lucky she can go Lucy typed.
Jack cursed himself for his insensitivity. Lucy used to love going to the theater before she was ill. ‘Better get dressed or I’ll be late for work.’
Tom made a dismissive sound under his breath as Jack got up and walked out. It had taken him a few weeks to get over the embarrassment of the uniform; each day it got a little easier. He studied himself in the mirror. He actually looked smarter than when he was working at the Met. He steeled himself and went back into the kitchen to kiss Lucy goodbye.
He stopped at the door, trying to make a joke. ‘What d’you think of the uniform, then, folks?’
Irina smiled at him. ‘You look nice, Mr. Bradley.’
Tom carried on writing in his tiny scroll as Lucy typed handsome
He smiled at her, then turned to his son. ‘Come on, Tom – we’ll be late.’
Tom carried on writing, his feet twisting awkwardly under the table.
Jack desperately wanted his son to look up at him and smile. ‘So what do you think of my uniform, Tom?’
Tom studied his father for some time before saying. ‘You look really sad.’
Jack drove through the heavy morning traffic without swearing once, while Tom sat beside him, staring rigidly out of the window at the tawdry Christmas decorations in shop windows. Jack couldn’t remember a time when he was dreading Christmas so much.
After ten minutes he couldn’t stand the silence any more. ‘Mrs. Montgomery’s got a Daimler…fancy a spin in it? It’s a beautiful car.’
Tom carried on staring out of the window as if the silence was still intact. The school entrance was swarming with boys when Jack drove up. He turned to Tom and smiled, but Tom was out of the Ford, running through the school gates before Jack could say a word. No one spoke to Tom as he ran into the school and he spoke to no one. Jack started up the car, his face creased with pain.
CHAPTER 4
8th December 2012
The annual Christmas party was a loud and boozy affair. Hal Morrison and Peter Marshall, two of the most experienced reporters on The Daily Reporter, were standing in an isolated corner of the newspaper office, studying the milling throng of younger reporters and secretaries chatting animatedly to each other. People were starting to pair off for the night.
Hal leaned drunkenly towards his equally drunk friend. ‘Bloody early for the Christmas do, Pete. Not that I’m complaining.’
‘That’s what I like about you, Hal – you never complain. Bet it’s because our Führer is swanning off for an early Christmas holiday.’
Hal patted his friend on the shoulder affectionately. ‘Bet you’re right, Pete. You usually are. Have I told you you’re the best friend I’ve ever had and I’ve had a fucking shag every Christmas party for thirty years?’
‘Only every party, Hal. All over you like ringworm, aren’t they?’
Hal’s bloodshot eyes narrowed as he considered Peter’s words. ‘Ringworm? Don’t think that’s the right er…’ He looked up at the neon ceiling with his mouth open, as if hoping the right word would drop in. ‘Can’t understand it…what’s happened this year?’
Peter stared at him with all the seriousness of a drunk. ‘You said that last year.’
A small wave of excitement oscillated around them as the editor of the newspaper, Mark Logan, strode past them, followed by a small entourage of women; all determined he was going to be theirs for the night. Mark was everything Hal and Peter weren’t: dynamic, attractive and slim.
‘The bastard’s only forty, Pete. What’s he know?’ Hal slurred.
‘About what?’
‘About women.’
They stared at Mark’s retreating figure as he disappeared out of the door, pursued by three young women.
‘Absolutely nothing, Hal,’ Peter said reassuringly.
Mark hadn’t meant to stay so late. He sped down the corridor away from the women. When had they become so predatory? he thought, dashing into the gents before they saw him. He stood behind the door until he could hear their retreating voices shouting –‘Where’d he go?’ He waited a few more minutes before opening the door and creeping out. Then he saw Lavinia, his new trainee. She was wearing a tight pelmet skirt and her low-cut blouse had a sprig of mistletoe nestling between her breasts. She tottered towards him on six-inch heels.
‘I hate office parties, don’t you, sir? They’re always full of drunks.’
Mark lost the power of movement as she pinned him against the wall and gyrated her body against his.
