First Blood

by Claire Rayner

  ‘You’ll be ready for food after this,’ he said as at last he finished and with one smooth movement twisted his body up out of the water into a sitting position at the side. ‘I’m so hungry I could eat even a hospital dinner. But we’ll do better than that. Does it take you hours to dress and get your hair dry?’

  She was up on her feet at once. ‘I’ll be out before you will,’ she promised and was away, and he too went running off down the side of the pool to the changing rooms.

  She came out fully dressed and with her hair tied up in a white towelling turban that she knew suited her and anyway was less trouble than struggling with a municipal hairdrier, and was standing outside in the lobby staring at the notice board when he came out, also damp about the head and smelling pleasantly of a light cologne.

  ‘You cheated,’ he accused. ‘Didn’t dry your hair.’

  ‘I win by any means, fair or foul,’ she said. ‘Apropos of which, where’s my fish?’

  ‘Ten minutes away,’ he promised. ‘Want to race again?’

  ‘This time I’ll manage a sedate walk,’ she said. ‘You can carry my gear if you like.’ And she handed him her bag of towels and wet swimsuit and soap and shampoo.

  ‘So much for women’s liberation,’ he said, but took it willingly enough as she lifted her chin at him.

  ‘To hell with liberation. Me, I want privilege. OK, let’s be clear: we pay for our own suppers, right?’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I had no intention of doing anything else.’

  ‘You’re a bastard, you know that?’ She tried not to laugh but it wasn’t easy. ‘You’ve got a great gift for putting people in the wrong.’

  ‘I know. I cherish it. It takes years of practice. Tell you what, though, let me buy you a drink. What do you say to that?’

  ‘If I buy a round too.’

  ‘I thought you’d get the message. Great. Here’s the pub. Or d’you prefer a different one?’

  ‘This’ll do fine.’ It was a beautiful pub, alight with Victorian engraved glass, well-polished brass and deeply comfortable seats; to have objected to it would have been churlish.

  After he brought their beers she leaned her damp head back against the leathery seat, sighing deeply and closing her eyes, as physically content as she’d been for a long time. Good exercise, a glass of good and for once really cold beer and a solid meal to come; what more could a person ask for?

  ‘So …’ he said. Behind her closed lids she did something she used to do as a child long ago; she tried to see the colour of the sound of his voice. Some voices were warm and bright and golden; some were rich and brown; a few were thin and yellowish; and others had sharp dark edges that made her shiver a little. His voice was a good deep gold, which was good, but there was a darker part to it, underneath rather than at the edge. He’s worried about something, she thought with a degree of surprise, and opened her eyes.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘What’s news?’

  It sounded casual but she was not deceived. ‘About what?’

  He made a non-committal grimace. ‘Anything.’

  ‘Well, let me see. There’s that bombing in Northern Ireland. That made the lead story on the radio news this evening as I was changing. Then there was –’

  ‘That’s not news. That’s an unending saga. News is what affects you personally. News is gossip and chatter about your colleagues and enemies and friends. News is …’

  She waited, and then said lightly, ‘The results of Richard Oxford’s PM.’

  ‘Well, yes, that could be news. If it was not what you expected.’

  ‘Listen, Toby.’ She put her glass down firmly. ‘Let’s get something clear here. Did you opt in on my plan for a private evening just to pick my brains over Oxford? And if so, why? I’m a reasonable soul, let me tell you, and if I know why and what, I’m as likely to co-operate as not. But go at me deviously or try to manipulate and I don’t give with the words. Is that fair enough?’

  ‘It’s positively British, it’s so fair,’ he said gravely, holding out his glass. ‘I’m ready for the other half. And it’s your shout.’

  ‘Trust you to guzzle it. OK, I’ll get it. And while I am, think about what I said. Tell me why and maybe I’ll tell you how and what and when. As much as I know, that is. But stop the fancy footwork. It annoys me.’

