‘Maybe I need counselling,’ he said, trying to make a joke of it. ‘Have you come across anyone who specialises in Compulsive Detection Syndrome?’
If he’d hoped she would laugh, he was disappointed. ‘I ought to tell you,’ she said, ‘Casper’s been appointed to the north-west task force on eldercare.’
A fragment of an old song swam into his mind. Hope I die before I grow old. ‘I’ll tell Jim. We ought to pass on our congratulations. It isn’t every day one of our clients gains preferment. The closest most of them come to government patronage is picking up their giro cheques from the social.’
‘What it means is, he’ll expect me to accompany him to various functions. He’s talking about moving in different circles.’ She giggled, making an effort to sound a bit more like the old Juliet. ‘I’m not sure whether that means lobbyists with loads of hair gel or incontinent geriatrics. Either way, my pulse isn’t exactly racing. But you know how it is.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, I suppose I’d better be going. Boycott Duff have given me a brief. The senior partner’s a bit miffed about the media coverage of Spendlove’s death.’
‘I thought no publicity was bad publicity?’
‘They prefer their partners to die of strokes through overwork. It’s difficult to put a positive spin on things when your head of Corporate Recovery is stripped and drowned by a middle-aged widow bent on revenge.’
‘Think of it as a challenge.’
‘I gather they want to reposition themselves in the marketplace. They’re talking about increasing their commitment to pro bono legal advice for the underclass. Sharks in Samaritans’ clothing is the only slogan I’ve come up with so far. A tad more work needed yet, I’m afraid.’
‘Good luck,’ he said softly.
‘I’ll see you around, Harry.’
‘Sure,’ he said. His stomach was churning. He didn’t know whether he would ever see her again, or whether he wanted to.
After he’d put the receiver down, he sat staring at the phone for a long time. He was thinking about families. The way Linda had covered for her son, then killed the man that Peter had planned to murder himself.
And then there was Daniel. Someone else he hadn’t phoned. Suzanne had taken a couple of messages, but he hadn’t returned the calls. He hadn’t been sure what to say. The simple truth was that the two of them didn’t have a great deal in common. So much divided them. Townie and country boy, English and Welsh, would-be writer and courtroom hack. God alone knew why, after so many years, his half-brother had sought him out. Harry felt as if a crushing burden had been roped around his neck. He couldn’t give Daniel a place in their mother’s life. Flesh and blood they might be, but the past was gone. They hadn’t shared a childhood, they hadn’t shared the pain at her sudden death. Now it was too late. Wasn’t it?
On his wall was a year planner. He’d taped it up there, as a nod to administrative efficiency. He looked at the coloured stickers his secretary had fixed on to it. Blue meant a day in court, red marked the last day for issuing a writ before the time limit expired, yellow signified her holidays. The year was nearly up and what had he to show for it?
Suzanne buzzed him. ‘It’s the listing office at the Employment Appeal Tribunal. They want to talk dates for the hearing of that unfair dismissal appeal.’
He took a deep breath. ‘I’ll ring them back. I’ve got another call to make first.’
She grunted. ‘Suit yourself.’
He’d scribbled the number on his blotter, not sure if he’d ever want to dial it. Hurriedly, as if he feared being seen in the act of committing a petty crime, he punched in the numbers.
Half a dozen rings, no more. If he doesn’t answer, then it’s not meant to be. I won’t try again.
‘Hello?’
‘Daniel,’ he said quickly, the words tumbling out, ‘it’s Harry here. I’m glad I caught you. I’ve been thinking … I mean, I wondered if we might get together again some time. I read your manuscript, by the way.’
‘Yes?’ The voice was eager. ‘It needs a lot of work, of course.’
‘I’m glad you let me see it. But there is one thing.’
‘Yes? Tell me.’
‘When we see each other next time, not a word about vampires. Okay?’
The noise roused Brett Young from sleep. As consciousness returned, he realised that someone was trying to open the window of his room. It was a tall old window which overlooked the small yard at the back of the building where he lived. Since moving here, he’d never bothered to let in the air. The wooden frame made a sound like an animal in pain as it was lifted. He peered through the early morning gloom.
