by Amy Bird
She laughs, as if it’s a joke. As she crosses the road, I follow her with my eyes. Her hand moves up to her face, as if to brush away an eyelash. I see her get into a car. Her own car, this time. DS Pearce is no longer at the wheel.
Chapter 14
Miss bits out in my research? The suggestion stays with me after Huhne has left. All I do is about research. As if I can’t obtain facts from a simple Google! I go to my rucksack and pull out the articles I printed. There! Plain in black and white. In two articles:
‘When DC Debbie Huhne was in uniform a family tragedy struck her. Or rather, her family – a car knocked down her husband, 36, and daughter, 7, as they were crossing the road. The driver did not stop. Both husband and daughter died in hospital.’
And another one, from the time:
‘PC’s family killed in hit and run. The seven-year-old daughter of a policewoman, as well as her husband, were knocked down by a speeding car, which did not stop when it hit them. PC Debbie Huhne has been described as a ‘rising star’ by senior officers in the Met, who have all expressed their condolences. A funeral was held yesterday. PC Huhne did not attend. A colleague said, ‘Everyone grieves in their own way. Debbie obviously thought it would be too difficult to see her family buried.’
So. She is in denial. She hasn’t grieved and thinks (or pretends to think?) they are still alive. Does she go home and cooks for them each night, and wonder why they persistently fail to come to the table? When she masturbates does she think her husband is doing it? Has she stopped turning up at the junior school gates at home time, and goes to middle school instead? Her daughter would be, what, ten, now? The perfect age for autographs. Too young to read my books, though.
DC – sorry DS – Pearce always used to go on about his wife. Does she even exist? Or did he make her up, to cement the similarity with Columbo? I wonder how Pearce’s wife would feel about the way he talks to Debbie. It’s a good job for him that Debbie’s husband is dead, or he’d be sure to permanently snuff Pearce’s cigar. He looks strong in the pictures. Strong and kind. Strange that Debbie doesn’t remind Pearce she’s married if she thinks she is. Maybe she does when I’m not there.
One thing is certain though: Debbie needs help with her grief. She needs something to make her face up to reality. Even if it’s all a ruse, a trick, her professional mode of getting personal with people, that she didn’t feel inclined to bury with them, it wouldn’t hurt to unsettle her. Maybe she even killed them herself, so she could use them without the misfortune of them existing. Must be demanding having to look after a family when you’re trying to have a career. Maybe not. I dare say it was an accident. Albeit a brutal one. Question is, what can I do brutal enough to jolt her into reality?
Pictures, maybe? Pictures featured large in book one. That was Adam’s doing. Not just pictures of queens being ejected from towers but of cars too. He was keen on cars, at the time. They hadn’t caused any sadness for him yet. He would pretend he was steering while he ran around the playground, school corridors, his home. Sometimes he would enlist me to beep as we turned corners, but more often he would just crash into whoever was coming round them.
‘Heavens above,’ Mrs Price, our form tutor, once said, as she picked up the marking Adam had sent tumbling to the ground. ‘Adam Lomax, I dread the day you get a real car!’
When he wasn’t being a car, he was drawing them. I’m not sure how accurate they were. Their main feature was that they were green. Not as in Eco friendly; as in the colour. Alien cars.
So what Debbie needs, I think, is a picture of one of these cars. Dig out Adam’s old crayon from the treasure chest – there! Now, let’s see. A car. Crumpled bonnet, check. Zoom marks next to the wheels, check. And darkened windows, check. Now the people. A couple of girl and a man (in stick form) flying up into the air, with crosses for eyes, and a bit of blood. Not bad, but maybe still not poignant enough. Give the daughter some plaits, make her look pretty – Debbie has to grieve fully for her loss. Couple of pink ribbons on the end. There. Done. Now to post it to the station for DC Huhne’s attention. That should help her grieve. Or at least, distract her from the case.
