by Kitty French
‘Bittersweet?’
He says my name and I sink my teeth into his bottom lip. From the way he pulls my head up to his I’d say he liked it, and his shallow breathing tells me that he’s just as into this as I am.
‘Hmm?’ I can’t form words, because he’s kissed them all away. If he asks me if he can take me to bed I am absolutely going to say ‘yes please, do it right here and now, my bedroom is just this way’. I’m already pulling him upstairs in my head.
‘Your dog is humping my leg.’
I open my eyes, my lips now bereft of his kiss, and I repeat his phrase in my head until the words make their way through the kiss-fog he’s breathed into me. Your dog is humping my leg. My dog is humping his leg. Fucking Lestat! I look slowly down and sure enough, there he is on the cobbles, merrily banging away at Fletch’s leg with his beady eyes rolled back in his flat face in pure delirious bliss. Get off him, you hair-shedding, one-eared, monster-mutt from hell! This isn’t a bloody orgy, this one’s mine! I belatedly notice that the office door has swung open behind Fletch and I vow to kill Lestat in a really nasty way. I’m going to stake him through the heart with silver when he sleeps for the pleasing literary symmetry of it.
‘I’ll let you get away with kissing me this one time but only because that onion-chopping competition clearly made you overwrought.’
I put my hands on my hips and curl my just-kissed lips into a sneer as I look up at him.
‘You kissed me. You could see I was vulnerable and you took advantage.’
He pushes his hand through his hair and laughs, looking back down towards the High Street as he shakes his head. ‘You are the least vulnerable woman I’ve ever met.’
‘And you’re the most annoying man on the planet,’ I say, as I shove Lestat’s fat ass back inside the office and slam the door. The dog’s interruption had a similar effect to a bucket of iced water being thrown over me from a great height; it’s well and truly broken the sex spell and makes me wonder what the hell I’m doing.
‘Well, I’m glad we got that sorted. You’re tough as nails and I’m irritating as hell. I still think we should lay our hostilities aside for the evening and have wild sex, because I can still taste you on my lips and you’re delicious.’
I stare at him. Who says stuff like that, really? I’m reminded of my conversation with Marina, about Bazza and never meeting your heroes. It’s a shame then that we didn’t also cover what to do when a man you think you can’t stand unexpectedly becomes your sex hero, for five glorious but inappropriate minutes on your doorstep.
‘It’s cherry lip gloss,’ I say lamely, folding my arms over my Rugrats T-shirt. I’m aware that I’m one hot, open-mouthed kiss away from caving in, so my next words probably sound more hostile than they might have.
‘Go away, Fletch, and don’t ever kiss me again, alright? And for the record, no, I’m not interested in disappointing saveloy-sex. Not with you, or the Dalai Lama, or even with Thor.’
Also for the record, the last one was a lie. And alarmingly, it seems that the first one might have been too.
He snort-laughs and heads away down the cobbled alley. ‘You’re seriously weird, Bittersweet.’
I watch him leave, bathed as he is in the harvest-gold evening-sunlight, and I can only agree. I am seriously, seriously sodding weird. I must be to let myself end up getting kissed breathless by Fletcher Gunn for the price of a lime-green popper scooper.
I’m going to take my alarm clock to the charity shop. I no longer have any need for it, because Lestat licks every inch of my face at 6.00 a.m. every morning to let me know he requires a pee and his breakfast. I had naively expected that a dog would fit around my life, not that I would need to reshape my existence around his. In quite a few ways Lestat is an undemanding dog; he thankfully seems to like walking even less than I do and he’s not one of those dogs who constantly shoves a slimy, saliva-coated tennis ball in your hand. For both of these things, I’m grateful. However, I’m less enamoured by the fact that he has clearly been pampered and allowed to run amok, because he’s one demanding brute of a taskmaster. He asks for what he wants politely just once, and then waits for a maximum of five minutes before he exacts revenge for being ignored. I can almost hear his thoughts. Don’t take me out for a quick piddle by 6.05 a.m.? No sweat, Melody, I’ll just mosey on out into the lounge and pee on the rug. Don’t ensure I have a fresh bowl of kibble by 6.15a.m.? Hey, that’s cool. I’ll just find something else to eat while I wait, girlfriend. A banana still in its skin? Delicious. Your slippers? A gastronomic treat. A cork from a wine bottle? Shredded and ingested with pleasure, Melody, and a fine vintage it was too.
