction scene and a presenter’s voice narrated: ‘Clive Farrow was last seen at a fish and chip shop in Hackney in London’s north. A witness saw him get into a red BMW Z3 Cabriolet.’ A large man with dark floppy hair was shown balancing two packets of fish and chips and lowering himself carefully into the passenger seat of the car. ‘The female driver had dark hair, and police believe Farrow left the area with her at around 7.10 p.m., supposedly on the way home to his fiancee with their takeaway dinner. He was not seen alive again. He was reported missing at 8.32 p.m. that same evening. Police would like to question the driver of the BMW. Anyone who has any information pertaining to the scene, the driver or the car should please come forward.’

  ‘Dad, I’ve got some bubbly,’ Peter said. ‘Do you want me to get it?’

  ‘Just a minute,’ Garvan said, his tone vexed.

  ‘Dad!’ Peter couldn’t hide his exasperation. ‘What’s wrong with you? What’s all this interest in murder?’

  His father looked suddenly ashamed. ‘I think I might have known that man.’

  ‘What, that one? The bloke who got into the car?’

  His father nodded and reached for the remote control to flick off the TV.

  ‘Then you’ve got to ring the police,’ Peter said, shocked.

  His mother walked in with her tray. ‘Police? What are you both talking about?’

  ‘Dad knows the dead guy — the one killed in London.’

  His father wore a pained expression. ‘I don’t know him for sure. I said I think I might have known him. I’m talking thirty years ago. I haven’t seen him since. I’m no help, and only the name is familiar, nothing else.’

  ‘Oh,’ Peter said, ‘then don’t worry about it. That sort of information is no help to the police. Look, let me get that bottle — I need a drink. Tell Mum my news,’ he said to his father.

  ‘What news?’ he heard his mother say as he stepped out into the corridor and reached for his mobile. He quickly tapped out a text message, added an X at the end and smiled. She should receive it moments before the rehearsal began. Peter couldn’t imagine a happier moment than now. His good news about the contract meant steady, profitable income for the next five years at least. And Ally’s acceptance into the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra meant she too was on cloud nine. Everything was coming together. They could buy a house in Southampton, get married, start a family. He just had to tell his parents.

  He returned to the lounge brandishing a bottle. ‘I lied,’ he said, grinning, ‘it’s proper champagne!’

  ‘Peter,’ his mother exclaimed, putting her dinner aside so she could clutch her boy in a firm embrace. He assumed she’d heard the news. ‘We’re so proud of you, son. You must be excited.’

  ‘I am.’ Peter took a silent deep breath. It was now or never. ‘There’s more news.’ They both looked at him expectantly. ‘I’m getting married.’

  Various eating implements went flying as Peter found himself hugged by two of the three people he loved most in the world. His mother began to babble. ‘Patricia is going to —’

  ‘Wait, Mum, please. It’s not Pat.’

  He had anticipated the expression of shock on his mother’s face, but not the cutting silence that followed.

  ‘Her name is Ally . . . er, Allison,’ he went on.

  His mother looked as if he’d made a joke she hadn’t quite understood the punchline to. ‘Allison?’

  He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Sit down, both of

  you.’

  They did so, as robots might on command.

  ‘This isn’t easy for me. I hope you know I’ve never lied to you about anything.’ They nodded, still robotic, although he could imagine the tendrils of panic fluttering through his mother’s mind. ‘Except this,’ he added, rushing on with his tale before his mother could react. ‘I broke up with Pat eleven weeks ago but didn’t know how to tell you. She and I weren’t meant to be, Mum,’ he implored, watching his mother shake her head in disbelief. ‘The night we finished, I went out alone, to a pub. I needed a drink. I knew we were over for good, but we both decided to keep it secret for a while. We needed some distance from each other before we could tell all of you. Anyway, I met a girl.’

  ‘Peter,’ his father began softly, but Peter spoke over him. He needed to get it all out.

