He placed both his hands around the glass in front of him, as if its cool, dewy surface were comforting.
‘The day after the verdict had been pronounced, Lydia and her mother came to my chambers,’ he continued. ‘Beth had come to thank me for all I’d done. It had not been easy for her. She and Michael had separated; the trial proved too much for their marriage. I know she regretted deeply what had happened, and indeed felt partially responsible.’
Something like embarrassment crossed his face. ‘Beth Hogan was a smart, good-hearted woman. I liked her immensely. She confided that she intended to take Lydia away for a fresh start, and wanted to know what I thought of that. I told her I thought Michael would agree that their daughter was the first priority …’
How did Lydia feel about that decision now, I wondered suddenly? Did she regret she’d never had a say in the matter? Or was she glad of the distance put between her and her convict father?
I tuned back in, as Desmond Richards continued with his story. ‘Beth left Lydia with me for a few minutes, while she went to the bathroom. Lydia picked up a picture book that was lying on my desk, which I’d intended as a present for my niece. She said, “That’s the book Daddy was reading that night. He fell asleep, the silly. I’m the one who’s supposed to fall asleep.” I asked her what night. I was simply making childish conversation, but she replied, “The night before the police came.” I must admit, I jumped as if she’d stuck me with a pin. I asked her what time she went to bed, and she told me seven-thirty. I asked if she could remember how long her father had slept for. I knew I was grasping at straws, but – my God – she said, “He was squashing me, so I woke up. I went to get some water. I saw the clock. It said twelve-oh-oh. That’s midnight!”
‘She was so proud of herself. I, on the other hand, was so agitated, I could barely bring myself to ask the next question: had he been asleep the whole time? She answered without hesitation. Yes. Because he wasn’t allowed to sleep on her bed any more. He’d done it once when he was drunk, she told me, and her mother had given him such what-for that if he’d woken up he wouldn’t dare stay on her bed; he’d go to his own. He was asleep the whole time. She was sure of it.’
‘And the murder was committed–’
‘Between eleven and twelve.’
We were both silent, locked in our thoughts.
‘She could have been mistaken?’ I ventured. ‘She was only seven.’
‘I know. I kept telling myself that. But on the day Michael was sentenced, I finally summoned the courage to repeat to him what his daughter had said. To my shock, he grabbed me two-handed by my collar and slammed me into the wall. “You leave her out of this,” he demanded. “You don’t talk to her, you don’t go near her! Understand?” All I could do was nod …’
That sounded like Big Man, I thought. Subtle. Considered.
Desmond Richards met my eye. ‘And it was then I decided to re-examine the evidence against him.’
‘Even though he’d slammed you against a wall?’
‘Because he’d slammed me against a wall.’ He made a wry face. ‘As a lawyer, I am averse to hunches. But I saw – in his eyes …’
‘What did you see?’
‘Fear. That his secret had been revealed.’
I threw up my hands. ‘But why? Why did he take the blame? Who did he take it for?’
‘I’ve never found the answer to that question. The acquittal was on the grounds that the conviction was unsafe – that the judge and jury had ignored vital evidence. Forensic testing had found fingerprints on the murder weapon – a golf club, if you’re wondering – that were not Michael’s. The same fingerprints were in the victim’s flat. At the flat, there had clearly been a struggle and there was blood present that was neither the victim’s nor Michael’s. The prosecution had argued that the victim was a known felon, who consorted with other felons not averse to casual violence. That was potentially true. What tipped the balance was that there was not a trace of blood on Michael when they arrested him in the morning. At the time, this was put down to the fact he’d changed his clothes and showered. I was able to prove that he had not. I was also able to prove that it is nigh-on impossible to beat someone to death with a golf club and escape unmarked.’
‘And you never found out whose blood, or whose fingerprints?’
‘There was no match found in the police database. And before you ask – they were not Beth’s, either.’
A thought struck me. ‘But where was she that night? Why wasn’t she at home, too?’
Desmond Richards shot me a look that held more than a hint of defiance. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But let’s be clear. I have also never wanted to find out.’
