Getting upright was much easier than he expected. He sat on the edge of the bed, and there was none of the nausea that is always present after drunkenness, not even a bad taste in the mouth. He felt a little cold still, and the odd sensation of being thinner than he expected was still present, but his mind was clear, lucid even – and his mind was telling him this isn’t right yet, that idea you just had about going into work as usual, you’d better forget it. He stood up gingerly and then sat down again; a safe enough manoeuvre save for the fact that there seemed to be some sort of delay between one part of his physical body performing an action and the rest of him arriving at the new destination – it might be as much as two seconds. As he was sitting down again, he decided to take the opportunity to examine the knee that was the cause of all the trouble in the first place. It was somewhat swollen but not tender; he flexed it and there was still no pain, which, he concluded, was more evidence that the drug was still in his system. The delay thing meant that it would not be safe to drive, and then he remembered the lift home, Charlie driving his own car, and Waters in the back, keeping him talking. That meant that he had no car this morning anyway, his own being still parked at the station.
In the kitchen he found that he was hungry enough to eat. He made scrambled eggs, did it properly, the way they both liked it, with butter and milk and a grinding of black pepper, and he made two rounds of wholemeal toast to go with it. Everything tasted extraordinary, and he had to make a conscious effort to eat slowly, to chew the food rather than to swallow it in freshly-bitten mouthfuls. What would coffee be like? Intrigued, he made some of that pricey Australian Skybury that had disappointed him a little a week ago but this morning it seemed to be worth every penny. So then, food and drink were very interesting, but the sense of separation bothered him. Still sitting at the dining table, he moved his mind onto work, onto what needed to be done on the case before the end of the day – and it simply would not go there. His mind would not go to work, literally. He could recall the names, the interviews, the events but had no sense of purpose, no means of arranging them into a logical sequence of things to be done.
He moved to the sofa and took his phone out of his dressing gown pocket – in his dressing gown at, what is it, ten minutes past eight? Is it any wonder that addicts can’t work? All they want to do is sit around and wonder what poached eggs would have been like instead. He leaned back, closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Two hours later, he was woken by a pinging from his mobile on the arm of the sofa. He picked it up and noted that the delay seemed to have shortened considerably. There were two messages – he must have slept through the first one which had arrived almost an hour ago. It was from Waters: John and I just off to Northampton. Hope you’re feeling better, Chris. Silly boy, no need for him to keep me updated like that, he thought, and then quite unexpectedly he had a lump in his throat because the update had simply been an excuse to write the second part of the message.
The second text was from Charlie Hills: I was in 2 minds about whether to take you to A&E last night. You said something about painkillers on an empty stomach. Most people keep those in the packet, not in a bit of silver foil. I suppose you get your paracetamol loose at the Saturday market. Anyway, reply in 15 minutes or I’m coming round to give you mouth-to-mouth.
Charlie’s way of checking that he was conscious. He sent back Feeling better, might be in later, thanks for last night. PS – if you do come round, can you make sure you’ve cleaned your teeth? That should do the trick.
Sleep seemed to be the thing. While he was wondering whether he should fall asleep again, he did so, but this time only twenty minutes had elapsed, and now the phone was ringing properly. It was Alison Reeve.
‘David? I just spoke to Charlie, and he told me that you’re back in the land of the living. How are you? What happened?’
Why weren’t they getting on with some work, instead of spending the entire morning talking about him, texting him and phoning him up?
‘Feeling a lot better, ma’am. I expect I just pushed myself too hard – you know it’s a weakness of mine. I’ve always had an over-developed sense of competition. And I didn’t want to let Superintendent Allen down.’
‘He was in earlier. I told him that you’d got through it. He just said “Excellent” and walked out. I haven’t heard from him since.’
‘You’ve had a whole morning off? You owe me, then.’
‘Seriously, are you OK?’
‘Yes, really. I told Charlie, I took some painkillers on an empty stomach and felt a bit woozy. That’s all, nothing to worry about. I’ll come in this afternoon.’
‘You don’t need to. Everyone is busy. They make a nice team for a bunch of misfits – how do you do that?’
‘Fear – it’s the only way.’
‘Rubbish!’
She laughed but thought, that’s true in a funny sort of way – they are afraid, afraid of letting you down. And how do you do that?
She said, ‘Aves was remanded this morning, no problems, and we should have the next lot of results by Tuesday. I’m talking to CPS this afternoon. It looks good to me. I think we’ve got him, DC.’
‘And two out of three isn’t bad?’
‘Don’t put McFarlane in your special book just yet. Take the rest of the day off, and I’ll see you Monday.’
A few minutes later he received a text from her; I forgot to say, DCI Cara Freeman is in the building. She came in looking for you earlier, has obviously heard something about the Bell case. I don’t think she’s given up on you yet – just thought you ought to know!
He sent back Thanks for that. Feeling worse again, might need a week off.