  ‘Her name is Allison Renn. She’s a professional musician. She plays violin and has just been appointed to the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra. I know that won’t mean much to you, but those sorts of jobs come along once in a lifetime. Well, they chased Ally — she’s that good, you see.’ They didn’t see, he could tell by the quiet shock still haunting the room. ‘I came out of the pub and her car had broken down. She desperately needed a push but we couldn’t get it going and she was running late for rehearsal, so I did something barmy. I drove her to Southampton. And I waited for her and brought her home. I fell in love that night,’ he said, hoping that might melt them.

  ‘And Pat?’ His mother’s voice was edged with bitterness.

  ‘She’s glad to be rid of me. I’ve told her about Ally and although that started another blazing row, she understands.’

  ‘Understands?’ his mother echoed incredulously. ‘Sheila and I have already begun planning the wedding! What about our grandchildren?’

  ‘Mum, that’s all part of the problem. You and Sheila love the idea that your English-born son and her Irish-born daughter are going to marry and give you English-Irish grandchildren and we’ll all be an even bigger, happier family eating champ and stew forever.’

  ‘Our families have known each other all of our lives, Peter, since your grandparents came here from Ireland,’ his father joined in. ‘Do Sheila and Harry know?’

  Peter nodded sadly. ‘They will by now, I think. Pat was going to ring them just before they left from Dublin to come home this evening.’ He shrugged. ‘She didn’t want to spoil their holiday.’

  Clare stood, rolling a napkin around her fingers. ‘You don’t even know this girl. It’s only weeks! Are you mad?’

  ‘Madly in love, yes.’

  ‘Pah!’ his mother said, swiping the napkin at him and dissolving into tears. ‘We loved Pat.’

  Peter felt the burden of guilt settle itself around him like a smothering blanket. He had anticipated how hard it was going to be to tell his mother especially, but he resented the shame she managed to prompt in him, just with her injured expression alone.

  ‘Yes, but I don’t, Mum. It doesn’t mean you and Dad have to stop loving her. You’ve known her since she was a little girl; the problem is, so have I. We’re friends at best — and distant cousins — but we’re not in love. Never have been, if the truth be told. The way I feel about Ally, I’ve never felt that way towards Pat.’

  Clare began to sob and Peter looked to his dad for help, who couldn’t help but move to his son’s aid.

  He put his arm around his wife. ‘Come on, my love, now don’t upset yourself too hard. We want our boy to be happy, don’t we? No good him marrying someone for us — that won’t do. Tell us about this girl, Peter,’ he said, nodding at his son to say something and make it good.

  ‘She’s wonderful. You’ll fall in love with her as I did. Look, I have a photo,’ Peter said, reaching into his back pocket f
or his wallet and pulling out a picture of a slim, blonde-haired girl with a shy smile and clutching a violin case. ‘I took this in Bournemouth the third time I drove her there.’

  His mother sniffed. ‘Very pretty, very English.’ The words weren’t unkind but her tone was.

  Peter kept his own rising bitterness in check. ‘Mum, if I’d married Pat, it would have been a sham — an arranged marriage — and it would have ended in tears, divorce probably. Is that what you and Dad would want for me? This is real between Ally and me. She’s keen to meet you, but not until you feel comfortable. She knows all about Pat too.’

  ‘And what do her parents think about you?’

  ‘I haven’t met them.’

  ‘Well, what are they going to think of a girl who says yes to a man who asks for her hand after just weeks of knowing her?’ his mother demanded. It sounded like an accusation.

  ‘I don’t know, Mum.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I haven’t asked her yet. I wanted to ask you both first. I wanted your approval before I ask her.’

  His father looked suddenly ashamed. ‘Do you hear that, Clare?’ She nodded, also abashed. ‘He’s asking our approval. Son, this is your life. We trust your choices in all you do.’

  Peter could see how much this was costing them emotionally. Perhaps the discussion about moving nearer to Bournemouth would have to wait.

  ‘I promise you, you’ll love her almost as much as I do,’ he said.

  His mother finally looked at him properly. ‘Bring her around soon, Peter. We’ll make her feel welcome.’