‘Happy early Christmas.’ Her kiss held all the promise of a woman who was completely focused on getting promotion fast.
At that moment, Hal and Peter staggered down the corridor and saw Mark being buttressed against the wall.
‘Didn’t invite the wife this year, then, Mark!’ Hal shouted. He’d never felt so happy in his life. Lavinia had given him the opportunity for hours of enjoyable blackmail.
Mark broke away from Lavinia and ran towards the lift, jamming his fingers repeatedly on the button. Hal and Peter went to join him, wanting to sink the sword of Damocles a little deeper.
‘We’re not blaming you, Mark.’
‘Christ, no!’ Peter added. ‘Hal would be right in there if she’d give him a sideways glance, but she never has.’ He paused. ‘Understandable, of course.’
Hal leaned forward to breathe stale whisky over Mark. ‘It’s all in the tits,’ he said enigmatically.
At last, Mark could hear the lift moving up towards their floor. ‘Look – I’m not interested in other women. I’m a reformed man since I married Angelica.’ The lift opened. Mark stepped inside gratefully as the door closed on Hal’s words.
‘I want some of that reformation, Pete.’
Mark hunched up against the cold as he hurried away from the office, thinking about the party. He’d meant what he said. He was a reformed man. Why would he want to be in a room crowded with drunks with a wife like Angelica waiting for him? He wished she’d have come with him, but she’d hated their Christmas party last year. He hailed a passing cab, but it drove past full of people. The air was so cold it made his bones ache. He sprinted down the road, trying to get the blood flowing around his frozen body. The sudden noise of a police siren sliced the night. It was driving towards an ambulance at the other end of the road. It’s late, Mark told himself, go home. But years of looking for stories forced him to sprint towards the flashing lights.
A number of pubescent girls and boys were shivering beside a large white coach as a slight body was lifted onto a stretcher. A stunned-looking coach-driver stood helplessly opening and closing his hands. Mark noticed a crowd of people watching from outside a burger bar across the street. A cordon had already been erected to keep them at bay. A man who looked like a bouncer was striding down the street, oblivious to the accident. Years of reporting stories forged this detail on Mark’s mind automatically. It might be important. He flashed his press card at a young police officer as he moved towards the stretcher. Then suddenly, he stopped. He knew the Albanian child lying there. The ghastly palette of blood and ribbons of rubbish on Ramiz Agani’s unconscious face traumatized him. Last year his newspaper had covered a story where Ramiz’s family had been involved in a siege on a house. The police had made a serious error of judgment by starting the raid too late and Ramiz’s mother had been burned alive. As the paramedics closed the ambulance door and drove off, Mark unconsciously raised his hand in a farewell gesture. He watched the lights flashing garishly down the freezing street. Beside him, the stunned coach-driver was giving a statement to the young police officer.
‘I just stopped for the kids to get some food. Then this car come out of nowhere and knocked this kid down and the bastard just drove off. The bastard just drove off!’ the coach driver kept saying. ‘I got a kid the same age.’
‘Did you get the car registration number?’ the young officer asked him.
‘No time, mate. Over too quick. He run from behind the coach, see, to get something
from over there.’ The coach driver pointed to the late-night burger bar across the road.
Mark glanced at the children who were standing motionless beside the coach. Some of them were clutching pantomime programmes. God, what a way to end a night at the pantomime, Mark thought. Suddenly, he felt very sick. It could be his daughter lying on a stretcher.
It was 5 am when Mark arrived at the hospital. He couldn’t go home without knowing if Ramiz was okay. He stopped a nurse in the hospital corridor to ask which room he was in.
‘Are you a relative?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘No, I’m the editor of The Daily Reporter. I’m going to run an article on hit-and-run drivers. I just wondered—’
The nurse gave him a disgusted look and walked off. Mark continued down the corridor, immune to such reactions. A trolley appeared from around the corner, wheeled by two nurses; Ramiz, being brought back after surgery. They wheeled him into a room and the door closed. Mark looked in through the window. A large group of Albanian people were gathered inside. They stood in silence as the nurses hooked Ramiz up to a life-support machine. The women started to cry. At that moment, a green-gowned surgeon entered the room to explain what had happened during the operation. Mark watched his arms gesticulating in large expansive gestures, but couldn’t work out what he was saying. Suddenly, one of Ramiz’s Uncles glanced up and saw Mark. His face darkened with fury as he stormed out of the room to confront him.