I run to the pillar box and deliver my missive into its red mouth. Chew on that, friend of Nicole. Then I run back to the house, lock and bolt the door, draw the curtains in my bedroom, and take book three out of the treasure box, while putting Ally’s keys in. I stroke book three. I would love to read it, pleasure in it, remind myself of past successes. But I must prioritise. I suspect my time to achieve Luke’s fulfilment may be limited. I have a few hours until my meeting with Luke’s lawyer. Time to check out the house for sale in Adam’s street.
Chapter 15
The estate agent is delighted by my interest. I tell her we currently have a house in Harpenden, with all the other commuting City workers, but want to be closer in. This delights her even more. Luckily for us both, she is able to pop across to the house with me that very minute – the owners are out at work and have left strict instructions they want a quick sale, so viewings must be arranged as soon as potential buyers want them.
‘It’s a beautiful property,’ she says. ‘Your family will love it.’
I don’t know why I suddenly look like a parent, but I don’t disagree. Luke might even have children one day. After all, Adam intends to, it seems.
Luke thought the house would be perfect for his son. He could imagine now taking the satchel from his son’s shoulder as they approach the gate. The strap would be a thick leather one, a shiny steel buckle holding it together. He would have to adjust the strap – his son couldn’t do it, the pin was so tough to get through the hole. He would wonder, while he was doing it, if he should remind his mother of the straps she had round her when they—
‘Oh, thank you, Mr Millard. Did it fall down my shoulder again?’
I am holding the estate agent’s handbag. The strap buckle is undone in my hands. Another Luke reverie, then.
‘The buckle must have come apart,’ I say. ‘You should watch that. Someone could snatch it.’
‘Mr Millard,’ she purrs at me. ‘This is hardly Tottenham. The crime rate is very low in West Hampstead.’
I could easily disabuse her of this myth – it might lower the value of the house, make it affordable even before I have the book advance my work deserves – but she might cancel the viewing. Instead, I let her walk up the path and insert her key in the lock. We are almost in when there is a voice behind us.
‘Dan?’
It is Nicole.
Of course it is. I should have known. The front door is red. The house is allied with her.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asks.
‘I wanted to see what it felt like to live here,’ I say. There is no need to lie unnecessarily.
‘Oh, do you already know people in the area?’ says the estate agent, at the same time as Nicole says ‘You want to move here?’
‘Yes, this is Nicole,’ I say. ‘She lives a few of doors down. Clearly just happened to be passing.’
‘Ah, so we have you to thank for encouraging Mr Millard back from Harpenden,’ crows the estate agent.
Nicole looks at me, spotting fiction. I nod my head. She nods too. Good. Maybe she is finally on side.
‘Can I join you in looking around?’ Nicole asks.
‘I shouldn’t really allow …’ the estate agent starts to say.
‘We completely understand,’ I say quickly. ‘Nicole, I can see you another time.’ I don’t want her here, cramping my method.
Nicole has other ideas.
‘He’ll need a second opinion about the move,’ says Nicole. ‘I’m sure I can help him make up his mind.’
‘In that case, I’m sure I can make an exception,’ says the estate agent, smelling a sale.
I follow the estate agent into the house, and Nicole follows me.
Luke comes home from a hard day in the City. Taking off his coat, he drops it to the floor. Now just in his shirt he—
‘Oh, I can hang that up for
you,’ says the estate agent, picking up my coat.
She is beginning to annoy me.
Oblivious, she leads us through to the kitchen. Nicole’s footsteps shuffle behind me, almost so quiet that I might have to check she was there, if I didn’t know.
‘Oh, this is a gorgeous kitchen, Dan. You could cook us meals here,’ Nicole says loudly. The estate agent moves further into the room to show us how deep it is. While her back is turned, Nicole whispers to me. ‘What are you doing, Dan? What’s all this about?’
‘Research,’ I hiss back, then smile at the estate agent.
There is no need to tell Nicole that, when my work is famous, I will be able to afford to live here. That I will be almost as close as can be. That it is this domestic arrangement, as well as the work that will allow it, I am researching.
The granite gleams blackly at me, like the shine of Adam’s car. I trace my hand over it and walk to the French windows. I will be able to see Adam’s garden from the upstairs, I think.