  Relief flooded his veins. He wished he could interrupt Ally’s rehearsal right now and propose on the phone. But he would wait — he wanted to see her cool grey eyes light up when he popped the question and offered her the sapphire and diamond ring he’d taken out a loan to buy.

  He looked at his dad, conveying silent thanks, and again was struck by his father’s surge of emotion. He hugged him, confused by how oddly his dad was behaving. Then he bent to kiss his mother, who silently stroked his back in lieu of the words she obviously couldn’t find at this moment. They would have been hollow, for he could feel the disappointment radiating from her. Best they waited to say more.

  He changed the subject. ‘Dad, before I forget, remind me that I need my birth certificate. I need it to get the security clearance to work on the government account.’

  He couldn’t miss his father’s glance at his mother or the flicker of alarm that passed across both their faces.

  ‘Peter,’ his mother said, ‘we’ll talk about that later. Come and eat your dinner before it gets cold. Champagne after, okay?’ She sounded strained.

  It wasn’t worth arguing. Peter put the expensive bottle of French champagne into the fridge, returned to his seat and the tray of cooling food. His appetite had deserted him.

  ‘So this security clearance can only be done with your birth certificate, is that right?’ his father asked.

  Peter nodded. ‘I’m not allowed to work on the job without it. I need to show them the adoption papers too, before they can sign off on the contract.’

  ‘Then we have a problem,’ Garvan Flynn replied.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we have no paperwork for you, son.’

  23

  Jack ran to his office, hoping the dry cleaning that Joan had very kindly picked up the day before, which he’d forgotten to take home, included his dark suit. He was in luck. No option but to wear the same shirt, but he’d take five minutes to shave again, perhaps change the tie — he always kept a more formal one strung around whatever handy hanging spot he could find.

  Jack prayed none of the female staff would appear as he changed — to his knowledge it was only Cam holding the fort for the evening, but he still looked around constantly while putting on his clean suit. He ran to the bathroom with a toilet bag he kept on hand for those suddenly called press conferences the Super seemed to enjoy. ‘I especially like to interrupt the media’s lunchtime drinking,’ he’d said to Jack often enough. Finally he was ready, dabbing on some cologne and wincing at the sting.

  ‘Cam, I’ve got to fly,’ he said, re-emerging into the main operations room.

  ‘I hope she’s worth it, chief,’ Cam answered, not looking around from his screen. ‘I’m going to see what I can find out about the McEvoys’ family home.’

  ‘Good job, Cam. Call me — er no, text me. I’ll be at a show but the phone’ll be on silent and I’ll call straight back if it’s urgent, okay?’

  Brodie put a hand in the air to wave his superior off.

  ‘Have one for me.’

  Jack rang Sophie again from outside the Yard just as he was climbing into a taxi. He gave the driver the address. ‘I’m in a hurry,’ he added.

  ‘I think I might have heard that somewhere before,’ the cabbie replied good-naturedly, and then proceeded to take roads that Jack hardly knew existed as a good route to Chinatown.

  ‘How’s that ice going?’ Jack asked as Sophie answered.

  ‘I’m sucking it,’ she said and giggled. ‘To make sure it’s gone before you get here and then you’ll owe me big time.’

  ‘I’m paying for dinner. It’s a done deal.’

  ‘You have no idea what my terms might be, DCI Hawksworth.’

  He grinned. ‘Whatever you want, but I have to tell you, this driver is a clever one — I’m almost at your doorstep.’

  She made a sound down the phone as though she were sucking a sweet. ‘Too late, the ice has gone!’ she clicked off.

  Jack gave the driver a ten-pound note and got out into the soft drizzle, not waiting for change. ‘Thanks,’ he called, and scanned the area for a flower shop. He couldn’t bear to walk up to Sophie empty-handed, especially after treating her so poorly on a first night out together.

  He entered Gerrard Street via the large, gaudily lit, red iron gates that guarded either end of the Chinatown strip and spotted a small florist, still open. Just for emergencies like this, he thought. Inside, he was greeted by a young girl still in school uniform.

