The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid

by Catherine Robertson

  ‘Know any cops?’ she asked unexpectedly.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Pity,’ she said. ‘I would love to get my hands on a Taser.’

  I opened my front door to once more hear voices in the courtyard. This time, though, they weren’t raised.

  I wandered down to find Anselo flanked by two truly huge men. They were standing, arms akimbo, in such a way that if I hadn’t recognised one of them, I’d have been quietly reaching for the bread knife.

  ‘Darrell,’ said Patrick. ‘How’s it going?’ He gestured to huge man number two. ‘This is Jenico Herne. Tyso’s dad.’

  Jenico Herne had clearly been the origin of his son’s dark red hair. But the rest of him was nothing like Tyso. He was Patrick’s height, at least six four, but with the barrel chest and arms of a grizzly bear. He had giant hands and feet, and looked as if he could crush you in one fist. He wore an outfit that was exactly how I’d imagined a real Gypsy should dress. A pineapple yellow shirt, undone at the throat, with a yellow and red patterned kerchief knotted around his tree-trunk neck. His trousers were chocolate brown and made of a soft fabric, roomy but well cut. He wore less jewellery than I expected. Just two gold earrings, and one ornately carved gold ring on his little finger, with an engraved red stone that I guessed was a carnelian. His features were broad but not soft, and his eyes a startling hazel-green. Although the rest of his expression was forbiddingly stern, I detected a glint of something else. I really hoped it was amusement.

  ‘I apologise to you on behalf of my son.’ His voice rumbled like a passing train. ‘He will, of course, also apologise in person.’

  I bet he will, I thought. If I were Tyso, I’d want to keep those giant feet well clear of my backside.

  ‘It was no problem,’ I said. ‘Most of the time, your son is a delight.’

  ‘And I am sure he will continue to be a delight from now on.’

  Amazing how he could make such innocuous words so softly threatening. I glanced at Anselo. He seemed neutral enough, but I sensed he was not entirely enjoying this visit.

  ‘Jenico’s oldest daughter, Talaitha, is getting married this weekend,’ Patrick informed me, even though he must have known I knew.

  ‘Congratulations.’ As I met Jenico Herne’s sphinx-like gaze, I felt my smile waver.

  ‘Why don’t you come?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘Me?’ I replied, startled.

  ‘Yeah, why not? Clare’s refusing to move, and I don’t blame her. She’s the size of a fucking house now, not that I’d ever say that within earshot. You can come with me instead.’ He looked across at his giant companion. ‘All right?’

  ‘I would be honoured.’

  ‘Good,’ said Patrick, ignoring the fact I’d not actually said yes. ‘It’s an evening wedding. Saturday at five. I’ll pick you up at four.’

  Then he nodded to Anselo. And the two huge men made their way to the front door. When it shut behind them, it suddenly felt as if there were a lot more air in the house.

  ‘I’m going to your cousin’s wedding,’ I said to Anselo.

  ‘Well, there’s a coincidence,’ he said. ‘So am I.’

  Up in my bedroom, I picked up the phone to ring the publishers, but bottled out before the call was connected. To punish myself, I decided to knuckle down and write. The heat inside the house wasn’t actually as bad as it was outside, but I had to strip off down to my faded Kate singlet and a pair of old shorts before I felt remotely comfortable.

  Anselo was hammering away downstairs as if possessed by the god of hardware. I didn’t know how he could exert himself like that in this heat, but sensed that it was probably more to let off steam than for any practical building purpose. I stuck my iPod buds in my ears and turned it up just loud enough to drown him out.

  It didn’t help much; I just couldn’t get into it. And for the first time, I wondered whether it was more than doubt about my ability stopping me. After all, I could write; I’d written eight published books – God willing, soon to be nine! True, they wouldn’t be earning me a shot at the Pulitzer – but they were competently crafted, enjoyable reads. I knew how to plot and pace and create believable, likeable characters. So why couldn’t I do that now?