Andrea was naked. He could see the outline of her ribs as she stood by the open window. She’d always been thin, but it seemed to him that she’d been wasting away for a long time now. Yet there was no mistaking the tenderness of her gaze as their eyes met.
He levered himself up into a sitting position. He felt exhausted and his neck felt sore. He could dimly recall her biting him as they made love earlier in the afternoon. He guessed he must be bruised; she never knew when to stop. It had been a wild and passionate coupling, almost enough to make him believe that they could put the past to one side and start again.
‘What are you doing?’ he mumbled.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Sorry about what?’ He was blinking the sleep out of his eyes. ‘I don’t understand.’
She pointed to the bedside table. He turned his head and saw a lined exercise book, open at the first page. It was filled with her handwriting. She had an extravagant style, full of loops and underlinings.
‘I’ve left it for you.’
‘What is it?’
‘An explanation. You see, Brett, I do love you. More than life itself.’
His skin was cold. ‘Andrea, why are you talking like this?’
‘You thought I’d killed them, didn’t you? Symons, Horlock and Spendlove.’
‘I never…’
‘I don’t blame you,’ she said softly. ‘I blame myself. I may not be a predator, but I’ve been a parasite for long enough. I’ve drained the life out of you. It’s tantamount to murder.’
‘No! I love you!’
‘But you’ve said it yourself, many a time. We’ve been destroying each other. It can’t go on any longer. You do see that, don’t you?’
She turned around and stepped through the window on to the tiny ledge outside, slim fingers clinging on to the sides of the window frame. Her long hair billowed in the breeze. Her whole body was trembling.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ he cried. ‘What are you trying to do? Come back inside!’
Her voice was wafted into the room by the breeze. ‘Read my letter.’
He leaned over to the exercise book, scanned the first few words.
How long have you been afraid of me? Last night I noticed you glance in my direction when you thought I wasn’t looking - and I saw the dread deep in your eyes.
His throat was parched. She was right. He’d been frightened. Still was. Tears blurred his vision. The words on the pages seemed to merge with each other. Yet odd phrases sprang out at him.
No more deceit: the choice is simple. One of us has to die … Yesterday I cut my wrist … So much better to die young, wouldn’t you agree?
He could feel her eyes upon him as he stared at the message. As if she were feasting upon him.
I need to do what my mother failed to do and say goodbye. The guilt is burning my soul. If one of us must die, let it be me.
He made a choking sound, trying to force out her name.
‘And - Andrea…’
‘At least I tried to explain,’ she said. ‘So - goodbye, darling.’
The words floated in like a cloud of dust. Even as he watched, she released her grip on the window frame and launched herself forward and down. As she disappeared from view, he let out a roar of pain that drowned her scream.
‘Oh God!’ he cried. To emptines
s.
Then he rushed over to the window, felt the smack of the wind against his cheeks. She had thrown herself on to the wicked spikes on top of the wall that enclosed the yard. The blood was oozing on to the ground. One of the spikes had impaled her. Brett knew at once that it had ripped through her heart.
Excerpt from
All The Lonely People
Chapter One
Your mind’s playing tricks, Harry Devlin said to himself.
As he reached for the front door key, he could hear a woman laughing inside his flat. Yet when the police had called him out on duty four hours earlier, he had left the place in darkness, empty and locked. For a moment he paused, as if frozen by the February chill. Had she come home again at last?
The laughter stopped. In the silence that followed he glanced up and down the third floor corridor, sure he must have been mistaken. But a long evening in Liverpool’s Bridewell, trying to persuade grizzled detectives that two and two did not make four and that his latest client was innocent, had drained his imagination. It was midnight and he was too cold and weary for make-believe.
She laughed again and this time he knew he was not dreaming. He would have recognised that sound of careless pleasure after an eternity, let alone a lapse of two years. A wave of delight swept over him, succeeded after a moment by puzzlement. He realised that the door was ajar and, taking breath in a deep draught, strode through to the living room.