‘What is the matter with you people? You are like vultures – preying on people’s misery! Haven’t we had enough pain already without you pestering us again! Leave us alone or I’ll call the police!’
Mark desperately wanted him to understand. ‘Look – I can’t say how sorry I am about your nephew’s accident, Mr. Agani. All I want to do is to find the hit-and-run driver. I’ve got a child myself. I’d been as angry as hell if someone did that to her. Did anyone see the car that hit her?’
Murat Agani had to restrain himself from hitting Mark. ‘Didn’t you hear a word I said? We don’t want you here! Go away!’ A number of other members of the family came out and waited until Mark had retreated down the corridor.
By the time Mark had walked home it was nearly 8 o’clock. He was swaying from fatigue as he staggered up the driveway of his large detached house. Unnerving silence greeted him. Angelica was always up early cooking something special. He went into the kitchen and saw the debris from last night’s dinner littering all the surfaces. Christ, this wasn’t going to be easy. He poured out a large glass of orange juice, drank it and dumped the empty carton in the bin. The remains of Angelica’s curry stained the bottom of it. Shit. Where the hell was she? He glanced out of the kitchen window. She was standing motionless in the orchard; a beautiful Madonna wrapped in thought; the morning sunlight burnished her blonde hair with filaments of fire. Mark etched the scene in his mind before taking a deep breath and going out to join her.
‘Hallo, Angel,’ He said as he wrapped his arms around her.
She gave no hint that she’d heard or felt him; she simply received his arms without response.
‘I’m sorry, I…’ He stopped, searching for the right words.
‘You smell stale.’ She drew away from him.
Mark felt his face flushing. ‘You know what our Christmas parties are like.’
‘I didn’t think they went on all night.’ She moved towards the house before he could answer.
‘I saw the victim of a hit-and-run accident near the office. He was only 12. Only three years older than Emily.’
Angelica immediately stopped walking and stood motionless.
‘I recognized him,’ Mark continued. ‘You remember the kid in the hostage story I covered last year? Ramiz Agani – he’s in a coma in hospital.’
Angelica didn’t respond. Mark stared at her rigid back, wondering what she was thinking.
At last, she turned to look at him. ‘Junior reporters cover hit-and-run accidents, Mark, not editors.’
Angelica walked into the house, leaving him frozen with frost.
CHAPTER 5
9th December 2012
The sizzling atmosphere at Blue Notes had gone. The punters hardly listened to Bianca singing a song that Bessie Smith wrote called Please Help Me Get Him Off My Mind because there was no soul in her voice. The band was playing badly too; they couldn’t find the right resonance with Bianca’s listlessness. Everyone was going through the motions of playing jazz without the emotion. Max, the sax player, looked across the room and glared at Rico. They’d already had words about Bianca and nothing had been sorted. The noise level in the club increased dramatically as Bianca finished the song. There was only a smattering of applause. She walked off the stage as if the audience wasn’t there and meandered across the room towards Rico.
‘I need a whisky, Rico,’ she said, slumping onto the barstool.
‘I’m taking you home, Bi – you’ve had enough. I’ve just got to organize Pierre and then we’ll go.’
Rico had already warned Pierre about giving Bianca whisky, but he knew how difficult it was to refuse her anything. For once, Bianca didn’t argue with him; she was too exhausted. Just as Rico was about to leave instructions with Pierre, a short, squat man hurried towards him and held his arm in a vice-like grip and moved him away from her. Rico felt sick.
‘Where’s the stuff, Rico? Capote’s waiting for it.’
Sweat poured down Rico’s body as he looked at the man. Everyone knew what Capote did to people who crossed him. ‘Mr. Cellini didn’t get it shipped to the gallery. Don’t know why.’