The thought of lunch was somehow less appealing than the thought of breakfast had been; that, combined with the ever-diminishing sense of delay between cause and effect, and the fact that his knee was beginning to ache told Smith that normality was on the way back. He thought briefly about how pleasant it had been, how with no pain he had run up and down the gym faster than most of the younger men, and then he went into the bathroom, took the bottle out of the cabinet and flushed the contents away.
In the music room, he picked up the Taylor acoustic – nothing needed amplification today – and played improvised ragtime and blues for half an hour. He even sang quietly on the last number, something that only Sheila and a few intimate friends from a long time ago had heard him do. It seemed appropriate, though he had no idea why, as the train pulled out of the station, those two lights on behind, the blue one was his baby and the red one was his mind. Then he sat in the midday silence of the house, the guitar across his knees, staring a little until the mobile rang again. At this rate, he’d get more peace if he did go to work.
‘DC? It’s me, Ann. I rang the office and they said you were at home this morning. I’m sorry to bother you but it won’t wait until Monday.’
‘Not a problem – what’s up?’
Ann Crisp was the best Family Liaison officer they had had in a while, and there was only one case she could be calling him about.
‘You know I’ve been talking to Lucy Bell since you put me in touch with her, about her missing husband. We’ve been getting on pretty well after a nervous start. Anyway, she called me this morning to let me know that she’s leaving Lake – was it OK, could she leave an address with me, what about the investigation, that sort of thing.’
‘Where’s she going to?’
‘Newcastle.’
‘Blimey – no, that makes sense, though. When?’
‘This afternoon, from what I can make out.’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘That as long as we can contact her, it’s not a problem. It’s not, is it? I just wanted to check.’
‘No, if we’ve got a number, no problem at all. It was all over the papers yesterday, and it’ll be on the local TV news next. She’s best off out of it.’
‘It was on the TV last night. Didn’t you see it?’
‘No… Anyway, th
anks for letting me know. Can you leave the details with someone, get them to put something on my desk? Thanks, Ann.’
It could only be James Bell’s father. Smith sat and wondered about Lucy Bell’s own family - where were they? This was when a mother or sisters or brothers should step in, but she seemed to have no-one. Had her marriage to Bell alienated them or was there a longer and more complicated history? He had never spoken to Bell senior but remembered that Alison Reeve had called him a gentleman after her phone conversation with him. It was a thin enough thread for Lucy and Leah Bell to hold onto but it seemed to be all that they had.
He stood up and it felt normal now – the blurred sense that he had moved during a photograph of himself had disappeared. From the window of the music room he looked down over the garden, and there were the things that he had thought about recently but had had no time to see – the pink and red blossom on the viburnum in the far corner against the wooden fence, and in the borders a sprinkling of purple and gold all the way along, scores and scores of crocuses. These are the little things that we don’t see unless we look for them, unless we remember them, unless we make the effort – the little things that grow and bloom and fade, the secret lives all around us.
He would like to have seen the girl and her daughter before they left – not for any investigative reason but simply because their lives had briefly become entwined with his own, and because he felt an odd sense that it was his duty to do so. He almost always did go back and see the families but whether it was to bring them or himself a sense of closure he could not have said. Nevertheless, he had no car and it was much too far to walk… A taxi, maybe?
As he stepped off the last of the stairs, he saw a set of keys on the doormat – his own car keys, and looking out through the side panel of the front door, there was the Peugeot, ready and waiting. Someone had brought it along after his journey home last night, or dropped it off this morning while he was still sleeping. Again he was taken unawares by the little act of kindness, feeling it in his throat and behind the eyes – and then he thought, morphine does funny things to you, must remember that.
The lift was out of order but he was not surprised – in fact, he had bet himself five pounds that it would be. Those two young ladies really would be better off out of this, if only for a while. Half a dozen steps up the first flight told him that he was soon going to pay the price for yesterday’s foolishness but instead of regret, he used the realization to come to a decision – tonight he would make an appointment with the GP and get it sorted. He’d looked it up already – laparoscopic surgery, perhaps not even an overnight stay and a few days rest should take care of it. He might even re-join the gym and enter the police service’s charity half-marathon. The superintendent would be delighted to sponsor him.
On the fourth and final landing, he paused, lifted the foot from the ground and flexed the knee. Then he limped forward and passed through the doors onto the walkway. Two men were leaning against the handrail, a few yards from the Bells’ door – one had a camera and the other a hand-held voice recorder. They turned as he appeared and Smith recognized the recorder man. The recognition was mutual, and as he approached them, the freelance journalist muttered something to the photographer, who went to lift his camera towards Smith. The journalist’s hand came out and pushed the camera down.
‘Good afternoon, Sergeant.’
Smith looked up and down the angled walkways, making sure that there were no others hanging around. Then he looked hard at the pair of them before concentrating on the journalist that had addressed him.
‘Is it? Depends on where you’re standing, I suppose. Spoken to anyone?’
He indicated the Bell’s flat with a nod of his head.
‘Not yet.’
‘But you’ve been trying.’
