Just seen your DVD. Hot! Tell me what lights your fire and I’ll find the right matches. I’m free tomorrow night. Are you? Blade Runner.
Jack winced at his banality and went to the bathroom to have a pee. Why should she be online tonight? Most probably she’d be out with a client. But when he went back into the study, a message popped up.
Meet me in the foyer of Downs Hotel in Victoria at 10 p.m. tomorrow night and bring the matches. How will I know you? S
Jack’s heart thumped hard as he typed, I’ve got light brown hair, 5 foot 10 and I’ll be carrying a copy of Private Eye. I’ll bring lots of matches! B.R.
CHAPTER 13
12th December 2012
Mark was alone in the office; he knew he should go home to Angelica, but he had to find some clue to the identity of the missing hit-and-run driver before he could. He must have missed something in the interviews Hal had done with all the numerous people who’d been on the street the night Ramiz Agani had been hit. Hal was a meticulous reporter; Mark knew he should have let him cover the problems in Israel, not a hit-and-run accident. The owner of the newspaper, Sir Thomas Keaton, wasn’t happy with the amount of newspaper coverage Mark had given to the story; he wanted a result, or he wanted a big new story. Mark knew that his judgment was being eroded by an emotional connection with a young Albanian boy who was still lying in a coma; almost dead to the world. It had become his raison d’être, but if it didn’t become the country’s Cause Célèbre soon, he might find himself out of a job; there were far too many hungry wolves out there desperate to sit in his chair. If he couldn’t find something he’d missed tonight, he’d have to move on to another big story and he didn’t want to.
He got up and stretched, staring out at the expanse of London lights spread out below him. He and Angelica should be out there enjoying themselves; not separated by his quests for the so-called truth. Was anything he ever reported going to make a difference to the world at all? He shook such negative thoughts out of his mind and sat down at his desk and went through every interview again. The only thing that everyone agreed on was that the driver was speeding; the car was a blur and it sped off into the night. He waded through the others and noticed one eye-witness stated that he thought the car was black but he couldn’t be sure. That was the only clue he’d found after two hours of reading. It was hopeless. Mark closed the file and swore. Two hours wasted when he could have been with Angelica. He was just about to get up and leave when he noticed the other tabloids and broadsheets that Lavinia had put on his desk; it was always good to look at the competition. The main story was the sudden death of Paolo Cellini: good-looking playboy and astute art dealer; each paper was full of his lavish lifestyle; his fabulous art collection and his donations to charity; it was nauseating how even the most respected broadsheets were pandering to the masses’ obscene voyeurism. He closed the last paper in disgust and was suddenly faced with a grainy picture of Cellini’s funeral; in the corner of the photo was the profile of a woman wearing scarf; it was unmistakable – Angelica! What the hell was she doing at that bastard’s funeral?
Mark felt his heart thumping. He shot out of his chair just as the cleaner came in and looked at him, startled. He almost ran towards the exit.
An hour later, he was sitting with Angelica eating a prawn stir-fry that she had rustled up within minutes of him arriving home. She was a miracle, Mark thought, looking at her in the candlelight. There were none of the tantrums he’d endured from his first wife every time he was late home; Angelica knew how important his job was to him. It was always a joy to return to her. All the anger he’d felt on seeing her photo in the paper vanished the moment he saw her, but he had to know why she had gone to Cellini’s funeral.
‘So what were you working on tonight?’ she asked, before Mark could speak, expertly lifting a small portion of stir-fry with her chop-sticks.
‘Still on the hit-and-run. Been wading through eye-witness interviews,’ Mark said as he tasted the stir-fry. ‘Um, this is very good.’
Angelica shot him a look. ‘Find anything?’
‘No.’ He put down his fork and stopped eating. ‘Well, yes, but…’ He was suddenly reluctant to ask her.
Angelica looked at him nervously. ‘What?’
‘You didn’t tell me you went to Paolo Cellini’s funeral. Why’d you go? You only met the guy once.’ Mark knew he sounded petty, but he couldn’t stop himself.
Angelica concentrated on her food as Mark stared at her. ‘Margaret Montgomery asked me to. The elderly lady you met at the charity dinner last year.’
‘Why didn’t she go herself?’
‘She was too ill, apparently. It was difficult to say no on the phone. I didn’t stay long. Just long enough to tell her I’d been. I didn’t think you’d be interested. I’m sorry if you thought I should have told you.’
She smiled at him in the candlelight and Mark was appalled with himself; she never became angry about his petty jealousies. ‘I’m sorry. There’s no reason why you should. It’s not important.’
Later, as he lay in bed alone, completely relaxed after they’d made love, he didn’t even resent the fact that she was downstairs again chanting mantras to her Black Madonna; he just thanked fate or whatever force had brought Angelica into his life before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER 14
13th December 2012
The Downs Hotel had all the anonymity of a large chain which was obviously why she had picked it. Jack sat inconspicuously in a secluded corner of the foyer, pretending to read a newspaper, while glancing at the door occasionally as people walked in. His hands were sweating and soon his fingers were black from newspaper print.