He’s like a tiny gangster. I have to keep him happy or else he flips, but as long as things go the way he intends them, we can both live in peace. It doesn’t bother me too much on a weekday because I’m up anyway, but today is Saturday and my bed is warm, and I changed my sheets yesterday so the quilt still has that ‘you’re actually sleeping in a warm, sunny meadow’ feel about it. I don’t want to open my eyes; I feel as if they’re glued together. I don’t want to go and shiver outside while Lestat paces up and down the alley like an impatient furry general to choose his spot. I corpse and pretend that the fact that his tongue is in my eye socket isn’t bothering me. I try, but it’s futile because we both know that I’m going to give in. I bought new slippers yesterday, fancy knitted boots with fur inside, and I like them enough to sleep with them under my pillow. He knows it, of course. You don’t get to be a mafia boss without knowing everything that’s going down in your manor, and at 6.05 a.m. I feel one of the boots start to slowly slide out from beneath my head. It’s enough. It’s a direct threat. Get up, or the slipper’s history. I open my eyes and there he is, eyeballing me with the pompom of the boot locked firmly between his jaws.
I bare my teeth and growl at him, but he just sits there. I think he’s counting down in his head.
‘Fine,’ I grumble. ‘I’ll do it, but afterwards I’m getting back in this bed for probably the entire weekend and my slippers are allowed to live, do you understand me?’
He waits until my feet have actually hit the floor before he relinquishes his death-grip on the pompom, laying it down in theatrical slow-motion.
‘Why thank you, you’re so kind,’ I tell him, hoping he’s sophisticated enough to understand the nuances of sarcasm. I stick my feet inside the bed-warmed slippers and wriggle my toes, then follow his furry little butt out of the bedroom, resigned to my fate as his human.
Half an hour later, I’m back in bed with a huge mug of coffee and Agnes Scarborough’s diary from 1920. I’m wearing my marigolds again because I can’t be bothered to go down to the office for a latex pair and I’m wearing my furry boots – please God don’t let there be a fire, or else Fletcher Gunn will have a field day when they carry my charred body out, he’ll have me down as some kinky fetishist before the fire’s even died.
We’ve worked our way through Agnes’s diaries, and even though it’s been riveting as a personal account of living through the First World War we’ve yet to discover anything of real significance to the case. I now know that like most men of their age, both Isaac and Lloyd fought for their king and country, and that Isaac was decorated for gallantry shortly afterwards. Agnes knew of this, yet she never acknowledged her awareness of his bravery to Isaac himself. She observed her estranged son from a distance, although it’s clear that she privately kept tabs on him. Even her diary entries about him are abstract; factual, devoid of maternal emotion. But they are there, nonetheless, which indicates that he was on her mind even if she didn’t allow herself the luxury of writing about him in any form other than bald fact. Maybe that’s why I am even more surprised by the entry at the end of June 1920.
‘Charles Frederick delivered safely, Hull Maternity Hospital.’ Next to it, she has written ‘my first grandchild.’
I scour the diary for any further mention of the child, but there’s nothing. Who is he, and more importantly, whose
is he. It is as if she was reporting the birth of a stranger, and she certainly didn’t break out the knitting needles. She didn’t even break out the sherry. It can’t possibly be Lloyd’s son, because her diary is peppered with mentions of his upcoming wedding to his fiancé, Maud. All of this leads me to the only possible conclusion, and a new chunk of the puzzle that I need to slot into place somehow.
Isaac had a son.
Chapter Sixteen
This feels too important to wait until Monday. I wish Agnes would come back and see me again, but given how patchy her connection was last time I don’t think she’ll make it through a second time. I have so many questions for her now, the most obvious one being about her first grandson. Who was his mother, and did Isaac marry her? Obviously, I’m planning to put these things to Isaac, but I need to think it through first. Why hasn’t he told me this himself? Is it simply because it’s irrelevant? Maybe it isn’t important, but I can’t shake the thought that this is a vital part of the puzzle. I look at my watch. It’s only just after 7.00 a.m., but I’m done sleeping.