  It was as if I’d found myself on a path that should have been utterly familiar, but on which, all of a sudden, I recognised nothing. I’d come to a halt, bewildered, unsure not only of where I was but also where I’d been headed. The destination I knew so well, the place my books had always, inevitably, reached was as indistinct as vapour. I could no longer imagine a happy ending …

  I was startled by a sharp rap on my door. I tugged free the earbuds just as Anselo’s face appeared in the gap. He didn’t look too happy. But then, when did he ever?

  ‘Someone here to see you,’ he said.

  For a split second, my heart leapt. But Anselo knew who Marcus was. He wouldn’t have called him ‘someone’. What he would have called him was probably best left to the imagination.

  ‘Who?’

  He shrugged. ‘Tall? Suit? Sounds like he’s swallowed Burke’s Peerage?’

  ‘Claude?’

  Hurriedly, I shoved back my chair. Anselo stepped back to let me through the door.

  ‘New boyfriend?’

  There was an edge to his voice. From which I gathered Claude had not made the best first impression.

  ‘Just a friend,’ I replied.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I heard him mutter, as I ran on down the stairs.

  Claude was by the bookshelf in the living room, flicking through a volume of Dance to the Music of Time. I came up behind him.

  ‘Anyone you know in there?’ I smiled.

  ‘No, but I suspect the occasional character may be familiar to my mother.’

  He slotted the book back on the shelf, and glanced in the direction of the kitchen, where Anselo had resumed hammering, louder and more aggressively than before, if that were possible.

  Claude offered me an apologetic half-smile. ‘I hope you don’t mind me intruding–’

  ‘No! It’s lovely to see you.’ I didn’t mention that it was also a big relief.

  Then I frowned. He’d begun buttoning and rebuttoning his jacket. It only had two buttons. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes! Yes …’

  But then he gave a terse, irritated tut. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.’ And he pushed past me, heading back towards the door.

  ‘Claude!’ I followed him, and put my hand on his arm.

  He stopped, but kept his face averted.

  ‘Claude, what’s wrong? Can I help?’

  For a moment, he stared down at me, his face tense with what looked like disgust – for me or for himself, I couldn’t tell. And then he grabbed me roughly behind the neck, pulled me to him and kissed me hard on the mouth.

  It was over in a second. He let me go, and I gazed up at him, my mouth and eyes three wide, astonished Os. I wasn’t sure what had shocked me more – that he’d kissed me, or that there had been so much anger in it.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ I managed to ask him.

  ‘Oh, you know–’ His voice was flat, distant. ‘Just to see.’

  ‘To see what?’

  His eyes were looking over my shoulder now. ‘Anything.’

  He turned back to me ever so briefly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ll go now.’

  And he opened and closed the door so swiftly, I didn’t have the chance to say a word.

  I wandered down to the kitchen in a bit of a daze. Anselo popped immediately out of the courtyard, almost as if he’d been waiting for me.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  Anselo scowled. ‘Did he upset you?’

  ‘No!’ He was starting to irritate me.

  I unplugged the kettle in order to fill it, but struggled to get the lid off. I wrenched and wriggled it with growing exasperation. ‘Sod it!’

  ‘Here–’

  Gently, Anselo removed the kettle from my hands
and tugged off the lid first go. Then he filled the kettle at the tap, replaced it on the bench and switched it on.

  ‘So he didn’t upset you, then?’ he said.

  I sank back against the bench and slid my hands up and over my face. My hands were clammy. And now my cheeks felt sticky, too. I craved a bath.

  ‘I don’t know what he did,’ I replied.

  ‘But you let him anyway–’

  The kettle was building up to its big finale. Steam was cascading from the spout. It didn’t help the atmosphere in the tiny kitchen one bit. Why on earth do we feel compelled to drink tea in times of crisis?

  ‘I didn’t let him do anything!’ I protested crossly.

  Anselo’s expression was challenging, if not outright aggressive. I suspected that he was still smarting from his earlier encounter with his huge relations – and that I might be a convenient outlet.

  ‘Why do you do it?’ he demanded. ‘Why do you hang round with arrogant sons of bitches like that? All they do is treat you badly. You’ve looked like hell for days now. Why do it to yourself?’