  When she came back with the beer for him and a lemonade chaser for herself he was sitting with his head back, staring up at the light. His hair had flopped damply over his forehead, giving him a rather little-boy look, and she took a sharp little breath. He really was a very attractive man; she’d have to watch herself. She tried to think of Ian as a sort of protection, but it was very difficult. She couldn’t even see his face clearly in her mind’s eye, just a smooth presence with fair hair, and it wasn’t worth making the effort to see further.

  ‘Great,’ he said. He took the glass from her and drank half its contents in one long gulp.

  She pushed the remains of her own beer over towards him. ‘You’d better finish that as well. I’m too hungry even for the small amount of alcohol that’s in half a pint.’

  He grinned and took the glass and emptied it into his own and settled back. ‘OK, ask away,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘Ask what?’

  ‘The inquisition can begin. You told me you have to know all there is to know, so ask me questions, so that you can be sure I’m not going in for – what was it? – fancy footwork.’

  She looked at him over the rim of her glass for a long moment. He stared back at her gravely. Then she sighed. ‘I don’t know where I am with you. Are you dating me or just being friendly?’

  He seemed to think about that. ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘If you don’t know then the answer is you’re just being friendly. Fair enough.’

  ‘I’m never sure what’s meant by that word, dating. I thought a date was just an arrangement you made to meet a person at a certain time and place. You make it drip with all sorts of innuendo and hidden meaning.’

  ‘You know perfectly well what I mean. Don’t come this “divided by a common language” stuff with me. I’ve been in Britain almost ten years, remember. I’ve gotten my British forensic qualifications here to add to my Stateside ones, and I’ve worked in the NHS as long as you have, I dare say. So …’

  ‘Hmm. Fair enough. OK, if you mean am I asking you out just to be a mate or do I fancy you, the answer is both.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said and drank some more.

  ‘Well may you blush. You’ve pulled an avowal out of me.’

  ‘Bullshit! You’re just trying to make me uncomfortable.’

  ‘And you’re trying to stop me asking questions about Richard Oxford.’

  There was a short silence. She looked at him and then away. ‘You could be right. I’m just so …’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t like the feeling I’m being used. Call it captious femininity if you like, but I’m funny that way. Like I said, when I know where you’re coming from and where you’re going, you’ll find me very helpful. Try to fool me and I ain’t so nice.’

  ‘I got that message a long time ago.’ He drained his glass and got to his feet. ‘Come on. Supper. I’ll replace that lemonade if you must drink it, though I’d rather be generous and consider a bottle of wine.’

  ‘You agreed, we pay our own ways.’

  He lifted one hand. ‘Pax vobiscum. Not another word. Come on. When we’ve had some food we’ll both be a bit less scratchy, hmm?’

  George loved fish-and-chip shops. They were her greatest find in Britain. Hamburger joints and pancake houses and kebab sellers were ten a penny, and could have been anywhere in the world, including at home in downtown Buffalo. But a fish-and-chip shop, that was quintessentially British, with delicious overtones of the tang of the Massachusetts fish fries she’d been to when she visited her grandmother’s home in Fall River as a child. This one was a particularly attractive specimen, she decided. There was the same profusion of engraved glass that th
ere had been at the pub, but here the emphasis was on bright lights and chrome which contrasted sharply with the pub’s brown fug. There were bright red formica tables and chairs, pictures of the fish of the world on the walls, a good deal of clattering and chatter and above all the rich reek of frying oil and fresh fish and earthy potatoes all sharpened with the bite of malt vinegar. Her appetite clamoured even more loudly, and she ordered greedily as soon as they sat down and immediately began on the large crusty roll and butter the pert waitress brought them.

  Tacitly they agreed not to speak any more of the matter of Oxford’s PM, chattering instead about the people around them as Toby made outrageous analyses of the couples and their relationships and very insulting remarks indeed about their clothes and styles of hair and make-up.

  She laughed a lot and when the hot food came ate with great enthusiasm, swiftly despatching a large fried sole and a considerable pile of the crispest chips she could remember eating anywhere. He too ate fast and with absorption and not until they’d refused apple pie or ice cream – hard as the perky waitress tried to persuade them – and had been given large mugs of coffee, did they relax and look at each other.