There was no sign of Stella. Jack wondered what he was going to do when she eventually arrived. He’d never been unfaithful to Lucy and now, suddenly, it seemed a monumentally bad time to be disloyal. He got up to leave only to fall back as the revolving door swung round and a seductress walked in. Every man in the foyer was instantly riveted by the sight of two long slim legs, underneath a skimpy tight skirt and a sparkling crop top. All the moisture in Jack’s mouth evaporated. His newspaper dropped to the ground, forgotten. Stella searched the room for him, but he was glued to his leather chair. Her face became hostile: no one stood her up. She flounced towards the door, her long blonde hair swinging around her shoulders. A hand suddenly appeared on her arm; a man, wearing a Gieves & Hawkes suit, stopped her. Jack couldn’t hear what he said, but Stella’s face relaxed and her arm moved through his. They walked along the patterned carpet towards the stairs as Jack slumped down into his chair trying to be inconspicuous; there was something unsettling about her and he didn’t like being unsettled. What was he missing? He took out his notebook and wrote: Stella & Paolo = Sex and? He still couldn’t work out why Cellini went with prostitutes. Then he had a mental image of Cellini’s diary. He wasn’t obsessed with prostitutes, only one: Stella. So what was there about her that made a wealthy man like Cellini obsessed with her? It didn’t make any sense. He almost smiled at the irony of the thought: most things people did made no sense. Why the hell was he sitting in an anonymous hotel waiting for a prostitute he was never going to have sex with?
Half-an-hour later, Jack was still in the hotel, half-asleep, waiting for her to appear. Suddenly, she ran down the stairs, glanced at her watch, and disappeared into the night. Hastily throwing some coins on the table, Jack hurried after her.
She ran towards a four-wheel drive in the distance, threw the door open and climbed in. Within seconds she was speeding down the road. Jack raced towards his car, thankful he’d started jogging again. Why the hell was she in such a hurry? He sped after her in his Ford, watching her tail-lights disappear around the corner. Shit – he was going to lose her. But for once, red lights were on his side. As he turned the corner, he saw a Mini in front of her stopping. Stella slammed on her brakes. Jack was now only two cars behind. The lights changed and she immediately leaned on her horn, trying to levitate the snail in
front of her. Jack watched her overtake the Mini and race towards Quarry Road, wondering why she was taking such a lonely route. She was a good driver, but Jack was an expert, having taken every Advanced Driving Test known to the police-force. Within minutes, he was behind her. Suddenly, she slammed on her brakes and screeched to a halt. De-clutching rapidly, Jack managed to swerve around her and stopped his car a long way in front of hers and switched off his lights. When he looked back, she was being sick at the side of the road. She leaned against a nearby tree to recover. Jack wondered what the client had done to make her feel sick. Stella wiped her mouth clean before getting back into the car. Jack ducked down in the Ford in case she saw him as she drove past. Revving up fast, he raced after her.
Half a mile ahead of them was a development site; large diggers were excavating a quarry so that it could be flooded to form a picturesque lake. Jack subconsciously registered the numerous WORK IN PROGRESS signs which littered the road as he sped after Stella, thinking no one would be working at night. Suddenly, a large lorry pulled out in front of her – she skidded around it and it careered across the road towards Jack. So this is it, he thought. No amount of advanced driving was able to help him anticipate the trajectory of the lorry’s wheels as the driver fought to control it. Snapshots of Lucy and Tom flashed repeatedly across his retina. he wasn’t supposed to go first. Then suddenly, the lorry shot past him, knocking off his wing mirror and he was laughing into the darkness. A great feeling of power surged through his body as he accelerated up the road. A year of memories had flashed through his mind, but unbelievably, he could see the tail-lights of Stella’s car in the distance.
Jack tailed her from a discreet distance for miles; from country lanes through to the residential streets of Hampstead, past shops, boutiques, cafes and brassieres. He suddenly realized where she was driving to – Hampstead Heath. She was going to tout her trade on the Heath in the dark! Jack was disturbed, not knowing why he was concerned about the welfare of a prostitute. he turned a corner and stared at the empty road in front of him in confusion. She’d disappeared. He speeded up, thinking she must have seen him and tried to lose him. Half an hour later, He stopped the car in an empty street and rested his head against the steering wheel, wondering what the hell he was doing with his life. He wasn’t a DCI any more, he was a chauffeur. He had a very sick wife and a traumatized son and he was driving around London in the middle of the night, tailing a prostitute and he didn’t know why. His mobile suddenly rang. He glanced at it in surprise. Who on earth could be ringing him in the middle of the night? He opened it and saw his father-in-law’s name.
‘Hello, Colin. You’re up late.’
‘Lucy nearly died this evening. She’s in hospital. We’ve been trying to ring you for hours.’
Jack was instantly riven with guilt. While he was wasting his time tailing a prostitute, his wife was fighting for her life.
‘Which hospital?’