This time, Mick Jagger’s was the only voice I heard as I opened my front door. ‘Brown Sugar’ was rocking out loud from the courtyard. Normally, the boys kept the volume down. But I guessed they knew I was out.
Drawn partly by curiosity and mostly by a strong need for the comfort of tea, I headed straight down to the kitchen.
‘I’m no schoolb–’ Tyso bustled out, saw me, and halted in mid-not-very-tuneful song. His gaze dropped immediately to his scuffed boots.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered.
I’m not sure his father would have considered it an entirely adequate apology, but I wasn’t so mean as to make the boy squirm any longer than necessary.
‘No problem.’
I nodded towards the CD player. ‘So some of the old music’s not too bad then?’
Tyso’s eyes widened. ‘Is this old?’
Smiling, I shook my head. ‘There is no hope for you.’
Then Anselo moved into view. I took a deep breath and stood in his way.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about yesterday. I didn’t mean it. I was angry.’
He stopped, his stance and expression wary.
‘I didn’t mean it,’ I said again. ‘Truly.’
‘Yeah, well …’ Now, he looked embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry I gave you such a hard time.’
It was only then that I noticed he was gripping his finger and wincing. And that there seemed to be really quite a lot of blood on his hands. ‘God! What did you do?’
‘Sliced it against the saw.’ He saw my face. ‘It wasn’t going. Blade’s still sharp enough, though.’
‘Let me see.’
It wasn’t such a deep cut that it needed stitches, but it was bleeding as if the blood had been waiting for just this chance to make a break for freedom.
‘Run it under the cold tap,’ I instructed. ‘I’ll grab the first aid kit.’
I was fastening the gauze bandage around his finger when I noticed his shirt. ‘Oh my God, it’s everywhere! Are you sure the saw wasn’t going?’
‘Splatter!’ said Tyso, who was in the doorway. ‘Chainsaw massacre!’
Anselo glanced down. ‘It’s not that bad.’
‘It is. Really. You look as if you’ve been slaughtering a pig.’
‘I don’t have a spare,’ he told me. ‘It’s in the wash.’
‘I have one–’ And in two minutes, I was back with Captain Awesome.
Anselo saw the shirt and gave me a faint smile. ‘You were wearing this that morning.’
My cheeks flushed bright pink. If he recalled the t-shirt, he probably also recalled the underwear. And the knees.
Anselo’s smile widened. ‘Thanks,’ he said. And with a single, swift, one-handed movement, he took his own bloodstained shirt up over his head and off.
I have to confess, I had a little moment. His upper body was quite simply spectacular. I don’t know if it were a result of time at the gym or the physical nature of his work, but every single muscle was taut and defined. Not in that glistening meat-pack way you see in the ab-machine infomercials. Just nicely firm, and set off by flawlessly smooth olive skin.
In my head, I was Roger Rabbit – eyeballs bugging on springs accompanied by a horn going ‘A-ooo-ga!’ But – and boy, was I proud of myself – I managed to look him in the eye and
breathe normally, as if half-naked, ripped Gypsy men were ten a penny.
There was a knock on the door.
‘Tyse–’ Anselo nodded.
‘What?’
‘The door!’
‘Did he just mutter “I’m not your slave”?’ I grinned at Anselo.
‘If he did, he’s dead wrong.’
Voices at the door shifted Anselo’s gaze over my shoulder. His face fell. ‘Shit–’
I swivelled round and almost hit the ceiling. ‘My God!’
It was Marcus. My heart began to pound, and I couldn’t tell whether it was joy or nerves. Was he really here? Was he staying?
Marcus’ gaze travelled between me and the half-naked Anselo, and then rested on my hand, still clutching Captain Awesome.
‘Bad moment?’ he asked, his voice light but clipped.
Anselo, without haste, took the t-shirt from my grasp. ‘Thanks,’ he said again. And with barely a passing glance at Marcus, he strolled back into the courtyard.
Marcus’ eyes lingered a fraction too long on Anselo’s shirtless and equally well-muscled back. There was a touch of the sulks around his mouth, from which I concluded that in the Marcus–Anselo macho-off, it was now one-all.