  ‘I feel better,’ he said.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Time to talk?’

  ‘Uhuh.’

  ‘You first. Questions.’

  ‘Why are you so anxious to know about Oxford?’

  ‘Natural curiosity?’

  She shook her head. ‘Try again. You’ve been really pushing. This afternoon and a while back. Not in so many words, grant you. But I know when I’m being bulldozed.’

  He put down his mug and sighed. ‘OK. It’s Fliss, Felicity.’

  She tried not to mind the intimacy of the way he said the name, tried not to care. She didn’t succeed.

  ‘She’s naturally upset about it all.’

  George couldn’t help it. She lifted her brows and said, a touch waspishly, ‘Really? I gathered they were divorced, lived apart –’

  ‘They were married nearly thirty years. Still were married, in fact. They were separated, not divorced. And even then it wasn’t a legal separation. Just one they arranged themselves. They were good friends in many ways.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘You sound as nasty as some of the nurses around the hospital when they talk about her,’ he said sharply. ‘The fact a woman looks stunning seems to bring out the worst in other women. Whatever happened to sisterhood?’

  She reddened angrily. ‘I’m not being nasty. I just said “interesting” –’

  ‘Well, maybe I was being hypersensitive in hearing a sneer there.’

  ‘You were,’ she said, but then had to be honest. ‘Well, not entirely. I have to say it doesn’t sound much of a relationship to me. Married friends.’

  ‘It’s better than married enemies,’ he said. ‘This way they avoided anger and hatred, kept what was good. Anyway, there she is, in her place in Regent’s Park, and there he was in the palace in Docklands.’

  She felt her muscles tense and tried not to show it. ‘How do you mean, palace?’

  ‘Oh, incredible! A double-sized flat, a drawing room so dripping with gold and glory it takes your breath away, and the bathroom – well! Amazing!’

  ‘Really,’ she said, and looked down at her hands.

  He stopped, then, after a moment, said, ‘But I imagine you know that. You had to go there, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said non-committally.

  ‘Extraordinary place, isn’t it? You must agree it’s a palace.’

  ‘You could call it that.’ She didn’t look at him. ‘So, they lived apart.’

  ‘Yes.’ He seemed momentarily abstracted, but pulled himself back. ‘And they were good friends. She’s genuinely cut up about him. Now she wants to get on with the funeral, treat him right, you know? She can’t, of course, till the Coroner lets the body go, and I wanted to find out – and I can’t deny that I was pumping you – I wanted to find out for her what the situation was.’

  ‘She’s a special friend, then?’

  He was quiet for a moment and then said, ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘And what does that mean?’

  ‘Nothing! Just “ah”.’

  ‘Look,’ he began, and stopped as his bleep suddenly began to clamour, making other diners turn and stare. He fumbled for it. ‘Shit!’ he said, reading off the message. ‘I’ll have to nip back. I’ve got a woman with bleeding varices in her oesophagus and she’s giving us a good deal of trouble. Look, settle for supper, would you mind? I’ll sort it out with you tomorrow.’

  ‘No need.’ Gus Hathaway had come up behind him. ‘Evening, Dr Barnabas. Had a good nosh, have you? Good. Nothin’ but the best here, you have my word for it. Don’t you fret about your suppers, I’ll look after that.’

  George was staring at him. ‘What the hell are you doing here? Can’t I escape you wherever I go?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it, does it?’ He grinned and put his hands in his pockets. He was wearing the same rather crumpled suit he’d worn the last time she’d seen him, at the mortuary.

  ‘Won’t someone introduce me?’ Toby said a little plaintively. ‘I’ve got to go, but if this chap’s a friend of yours and wants to buy my supper, I don’t mind a bit. I’m still the scrounger I was as a student. Old habits die hard.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Hathaway from Ratcliffe Street Police Station,’ George said grudgingly.

  ‘Toby Bellamy, from Old East. Surgeon.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Doctor.’ Gus held out his hand. ‘Any friend of Dr B. here, you know, any friend of Dr B.’