CHAPTER 15
13th December 2012
Tom sat in a corridor with his grandparents. It was 1.30 a.m. and he lay asleep against Mary, his equally exhausted grandmother. Colin, Lucy’s father, was pacing up and down as he waited for Jack to arrive.
Jack ran down the corridor towards them, blinking in the over-bright neon lights.
Colin’s face was stony as he stared at Jack. ‘Where on earth have you been?’
Tom woke up at the sound of his grandfather’s voice and glared at his father.
Jack couldn’t breathe. What could he say? I was following a case? What chauffeur follows a case? He couldn’t explain to himself or to Tom what he’d been doing. ‘How’s Lucy now?’ he asked Colin, knowing exactly what his in-laws thought of him after he’d resigned from the Met.
Suddenly, Mary woke up and glared at Jack too. ‘She’s stable now, but my God, Jack, what would have happened if Tom hadn’t been there?’
Tom shouted: ‘Mum would have died and it would have been your fault! You’re never there when we need you!’
Jack had never felt so low in his life. Is that what his son really thought of him?
‘Her carer left her for a minute to go to a local shop, thinking that Tom or you would be back at any minute so there was nothing to worry about,’ Colin said. ‘Lucy needed oxygen but couldn’t reach it. Tom rushed in, saw what the problem was and gave her to it. Tom’s quick thinking saved our daughter’s life.’
Jack wanted to weep, remembering how many times Lucy had told him she wanted a quick death, but how could he tell them that? ‘Well done, Tom. It must have been frightening for you.’
Tom stared at the floor. At last he said: ‘Can I go to bed now?’
‘We’re taking Tom home with us.’ Colin glanced briefly at Jack before adding, ‘Until Lucy comes out of hospital …because of your irregular hours.’
‘Chauffeurs obviously work stranger hours than the police do,’ Mary added coldly.
Jack winced at the ice in her words; he didn’t know how he could cope with all the guilt that had been thrust into his life since Lucy’s illness and the siege. He could hardly remember a time when he could sleep without sleeping tablets.
‘We’re going home now you’ve come,’ Colin whispered in an exhausted voice. ‘Lucy’s in the room over there.’ He gestured towards a small door near where they were sitting. ‘A pity you didn’t come before, Jack.’
Jack couldn’t speak. He went to hug his son, but Tom moved away from him before he could touch him. ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow. See how you are.’ Jack’s words echoed down the long, lonely corridor as he watched them all trudging away from him.
A nurse left Jack alone with Lucy after showing him the alarm button if he needed it. He sat beside her, listening to her heavy breathing as she lay on the hard hospital bed, hooked up to oxygen, looking incredibly fragile.
‘Hello, Luc. Been causing mayhem while I’m out again, have you?’ Jack stroked her hand. ‘I know you want to go but Tom and I need you. Selfish, I know, but there it is.’ And suddenly Jack was crying; crying for all the moments in his life when he hadn’t told her that he loved her; crying for the mother in the siege who’d died because of him; crying for the pain that Lucy’s illness was creating for their son. ‘I don’t know what to do, Luc. I don’t know what to do.’ Lucy had always been his rock when problems happened in the Met; she was always calm and looked at things from an analytic perceptive. ‘How can I cope with Tom?’
There was no response and Jack didn’t expect any. He leaned his head against Lucy’s arm and fell asleep. An hour later he woke up with a very stiff neck and looked at his wife; she looked exactly the same as before. ‘Sorry, Luc – I dropped off. Do you want me to do anything for you?’ Jack didn’t expect a reply, so he didn’t notice Lucy’s fingers moving as he did exercises to alleviate the pain in his neck. He was stunned by the sudden sound of her trying to say his name: ‘Ac!’
‘What, Luc?’ She desperately tried to move a finger towards her computer beside the bed and Jack rushed over to move it to her. He watched her laboriously type:
tell tom let me go!
CHAPTER 16
6th July 2011
Angelica struggled against the crying of a baby being baptized in a church; she fought to wake up, hating being in that dream again. Slowly, the crying baby and the church retreated and her parents appeared in a garden shouting Where is he? Where is he? Angelica wanted to tell them but her mouth wouldn’t open. They screamed out their pain as she watched but there was nothing she could do. She could smell the oranges and lemons in the garden, but she was transfixed by her parents’ pain.
Gradually the garden retreated and their bedroom formed around her. She glanced over at Mark’s sleeping form and touched the nape of his neck. So solid a presence. Perhaps everything would be all right with him. The sun was fringing the curtains. She got out of bed and moved behind them so the light wouldn’t disturb him. In front of her was a sky which looked as if Turner had painted it with vibrant planes of light; it glowed onto
her translucent face. In the garden, a blackbird, perched on a sycamore tree, scoured the garden for food. His crocus-colored bill opened for a rapid trill and Angelica smiled. Suddenly, he flew down to the ground and the scene froze into her memory as he hopped along their garden path. How beautiful the world could be, she thought. She turned back to Mark’s sleeping body. Time to pray before he woke up.
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