‘Next time,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you some warning.’
‘No!’
The reality of his presence had sunk in. He really was here!
‘No warning required.’ I wrapped my arms around his neck. ‘It’s brilliant to see you. You’ve made my day!’
‘Well–’ He grinned, clearly chuffed by the eagerness of my response. ‘In that case …’
He pulled me to him and kissed me deeply and with an overt use of tongue. Suddenly, I became aware that Anselo would almost certainly be watching, and that Marcus without any doubt knew that and was showing off. The thought made me very uncomfortable. So I broke away.
‘Come along–’ I took his hand. ‘Privacy’s not that overrated.’
‘Aren’t we going upstairs?’ he complained, as I led him towards the living room.
‘There are people in the house.’ I was blushing, which made me even more uncomfortable.
‘So? There were over fifty people in my mother’s house, and I don’t recall you letting that constrain you.’
‘It was a big house,’ I muttered. ‘The people weren’t directly below.’
He blew out a breath. ‘Darrell, I managed to find this tiny window of opportunity. If I have to take you to a hotel, that window will shrink to the point where I may as well kiss you goodbye now and be done with it.’
I could almost hear Anselo. Why do you do it? Why do you let them treat you any way they like?
But what could I do? What choice did I have? If I refused, Marcus would leave.
‘All right. But can you try not to make it bloody obvious where we’re going?’
‘What do you take me for?’
In the bedroom, he wasted no time. I would have preferred a little more lead-up, but I suppose he was working to a schedule. As it happened, we ended with time to spare. Less than three minutes into it, he abruptly withdrew and, grimacing, reached down to grab the base of his erection.
‘Oh, Christ,’ he muttered. ‘Sorry–’
And he shoved himself back inside me and came.
‘Shit …’ He rolled off and sank onto his back. ‘Well, that will teach me.’
I spooned into him. ‘Teach you?’
‘Not to fantasise compulsively about having sex with you.’ He offered me an apologetic smile.
‘Do you?’ I was amazed, and insanely flattered.
‘Then again,’ he sighed, ‘it’s really your fault. You shouldn’t write such exciting little books.’
I sat up so fast, I almost took his eye out with my elbow. ‘What? What do you mean?’
He smiled, amused. He was enjoying teasing me.
‘Seems we have a mutual friend. Well, friend is overstating it. A mutual acquaintance.’
I gazed at him, dumbly. I had no idea who he could possibly mean. Unless–
‘Hippolyte McManus,’ he announced. ‘Name ring a bell? Don’t deny it. There can hardly be two of them. Thank Christ.’
Oh my God. ‘How did you–’
‘Meet her? I haven’t yet; we’ve only spoken by phone. She works for the publishing house that has now bought the English language rights to my little French star’s book.’
He worked his jaw. ‘I have to negotiate with them as well, now. The fuckers are pushing the price up, which is making me very, very displeased.’
I felt my breathing start to go haywire with panic. ‘Does that mean you’ll be going to New York?’ New York was a lot further away than Paris.
‘Absolutely not! That would suggest I was desperate. No, at this stage, phone calls only. Though I swear,’ he added darkly, ‘if she employs the phrase “It’s been real” one more time, I will be on a plane to New York. And I will go to her office, take her down to the Hudson and hold her head under until the bubbles stop.’
‘But – how on earth did you and she get to talking about me?’
‘Oh, I was buttering her up,’ he said, casually. ‘Flattering her into believing I thought her intelligent. Somehow we got on to women authors with male-sounding names. I was able to list quite a swag of them. George Eliot. Richmal Crompton. Carson McCullers. Harper Lee. Hippolyte listed you.’
He hauled himself into a sitting position next to me. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he demanded. ‘I almost fell off my bloody chair when she said your name.’
‘I don’t know …’
He began to nuzzle my neck. ‘Were you embarrassed?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You should be. My God. Silken hardness? Nipple-biting?’
I shoved him off me. ‘Did you read one?’