“So what kept you?”
She spoke as though resuming a conversation and the lazy tone was as familiar as if he had last heard it yesterday. Curled up in his armchair, she was watching television: Woody Allen’s Love and Death.
He drank in the sight of her. The black hair - in the past never less than shoulder-length - was now cut fashionably short. Nothing else about her had changed: not the lavish use of mascara, nor the mischief lurking in her dark green eyes. All she wore was a pair of Levis and a tee shirt of his that she must have found in the bedroom. She had tossed her jersey and boots on to the floor. On the table by her side stood a tumbler and a half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker. She scarcely glanced at him as she murmured her greeting; she was captivated by Diane Keaton, turning Woody down.
“Liz.” The croakiness of his voice was embarrassing.
In response she favoured him with the gently mocking smile that he remembered so well from their time together. She said, “Your reactions may be slow, darling, but there’s nothing wrong with your memory.”
“How did you get in here?”
“The duty porter. I told him I was an old friend. The truth, if not the whole truth, you’ll agree. I explained it was your birthday and that I wanted to give you a surprise. He seemed to think you’d be pleased to see me. Showed me up himself.” She pulled a face of comic disapproval. “You ought to complain about the lousy security. I might have been your worst enemy.”
With a rueful grin, he said, “Aren’t you?”
“Careful, that’s almost grounds for divorce.”
The heating in the room was oppressive. She had switched it up to furnace level. Already he felt a moistening of sweat on his brow. Shrugging off his raincoat and jacket, he dropped into an armchair, scarcely able to take his eyes off her.
“Nice place you have here.”
A wave of her slim hand encompassed the lounge. It was furnished in the same home-assembly teak they had bought during their engagement. In one corner, a top-heavy cheese plant leaned precariously towards the curtained windows. The walls were lined with book-crammed shelves: Catch-22, Uncle Silas and Presumed Innocent sandwiched a clutch of old movie magazines and an ink-stained guide to the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. Sheaves of paper spilled from every available surface, covering half the carpet. Legal aid claim forms awaited completion amid scrawled notes about his cases and a jumble of junk mail.
“Splitting up must have suited you,” Liz said breezily. “No one to nag about tidiness.”
Crazy, he thought. He’d rehearsed this moment a thousand times, when she came begging for a second chance. The right words should come easily. So why did he feel a schoolboy’s tongue-tied inadequacy?
He contemplated an elegant tracery of cobwebs, hanging from the ceiling above her head. “Life’s certainly different these days.”
“I’ll bet. So where have you been, you old stop-out? I was here before nine. Good job you don’t lock the drinks cupboard.”
“The police lifted a client of mine. A petty burglar, trying to finance his taste for smack. I’ve been down in the interview room all evening.”
“Harry, why do you bother?”
“Guilty or innocent, he’s entitled to justice. Same as you or me.”
Liz groaned as if hearing a joke for the hundredth time. He knew that she knew that for most of his criminal clients, conviction was an occupational hazard. And once more tonight, after the drawn-out sequence of questions and lies, bluffs and denials, the ritual had ended with the man’s signature scratched on the statement that would send him to jail, enabling everyone else to go home, their jobs done. Chances were that tomorrow or the next day he’d have a change of heart and solicitor and some cowboy from Ruby Fingall’s firm would try to get his name in the papers, building a case on police brutality.
“I know what you’re going to say.” He mimicked her old refrain: “‘How can you defend those people?’ But it’s my job, remember?” Fishing in his pocket for a pack of Player’s, he said, “So why have you turned up after so long?”
“I thought you might want someone to celebrate with. Thirty-two today, or is it Thursday morning already? Only a couple of birthday cards up, I notice,” She hiccupped. “Sorry I haven’t brought a present. You’ll have to make do with the charm of my company. Many happy returns, anyway.” She raised the tumbler and added as an afterthought, “Am I right in thinking you’ve put on weight?”