  ‘Why are you paying for our suppers?’ Toby was on his feet, shrugging into his coat, reaching for his sports bag. ‘It’s kind and all that, but –’

  ‘Because he likes to stick his nose in everywhere,’ George said irritably. She did not want to admit it to herself but one of the reasons for her irritation was that she’d felt a totally unexpected lift of excitement when she’d seen Gus.

  ‘I’m entitled to be here,’ Gus said mildly. ‘Seein’ it’s my place.’

  ‘Oh!’ Toby grinned from ear to ear. ‘How refreshing! A fish-frying detective. Makes a change. You’re on. Thanks for the grub, it was great.’ And he shook hands with Gus, pumping his arm up and down with considerable enthusiasm, waved a hand at George and made for the door.

  Gus sat down opposite George and said cheerfully, ‘Right, how about a cup of Irish coffee? You might as well. We’ve got things to talk about and it’ll go down easier over a wet.’

  12

  The Irish coffee was as good as the fish had been, hot, well brewed and full of flavour, and she concentrated on it as she watched him over the rim of the cup. He looked relaxed and peaceable, and very comfortable. She noticed that the staff were as comfortable with him as he was with himself. There was no undue deference, no apparent nervousness at his presence. He must be a nice guy to work for, she found herself thinking. Treats people well.

  ‘So what things do we have to talk about?’

  He put down his cup and looked at her thoughtfully.

  ‘A special mate, is he, that Toby? Funny name for a surgeon, Toby. Sounds like an escapee from a Punch and Judy show.’

  ‘And Gus sounds like an escapee from a – a boxing ring,’ she retorted. He laughed delightedly.

  ‘I like that. Always fancied myself as one of the fancy! Like to see me in puce satin shorts and big fat gloves, would you?’

  ‘Not particularly. I don’t like boxing. It scrambles brains.’

  ‘It’d never do to have scrambled brains,’ he said gravely.

  ‘Couldn’t keep up with you if that happened, could I?’

  ‘What did you want to talk about?’ She sounded brusque and knew it, but she didn’t care.

  He lifted one brow at her and became serious. ‘Down to the brass whatsits, eh? Fair enough. It’s this Oxford business.’

  ‘I imagined it mi
ght be.’

  ‘I’ve seen the test results and the full report.’

  ‘Of course. I sent them to you!’

  ‘Nothing there, eh?’

  ‘Not in those tests, no.’

  ‘Oh! Do you mean there’re others you should have done?’

  She reddened at the implied criticism. ‘Not should have, could have. There’s a second round of investigations we can do if a first PM shows no results. I’ve already put them in hand.’

  ‘What for? You won’t get nothing out of them, neither. You know that.’

  ‘I know nothing of the sort. It’s because I don’t know that I’m doing them.’

  ‘I’m getting a lot of pressure to let the body go. There’ll be an open verdict tomorrow if we go to the Coroner as we are. I’d rather we could go in and agree natural causes.’ She opened her mouth to argue with him and he leaned forward and spoke quietly. ‘Look, Dr Barnabas – could I call you your first name? It’s daft to be so formal when we’re goin’ to be workin’ together. I always called Dr Royle Ricky. The thing is, George, we sort of started on the wrong foot, didn’t we? I frightened you, wandering into the flat that way, and I can see it was stupid of me to do it. Barmy, really. If I’d been you I’d have screamed the bloody house down.’

  ‘I did,’ she said and then bit her lip. ‘You could have been anyone.’

  ‘Course I could. Could have been a murderer. If there’d been murder done. But the thing of it is, I don’t think there has been. I don’t think you think there has been. I think you got so shirty with me – and, like I say, rightly so – that you wasn’t going to let me get away with nothin’. In your shoes I’d have done exactly the same thing. But the joke’s over now, surely? There’s been the PM, you found nothing, you’ve made your point. You’re the boss in this area. Now, can we get on with business? There’ll be enough murders in the next few months, count on it, to keep us both more than happy.’