I have a ghost I need to quiz.
My heart sinks when I arrive alone at Brimsdale Road just after 9.00 a.m. Two large, dark sedans lounge at the curb; I recognise one of them as Donovan Scarborough’s but I don’t think I’ve seen the other one before. Lestat rides shotgun next to me on the bench seat, and as Babs shudders to a halt he looks at me reproachfully.
‘Sorry, buddy,’ I say. ‘I told you you wouldn’t like it, but you wouldn’t have it.’
He’d insisted on coming this morning, and I relented in the end because I’m fast learning that it’s easier to give him what he wants than face the consequences.
‘What do we do now?’ I ask him quietly, scanning the house for movement. He stands up and puts his paws on the dash, as if he’s genuinely considering my question. It strikes me that if I go in there now I’m going to have to take him with me. It’s enough to make me reach for the ignition, but I’m thwarted by the appearance of Donovan Scarborough storming down the path. There’s no doubt that he’s seen me; he’s heading straight for Babs and there’s no mistaking his expression. He’s furious.
I surreptitiously push the door-lock down with my elbow and then slowly wind down the window as he raps on it.
‘Mr Scarborough,’ I smile. ‘Lovely morning.’
‘No, it bloody well is not!’ he says, far louder than is necessary given that his face is less than a foot away from mine. Lestat moves to stand on my lap and eyeballs Scarborough, and for a moment they’re involved in a bulgy-eyed stare off.
‘I was just about to leave . . .’ I say, but he shakes his head and rattles my door to try to slide it open.
‘No, no, no you don’t,’ he mutters, reaching his arm inside Babs and feeling around for the handle. By anyone’s standards this would be considered a gross invasion of privacy, and I’m no exception. I’m about to protest when Lestat takes matters into his own hands and lunges for Scarborough’s searching fingers. I silently vow to offer Lestat a bag of cheese and onion crisps to himself tonight; in Marina’s absence he’s stepped up to the plate as an excellent bouncer.
‘My dog would like it if you took your arm out of my vehicle,’ I say, staying just on the right side of polite. He doesn’t afford me the same courtesy.
‘Get in there and control those sodding ghosts,’ he practically yells. ‘What exactly am I paying you and Laurence Llewelyn Bowen’s dodgy brother for? Neither of you have done a bloody thing!’
I’d like to reply that he hasn’t actually parted with a penny for either of us yet, and won’t unless one of us is successful, but I don’t because he looks like he might be about to pop a vein, probably the one in his forehead that’s pulsing like it has a life of its own.
‘Is there a problem in there?’ I look towards the house, closely mimicking Joanna Lumley’s tone of voice because she’s cool and sophisticated and she can make people do whatever she wants, even politicians.
‘Is there a problem in there?’ Scarborough repeats under his breath, but he adds a manic little unhinged laugh at the end as he looks away into the distance and his fingers drum, fast and furious on the car window frame.
‘Yes, there’s a problem in there,’ he barks. ‘The potential buyers wanted to check over some details inside the house, and they’re now holed up in the master bedroom refusing to leave because they’re goddamn terrified!’ He bangs his fist down between his last three words for emphasis.
‘But you knew we hadn’t finished the job, yet,’ I say calmly. ‘Would you like me to come in and see if I can help?’
He’s distracted from answering by the screech of brakes, and a second later Leo jumps from his car, and runs over to join Scarborough beside Babs.
‘You didn’t need to call both of us,’ he mutters, scowling at me. ‘I told you I’d be here in fifteen minutes and here I am.’
‘I didn’t call her,’ Scarborough says irritably.
To be perfectly honest they’re both starting to piss me off. It’s Saturday morning and I fully expected to have the place to myself, yet Scarborough is acting as if I’m on his payroll and Leo’s acting as if I’m in his way. Well excuse me and my dog for breathing. Leo shoots me a filthy look and then gives Lestat a longer, curious stare.