  ‘I need something really beautiful, really sexy, that says sorry and I think you’re fabulous all at once,’ he said, and smiled broadly when she burst into giggles. ‘Can you help?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her warm, dark eyes twinkling, ‘but I’ll get my sister.’

  An older, more stunning version of the youngster glided out from a back room. ‘Hello,’ she said brightly, ‘I’m Lily. I’ve heard you’re in trouble.’ She smiled. She had the Asian woman’s slim, elegant build that Jack found so provocative.

  ‘Deep trouble,’ he replied and the younger sister laughed again.

  ‘Then there’s nothing for it,’ Lily said, ‘it has to be the earliest pale pink tulips from Holland. Very, very expensive.’ She teased him with another smile.

  He pulled an expression of horror. ‘Just how expensive?’

  ‘Well, you are saying sorry, after all, and you want the instant forgiveness that only my tulips can provide.’ She deliberately said the word as ‘two lips’.

  Wow! Lily was sexy; Jack could barely tear his gaze from her sparkling dark eyes to look where she pointed in the fridges.

  ‘Alright, alright,’ he said, beaten. ‘Just make them look impressive.’

  ‘They’ll do it all by themselves, I promise,’ Lily said, picking out a dozen magnificent stems. ‘Get some pale pink and silver ribbon cut up, Alys,’ she instructed her young helper as she moved back around the counter to arrange the flowers.

  ‘They are lovely,’ Jack admitted, knowing that was an understatement. ‘I’ll have to hurry you though, I’ve kept her waiting long enough,’ he said, looking at his watch and groaning inwardly.

  Lily had the tulips displayed in silver paper and cellophane in a blink and was soon swiping his credit card for forty-five pounds. Jack signed the docket after a look of horror and a groan for Alys’s entertainment.

  ‘Thanks, Lily, they’re magnificent. Do you have
a refund policy? Can I return them if she’s already gone or refuses to forgive me?’

  Alys exploded into girlish laughter and her big sister gave him a wry look. ‘By all means, I’d love them for my room,’ Lily said. ‘But we don’t do refunds.’

  He liked her, would have asked her out for a coffee if Sophie wasn’t in his life. ‘Wish me luck,’ he said and the sisters obliged in a chorus.

  Jack hurtled through the restaurant door and ran up the stairs two at a time, the evening’s drizzle clinging to his suit like sparkly dandruff. He wiped it off his shoulders as he arrived on the fourth floor.

  ‘I’ve got a booking for Hawksworth,’ he said to the maitre d’. ‘My guest is already seated, I understand.’

  He was shown to their table. It was four minutes after seven.

  ‘I ordered for both of us,’ Sophie said as he arrived with his flowers. ‘For me?’ She looked genuinely delighted.

  ‘I don’t know how else to say sorry.’

  ‘Eat. The curtain goes up in less than half an hour. I hope you like these dishes, tuck in. These tulips are stunning, Jack, thank you.’

  He gave a shrug of dejection. ‘And what you’re going to do with tulips at the theatre, I have no idea. What an idiot I am.’

  ‘I’ll check them into the cloakroom,’ she said breezily. ‘I love them.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ he said, swallowing a gulp of the vodka and tonic she’d ordered him. ‘Ah, no ice.’

  ‘Told you,’ she said and smiled. ‘I hope that’s your poison and I’m sorry we don’t have time to linger over dinner.’

  ‘Gives us an excuse to do it again.’

  ‘Big day?’

  ‘Full on,’ he said, unwrapping his chopsticks.

  ‘Do you focus on one case or several at a time — how does it work?’ she asked, expertly lifting some vegetables into her bowl. ‘This chicken is delicious, and have some of this,’ she urged in between mouthfuls, pointing to the various dishes.

  He grinned, enjoyed watching her eat. She looked dazzling tonight in a simple black dress with a sheer silver wrap. He had to wonder how she did it all herself. ‘Your hair looks terrific like that,’ he said.