In the background, Woody Allen was soliloquising. Harry strode over to the television set and switched it off with a force that almost snapped the knob.
“You bastard. I was enjoying that.”
“You didn’t tell me what brings you here.”
She shifted in the chair, stretching her slim figure like a self-confident cat. “Aren’t you glad I’m here? Surely you’ve missed me, just a little?”
He sighed. “You were my wife, for God’s sake.”
“Still am, Harry.”
“Yes.”
He watched her finish the drink. Curious, he said, “Have you run out on Coghlan?”
“Sort of.” She bit her lip. “But - I’m frightened, Harry.”
The smile had vanished and her eyes, large and luminous, held his. Liz hadn’t forgotten how to hypnotise him. To break the spell, he got to his feet and walked to the window, pulling the curtains apart. The flat was on the river side of the Empire Dock building, a converted warehouse which had once stored tobacco and cotton, with walls built to withstand fire, tempest and flood. In the distance, he could hear teenage delinquents shouting unintelligibly. Joyriders, hooligans or petty thieves perhaps. Tomorrow’s clients, anyway. A police car siren wailed and nearer by, the site security guard’s Alsatian began to bark. Meanwhile, the Mersey below snaked away into the shadows. A string of lights gleamed along the water’s edge, trailing beyond Empire Dock as far as Harry could see. On the opposite side of the river, he could make out the angular outlines of the shoreside cranes, looming like creatures on an alien landscape. It was a Liverpool night, like any other.
He swiveled to face her. “I don’t believe you’ve ever been frightened in your life.”
The long-lashed lids were lowered now. “Harry, it’s the truth.”
“Convince me.”
She studied her crimson fingernails. “Mick and I have drifted apart. He’s back in his old ways, hanging around with his cronies up at the gym. Keeps making mysterious phone calls and throwing a fortune away on the horses. Sometimes I don’t see him for days on end. I’m on my own so much, I even started working again. With Ma
tt Barley at the Freak Shop.”
“So I heard.”
“You did?” She sighed. “Poor Matt, he’s always been kind.”
“You work part-time, he told me.”
“Yes.” An evasive look flitted across her face. “It fits in well with - other things. And it’s a break. I’m not made to be the little lady, sitting at home whilst my feller spends every spare minute with a bunch of Second Division crooks.” She resumed her scrutiny of her hands. “I’ve finally decided to ditch him, Harry.”
His stomach muscles tightened. He hardly dared hope that she was back to stay. Forget that idea, he warned himself: a re-make is never as good as the original movie. But he could not forget it. Not wanting to say anything, he gazed at a bit of the carpet which was free of his papers. It was patterned in grey; he had chosen the colour that would best hide the dust.
Liz began to speak rapidly, the words running into each other. “I know you think I’m reaping my desserts. I can’t blame you, there’s no excuse for the way I behaved. I’m not asking for sympathy. But these past two years haven’t been easy. I reckon I loved Mick once, but now I hate him and he hates me. He’s mean and he’s selfish and his temper is vile.”
Harry waited.
Head bowed, she said, “And I’ve met somebody else. I need him badly. Don’t wince - I’m serious. I’ve made all my mistakes. This is for real.”
He closed his eyes, said nothing. There was nothing to say.
She talked on, though he hardly listened: “I thought Mick had no idea. I was afraid of how he might react. We’ve been so careful to keep it secret. But Mick’s been too quiet lately, it isn’t natural. Withdrawn, scarcely bothering to rant or rave if I burn his meal … as if he’s planning what to do with me. He’s even had me followed. I’m scared, Harry, I swear it. I believe - I believe he wants to kill me.”
Liz always had a flair for melodrama, he thought. Like a heroine from one of those soap operas that used to glue her attention to the TV screen. Why did she never go on the stage? No actress could match her talent for fantasy. Long ago in their married life he’d learned that she would never be content; she had a child’s thirst for new excitements.
First Cut is the Deepest (Harry Devlin) Page 35