‘They’re inside but not answering the door.’
‘I cannot think why.’
The photographer was young, bearded and trying to look as if he represented something important such as the freedom of the press in a western democracy; Smith regarded him again for a moment or two and then decided that today life was too short. He turned back to the journalist.
‘Remember the drowned student, Wayne Fletcher?’
‘Yes. I apprecia-’
‘I was straight with you on that, wasn’t I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m going to be straight with you on this. There’s nothing here for you at the moment, and I’m not here on official business. I’d rather you leave these people alone, if it’s all the same to you.’
He knew that the journalist had to weigh it up – losing a little face in front of his sidekick against the possibility of something juicier in the future. It’s a strangely symbiotic relationship and Smith had used the press for his own ends often enough not to feel morally superior to them, most of the time.
‘OK, as it’s you, sergeant, but-’
‘No buts, son. Leave now and you might get lucky again.’
The journalist went first with just a shrug but the photographer held on for a few seconds before mumbling an inaudible curse and twisting angrily away. Smith watched them until they had reached the doors onto the landing, and then he called out.
‘By the way. Did you know there’s been a second arrest?’
The journalist shouted back, ‘Who?’
‘Some bloke called Allen – that’s who you need to talk to, at Lake Central,’ and then they were gone. He hoped that no confusion could possibly arise from that.
Smith had rapped on the door just twice before it flew open and an ivory-handled cane was swinging dangerously close to his skull. He sidestepped and caught it with his right hand, twisting it down and away until his eyes were only a couple of feet from those of his would-be assailant. The eyes glaring back at him were large, dark and angry, and despite the man’s age Smith sensed that he was only just managing to hold off the cane from another attack.
He said, ‘I am Sergeant David Smith from Kings Lake Central police. If you could just refrain from braining me for a couple of seconds, I’ll show some ID, sir.’
‘Aye, and my name’s Donald Duck. I’ve heard all your stories, and your ID’ll be fake, you parasitical piece of scum.’
The Geordie accent alone would have told Smith with whom he was dealing but the looks of the man were those of James Bell in the Marinor personnel file with perhaps thirty five years added on; the hair was greying but still thick and curly, and a cord stood out in his neck as he kept the pressure on his grip of the cane. His eyes had not left Smith’s for a fraction of a second. It might have gone on for a good while longer had Lucy Bell not appeared in the entrance behind.
She said, ‘Alec, it’s alright. This is one of the policemen.’
The two men straightened up cautiously, and Smith let go of the stick. He ventured a smile and said, ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Bell. And Mr Bell.’
Inside, the old man had studied him for another moment or two and then held out a large, heavy hand.
‘Well now, I’ll say that I’m sorry for that. But these low lives ha’ been hammering on this door on and off since yesterday, frightening the bairn and upsetting the girl. I’m havin’ no more of it. Is there nothin’ ye can do?’
‘If you take a look outside, sir, you’ll see that I sent those two on their way. But I can’t guarantee there won’t be more. It’s a public space and they’re not breaking any laws by being there.’
‘Aye, well, mebbe just the law of decency, eh?’
‘We often have trouble enforcing that one, I’ll admit.’
The little girl was watching them from the kitchen doorway, where her mother had gone to make tea. Alec Bell waved to her and she waved back but she made no move to come any closer; still with his eyes on her, her grandfather said, ‘Poor wee thing.’
Smith said, ‘I know it’s not much of a comfort, but in a way it would have been worse if she had been a year or two older – that’s been my experience, for what it’s worth.’
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Bell’s handsome old face turned back to him.
‘I’d already thought the same. But are you here working? Do you have questions?’
‘No. I heard that Lucy was leaving the city, and thought I’d… See if there was anything I could do. Just keeping in touch as well. There’ll be a trial now and she might need to come back for that.’
In the kitchen he could hear their voices now, the girl saying something about the man in the room. Alec Bell was listening too, and a smile appeared briefly on his face before it faded.
He said, ‘Well, I have a question for you. I doubt you’ll be wanting to tell me much at this stage but I’ll ask it anyway.’
‘Go ahead, Mr Bell.’
‘What was the boy involved in? What’s going to come out? Is it bad? When he gave me that money, I started wonderin’.’
Smith did not answer immediately, and he felt the old man’s gaze grow heavier upon him.
‘You are right about one thing, Mr Bell-’
‘Alec will do. I can see the girl thinks you’re OK.’
‘Thank you. We don’t know exactly, not all the details, and it wouldn’t be right for me to pass on speculation. But no – I don’t think he was involved in anything really nasty. I’d say that James was just – being James, sir. I can say that I don’t think he deserved what happened to him.’
Alec Bell nodded, thinking it over.
‘Thank you for that, anyway. James being James… That’s no bad for someone that never met him. I take it you didn’t?’
‘No, I never met him.’
Bell looked towards the kitchen and then lowered his voice.
‘And if it was James being James, I take it there was a woman involved?’
Luck and Judgement Page 34