  I was taken aback. ‘I do not look like hell.’

  ‘You do! You’ve got black bloody rings under your eyes. You wander around as if you’re barely in the land of the living.’

  ‘I’ve got things on my mind.’

  ‘You’ve got an arrogant bastard boyfriend who thinks he can treat you any way he likes. And then you’ve got that bastard–’ Anselo stabbed a finger towards the front door ‘–who’s just as bloody bad! What the hell? Are they related?’

  My face instantly gave him the answer.

  ‘Oh well, that figures–’ He threw up one hand. ‘The Brothers Arsehole. But that’s OK, isn’t it?’ His voice went all sing-songy with sarcasm. ‘Because they’re posh. And posh people can do whatever the fuck they like to anyone, can’t they?’

  Now, I was furious. ‘You don’t know anything about them. Or me!’ I jabbed a finger in his face. ‘Just because you got put in your place by a couple of real alpha males, don’t take your wounded bloody pride out on me.’

  He jerked back as if I’d slapped him. His face flushed briefly red, and then lost every bit of colour. I could see his jaw moving, as if he were testing out words and rejecting them. I regretted being so harsh, but I was still far too furious to apologise.

  In the end, he ran a hand over the back of his head and turned towards the courtyard. I saw the corner of his mouth lift.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ he murmured. ‘You’d think I’d know my place by now, wouldn’t you?’

  Oh God. I should never have said it.

  ‘I’m sorry–’ I began.

  The look he threw back at me was one of pure, cold hostility. ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘Anselo, come on–’

  But he held up one hand, as if to ward me off, and strode back into the courtyard. There, he immediately grabbed hold of the circular saw and, without stopping to put on earmuffs, wound it up so that it screeched like a banshee on attack.

  I could have stood there and shouted at him. But what was the point?

  I made a cup of tea and took it upstairs, where I sat on my bed and stared into it until it was too cold and nasty to drink.

  I’d forgotten – until the phone call from the nice woman at the register office reminded me. Now, I was sitting on a bench in Islington Green, staring at a brown envelope on my lap. The woman hadn’t given me any details, but the fact she had an envelope for me told me enough. With a sense that I was about to be damned for all eternity, I ripped it open.

  Her name was Lydia Jane. Born to Michael James and Elizabeth Marie Hogan, née Walsh. I did a quick calculation. If she were alive – and please let that be the case – Lydia Jane would now be twenty-eight.

  What now? I suppose I could see if her name was on a marriage certificate. But to be honest, I’d run out of steam. I simply couldn’t bring myself to pry any more. What earthly use would it be for me to know more about Big Man’s daughter? I slipped the certificate back in the envelope and schlepped home.

  Where I sat round, stewing, until I couldn’t bear it any more.

  ‘He has a daughter.’

  ‘And you’re telling me this why?’ Gabriel Flynn enquired.

  ‘I had to tell someone. Or I’d burst.’

  ‘Have you ever seen someone burst? I have. One of my patients. They’d died in the bath and when I found them, they’d been there three weeks. When the ambulance crew tried to lift–’

  ‘Please stop.’

  ‘You started it.’

  ‘I’d given up on him,’ I confessed. ‘But now – I don’t know. It’s just that I have a hunch he hasn’t seen his daughter since he came out of jail. Possibly not even since he went in.’

  ‘His choice, I’d bet.’

  ‘Are you telling me I shouldn’t interfere?’

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What would be the use of that?’

  ‘But where to from here?’ I almost wailed.

  ‘Ah!’ he said, suddenly. ‘Yes! I knew I had something to tell you. Not that I was going to make an effort to actually phone you or anything. But now that you’re on the line–’

  ‘Jeepers! What?’

  ‘The other week, I was invited to testify at the murder trial of a man who, as I stated in my professional opinion, was an unhinged sicko.’

  ‘You phrased it differently, of course.’

  ‘I did not. Don’t interrupt. His lawyer, despite clearly having come to the same conclusion as myself, did a remarkably fine job of defending him. Not fine enough to get his client off the charge – for which nine year-old girls everywhere can breathe a sigh of relief – but enough to interest me in engaging him in discussion afterwards.’