‘You got yourself a one-eared pug.’ He speaks deliberately slowly, as if Lestat is the most shocking creature he’s ever laid his eyes on. He isn’t a dog person. He isn’t an animal person really, unless it’s cow, served medium-rare with a decent shiraz, or the mink trim on his vintage Russian Cossack hat. Leo’s world isn’t really designed to accommodate pets – it’s glamorous and he is always the centre of it; Vikki and Nikki are probably as close as he’ll get.
‘He has two ears and he can hear just fine,’ I grumble, unlocking my door and sliding it open. Lestat rolls out onto the pavement like a furry bowling ball, sniffing Donovan Scarborough’s expensive loafers with the kind of keen interest that usually means he’s about to cock his leg. I jump out of Babs and steer him away and, looking up at the two men who are now towering over me, make a mental note to get Marina to train me to walk in high heels without looking as if I’m playing dress-up. I only own one pair and I’ve never actually left the house in them, but I wish I had them on my feet right now so I could sashay away from these guys like a female assassin rather than schlep after them towards the house, with one lace undone like they’ve just picked me up from school. Lestat isn’t helping. He’s wildly interested in his new surroundings and is charging ahead of us like a small bull, whilst piddling everywhere like an incontinent pensioner to mark his territory.
‘Can’t you leave him in the van?’ Scarborough turns to speak to me as we approach the house.
‘Dogs die in hot cars.’ I shoot him a withering ‘everyone knows that’ look which silences him.
Leo huffs at Lestat as we reach the front door and makes a last attempt. ‘Can’t you at least put him on a lead and tie him up out here?’
I glance down at Lestat and hope he didn’t hear Leo. ‘He takes offence at the word lead,’ I say, mouthing the last word just in case. It’s not a lie. The resettlement pack that came with Lestat had a tick list, and someone, presumably the American Tom Jones, had scrawled hell no! next to the box where it asked if he was trained on a lead. I took it with a pinch of salt and bought one anyway; I’ve seen enough TV dogs go bonkers with happiness at the merest mention of walks. Not this dog. Oh, it’s fair to say he went bonkers, but not with happiness. It was with pure, unadulterated rage. He doesn’t mind the odd stroll as long as the weather’s decent, but it’s strictly on equal terms, just two guys out taking the air and chewing the cud.
‘He’ll be alright once he’s in there,’ I say. ‘He’s just excited to be somewhere new.’
Leo sighs and slots his key into the front door, and the moment he pushes it open we can hear muffled shouts.
‘How long have they been up there?’ Leo frowns as he throws his keys on a side tab
le and prepares to head upstairs. He sounds more like a doctor on call than a ghost-hunter, and for a second I’m struck by two things: 1) I gave him the vintage Bowie T-shirt he’s wearing, and 2) despite our differences he’s undeniably a damn fine looking man. He has a brooding charisma, and although he’s polished enough to err heavily towards metro, he’s still manly enough to be able to put a shelf up or wire a plug. He could tackle a flat pack chest of drawers with a screwdriver and a lot of swearing, but I wouldn’t trust him to, say, build my kids a tree house from scratch. When I have kids, or trees. There was a time in our lives when I’d started to wonder if my children would be his children, if we’d have a garden with trees and share a bed at the end of each day. Man alive, all this from the way he threw his keys down on the hall table and acted like an actual grown up? Once this case is over, I’m going to have a stern word with myself. First I snog the face off Fletcher Gunn, and now I’m daydreaming about playing house with Leo Dark.
Can you have a selective frontal lobotomy? I’d really like it if they could just nip in and remove my faulty romance-gene by laser surgery and replace it with one that makes me attracted to men who aren’t lethal for both my heart and my business.
By now, Leo has gone on ahead up the stairs with Scarborough behind him, so I hang back and wait to see what happens for a few minutes; even I can see that running up there and trying to outsmart Leo would make me look like an idiot. I’m not waiting alone; Lestat is scoping the place out thoroughly, face to the floor and backside in the air as he inches his way around the skirting, and Douglas puts in an appearance the moment Leo is out of sight, coming out of the lounge like an actor walking on stage in a farce.