‘Capote knows that. We went looking for it when we heard he’d snuffed it. I just hope that the dropper didn’t steal it ‘cos if he did, you won’t have no kneecaps. Capote thought you ought to know. You got five days to find it. He ain’t happy, and remember what Capote’s temper is like when he ain’t happy? I’d find it if I was you. You want some more advice? – get rid of the singer, she’s crap. I’ll be back in five days, Rico. Cheerio. Have a nice day.’
Rico wiped the sweat off his face as he watched him disappear out of the door. Jesus – five days! In five days he knew they’d do more than kneecap him if he didn’t find the crate. Somehow, he had to get into Cellini’s apartment after he took Bianca home.
He parked his old Cortina outside a high-rise block of flats and sat there, thinking what to do. It suddenly came to him. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He turned to look at Bianca’s sleeping face only inches away from him; her glossy hair shadowing her cheek. He brushed it back with the tips of his fingers; she immediately woke and smiled at him.
‘Sorry, Rico.’
‘What for?’
‘I can’t sing anymore.’
Rico’s chest tightened. ‘What do you mean you can’t sing? You’re the best jazz singer I’ve ever heard. Blue Notes would be nothing without you.’
‘It’s nothing with me, Rico. Come on…be honest.’ Bianca touched her chest. ‘You can’t sing jazz without your heart.’
His chest tightened even more and for the hundredth time, he tried to work out why a woman like Bianca put up with a bastard like Cellini.
‘Bi, you’re a fighter like me. Just take some time off to get over…’
He couldn’t say his name aloud. Rico’s head fell forward onto the steering wheel as impotence flooded through him; he’d never escape from Cellini’s shadow, so what did it matter what happened to him?
Bianca touched his hand in concern. ‘What’s up?’
It took him a long time to think of something. ‘Working too hard, Bi.’
‘Come on, I’ll make you a coffee.’
Rico looked at her. She obviously couldn’t see the irony of the invitation; this was the first time Bianca had ever invited him to her flat and it was only because that bastard Cellini was dead.
An old lift, covered in lurid graffiti, creaked up to Bianca’s floor. Rico was shocked by the vandalism in the building. Why did that bastard let her live in a dump like this? But whe
n Bianca opened the door to her flat, everything was transformed: it was colorful, artistic and chaotic. She closed the door and hung a large bunch of keys up on a green-painted key fob on the wall.
‘Why’ve you got so many keys?’ Rico asked as he walked into her sitting room.
‘Three of them are Paolo’s. I kept losing the one he gave me, so I had two more cut – you know what I’m like with keys.’
Rico kept his face impassive as he stared at large posters of Maltese dghajjes covering the walls. ‘Those are colorful,’ he said.
Bianca smiled and pointed to a vividly painted boat. ‘My Uncle Joey owns that one. He used to take me out on trips around the Grand Harbour when I was a kid.’ She looked depressed as she disappeared into a small kitchen. ‘Have a look around. I’ve got lots of things from Malta,’ she shouted back.
Rico crept into the hall and removed one of Cellini’s keys from Bianca’s key-fob. It only took him a minute and he was back in the sitting room studying the fine lace and copper jewelry cascading over wicker chairs and tables; the exquisitely colored bottles and glass ornaments dotted around. Rico smiled. He could see Bianca in every item; he could smell her Dior perfume everywhere. Then he turned to the photographs pinned to the far wall and his face hardened. Cellini stared back at him from every one: Bianca and Cellini on numerous holidays in the Mediterranean.
Bianca walked in with two cups of coffee and put them down on one of her glass-topped tables. ‘That was taken two years ago when we were in Malta. We stayed at the best hotel in Valetta. Paolo insisted.’
Rico stared at Cellini’s smug expression as he stood on the steps of the majestic Le Meridien Phoenicia. He desperately wanted to rip it off the wall.
‘You should get rid of these photos. Start living again. You need a man to look after you, not cheat on you.’
Bianca spilled some of her coffee over a piece of exquisite Maltese embroidery. ‘Rico – you must tell me, I won’t get hysterical this time, I promise.’
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