  I waited. ‘And?’

  ‘His name is Desmond Richards. He was the one who fought to have Michael Hogan acquitted.’

  Desmond Richards lived in Holland Park, in the penthouse apartment of an imposing grey brick building.

  ‘My late wife had money,’ he informed me. ‘I’ve done well enough in my career. But not this well.’

  We decided that it was, alas, too hot to sit out on the roof terrace, and opted for the kitchen. I watched as he made me a lime and soda. He was not that much older than Big Man – around fifty-two, I guessed – and of average height with a lean, stringy build that reminded me a little of Tom. I wondered if Desmond Richards was a runner, too?

  ‘I haven’t seen Michael for years,’ he told me as he joined me at the kitchen table. ‘I saw him regularly, of course, while he was in jail. But once he was released – well, I was given the distinct impression he’d prefer me not to contact him.’

  ‘After all you did for him? The rude sod!’

  ‘I suspect he was embarrassed. I think he felt, somehow, that he was obliged to repay me. And he was at a loss to know how.’

  ‘Still–’

  Desmond Richards offered me a small smile. ‘Well. As you’ve met him, you’ll have some idea that he is an intensely proud man. And, dear God, a stubborn one. He always reminded me of that PG Wodehouse story, where Lord Emsworth describes his Scottish head gardener as having all the ingredients of a first-class mule. Lord Emsworth decides that he would have liked the gardener better had he, in fact, been a mule. I confess I often felt the same way about Michael.’

  ‘You must have been very young when you defended him?’

  ‘Thank you for suggesting that I may look young now,’ he smiled. ‘I was young. It was not my first case, but it was my first big one.’

  ‘Did you know then that he was innocent?’

  ‘It was my job to assume that he was until proven otherwise. The evidence against him was mostly circumstantial. He was found in possession of the murder weapon. His fingerprints were on it. Whether he had been holding it at the time of the murder was never proven. But then, it didn’t really have to be. His manner on the stand was what damned him. Lord knows I tried to work around it, bring the jury back to the facts. But to no avail …�
��

  My hunch was right. ‘I’d already suspected he wasn’t the most sympathetic defendant–’

  Desmond Richards gave a shout of laughter. ‘Dear God, no! I think the Nuremberg judiciary had more sympathy for Reichsmarschall Göring than that jury had for Michael.’ He shook his head. ‘I lost my temper with him so many times. I simply could not understand why he would not help himself. I may as well have bashed my head repeatedly on the prison wall, for all the good it did me.’

  His shoulders slumped. I well understood why. Big Man made head bashing seem like quite a good option. Certainly a less painful one.

  ‘So how did you find out he hadn’t done it? If he never spoke to you?’

  ‘It was his daughter–’

  My heart gave a guilty lurch. But I kept quiet.

  ‘She was seven at the time. A very bright, very articulate little girl. Her mother, Michael’s wife, Beth, had been a school teacher. I think Lydia benefited from that. Not to say that Michael lacks intelligence, as he most certainly does not. But he was also a man of his time – and place, I suppose. More liable to settle arguments with his fists than with words.’

  ‘So he was violent?’ I broke in. ‘Did he hit his wife?’

  Desmond Richards looked shocked. ‘No! Never! I apologise – that was a careless sentence. Michael never lifted his hand to a woman. However, his size did make him a target for other men who wanted to – let’s say – prove themselves. By all accounts, he usually refused to react. Unfortunately, the night before the murder was one of the few occasions when he did.’

  I recalled that the alleged motivation for the murder had been a sexual assault on Big Man’s wife.

  ‘He had a fight with the victim?’

  ‘In the local pub. The victim – a crawling low-life by all accounts – received a broken nose and a fractured jaw before Michael was pulled off him. The jury decided Michael wasn’t satisfied to leave it at that, and he went to the victim’s flat the following night to finish it.’

  ‘But he didn’t. And his daughter knew that?’

  ‘As I said, she was a very bright and articulate young lady. It was a shame that she did not choose to speak up until after the trial …’