‘Of course! I went and hunted one down as soon as I got off the phone.’
‘Oh …’ I grabbed a pillow and held it over my flaming face.
‘There was moaning in it,’ I heard the bastard continue. ‘And sobbing with need. Not to mention feverish, demanding writhing.’
He prised one of my hands off the pillow and placed it on himself. ‘As you see, it had a terrible effect on my towering male strength.’
My voice was muffled by the pillow. ‘I thought you didn’t have much time?’
He jumped. ‘Shit!’ He reached across me and grabbed his watch. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’
And he leapt out of bed and began to throw on his clothes.
I didn’t bother to get up. What was the point?
Shirt still partly unbuttoned, tie in hand, he leaned down and brushed a hasty kiss across my mouth.
‘Sorry, Angel. That was a poor show on my part. Promise I’ll make it up to you.’
He blew a kiss from the bedroom doorway. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Again, more generous than I deserve.’
I heard him clatter down the stairs, and slam the front door. His footsteps clipped quickly along the path below my window, and I listened as they faded up the street until I was absolutely sure I could no longer hear them.
What to wear to a Gypsy wedding?
I asked Michelle and she emailed me a photo of Gypsy Rose Lee in suspenders and a giant ostrich-feather hat.
I asked Adam and he sent me the exact same picture as Michelle.
Even if I’d wanted to ask Claude, I couldn’t. He wasn’t at the café. Again.
I couldn’t ask Miss Flaky because – well, the woman wore blankets and tablecloths.
Anselo gave me a look as if I’d asked him to drink freshly squeezed badger juice and replied, ‘Some kind of dress?’
And then I remembered Tyso had sisters …
‘I’ve got a red halter-neck,’ I told him. ‘It’s my only posh frock. It’s got a long skirt but it’s a bit, um, low in the neckline. And it’s – well – red.’
‘Sounds perfect. We like colour. Brighter the better.’
‘Isn’t there a risk of upstaging the bride?’
‘No risk,’ he replied. ‘Trust me.’
Patrick looked imposing but wonderful in a formal dark grey suit and white shirt. The only touch of colour was a scarlet tie, and small red rosebud in his buttonhole.
I was beginning to wonder if Tyso had led me astray, but Patrick looked me up and down with brisk appreciation and said, ‘Just as long as no photos of you get back to Clare, I can safely say that’s a great dress.’
I blushed. ‘Thank you. You look pretty excellent yourself.’
‘I’m going to fucking die in this heat, though. Come on–’
He gestured to his car. He was driving a Mercedes. I couldn’t tell you which model but it was a big, silver two-door coupe with shark fin grille bits. It looked as if it might take your arm off.
As Patrick was opening the passenger door for me, the man on the bike wheeled past and yelled, ‘Garn! Gizza blow job!’
Patrick, with really quite startling speed, stepped out into the road, grabbed the bloke by the scruff of his neck, and hauled him off his bike. Then, apparently with no effort at all, he dangled him a few inches off the ground.
‘That–’ said Patrick, as the bloke struggled fruitlessly in his grip, ‘– is no way to talk to a lady.’
‘Lemme darn!’ the bloke whinged.
‘When you apologise to the lady.’
‘’m choking!’
Patrick tilted his head to one side and smiled. ‘Apologise,’ he said, in a gentle sing-song manner that was deeply, primordially threatening.
‘Fuck! Sorry!’
‘There now–’ Patrick put him back down. ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’
Muttering evilly, the bloke scuttled off to pick up his bike. When he’d ridden a safe distance, he started to hurl obscenities back over his shoulder.
Patrick ignored him. When we were both in the car, he said, ‘If you ever have any trouble–’
The scenarios that leapt to mind to complete his sentence were – to be frank – a tad unsettling. I gave him a sidelong glance, and wondered anew how exactly he had made his money.
A faint smile appeared on his face, as if he’d guessed what was on my mind.
‘I haven’t had a real scrap since I was nineteen,’ he said. ‘That was when I finally learned that my brains were in my head, not my fists.’
The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid Page 26