‘We’ll be able to see you from our garden,’ says Nicole. It is true; she will not stop watching me.
As we walk from room to room, Nicole is always there at my heel. Even when we go into the bathrooms and linen cupboards, of which there are several, she is there on the threshold. I don’t need to look. I feel her eyes upon me.
In the master bedroom, as I survey the mighty four-postered construction in the centre of the room, with its crimson coverlet, I can sense her behind me. I turn round.
Luke regards this woman he must have. The bed is so close. He could be so close to her. In her, where others have been before. Patience, for now, though. He must exercise restraint. Restraints. He smirks to himself. Yes, there will be restraints when—
‘What’s so funny, Dan?’ Nicole asks.
I would tell her what so amused Luke, but she may not see the joke. I doubt she’ll find book four funny, when it comes.
The estate agent ignores our exchange and tells us to look out of the window. As I thought, I can see Adam’s garden from here. The grass has not grown much since I mowed it. My impact is still evident.
Nicole comes to stand beside me. ‘Do you know what I find funny, Dan?’ she asks, very quietly, in my ear. I know I won’t need to say anything for her to continue. I’m right.
‘I was going to search for something on the Internet earlier,’ she continues, ‘and two things I wanted to search for came up in our recent searches. Isn’t that odd?’
I worry that I know where this is going.
‘Do you know what I was searching for, Dan?’
If I meet her head on, it will remove her control. It will cease to be a revelation. But she will also know I am worried. I shrug.
‘If you’re underwhelmed by the garden, Mr Millard,’ says the estate agent, misinterpreting my gesture, ‘we’ll have to go out into it. The space really is very tranquil.’
I doubt anywhere with Nicole will be tranquil, but I nod my agreement. She leads us out of the room.
Nicole flanks us, whispering in my ear, continuing her story.
‘About the girl who died – was murdered – opposite us. And that Luke character.’
Does her tongue linger over Luke? Does she over-emphasise ‘character’?
I look at her. She is smiling, like she finds it genuinely funny.
‘It couldn’t have been Adam searching, because the browser history shows it was a little while before he came home. So I thought: Oh, has Dan been using our computer? Is he as freaked out as I am that, in the nights between us being on that street, a girl was murdered?’
I decide to meet her head on.
‘Yes, I’m freaked out,’ I say. ‘It’s really odd. If they’d chosen one of the other nights, we might have seen something. We might have seen something anyway, and not realised it.’
Nicole nods her agreement. ‘We should keep an eye on the story. See if it triggers any memories. That’s what the police did with Helen – showed her photo, a picture of her in cycling kit, to see if anyone remembered her, or any cars, from that night.’
Oh, I see. Ally was just bait to get back onto familiar Helen territory. Or at least, I hope it was.
‘Didn’t help the police much, did it, though?’ I murmur, as the estate agent slides open the French window. Fresh air pours in.
‘Yet,’ says Nicole. ‘But I know you’re interested in their progress. Particularly DC Huhne’s progress. Because I know you Googled her too.’
It’s time for me to leave. I take one step into the garden to appease the estate agent, while Nicole (pleading delicate velvet shoes) watches us from the house.
‘I have to go and talk to my lawyer now,’ I announce.
The estate agent seems to think this means she is making a sale because she smiles broadly at me. She gets a handshake out of me, and I lie that I’ll be in touch. Then I walk back into the house, out of the front door. I don’t need to look back. I know Nicole will be watching me.
But then I realise that if I leave just like that, without warmth, my plan, the seduction, may fail. Which means the closeness that Luke needs, that I need, will evade me. So I turn, with a smile ready formed on my face, a wink ready to tug at my eye, a hand raised to wave at velvet Nicole.
Except when I turn around, there is nobody there.
Chapter 16
I don’t think the lawyer means to tell me about Jimmy.
At his offices, I am given coffee and a small muffin. I asked for tea but I don’t complain. It might cost more. The car hire company is paying up to £200 in legal fees. Beyond that, I have to pay. My settlement could easily reduce to zero. I’ve come to Adam’s lawyer, the one we used before. I wish I still had a suit. The crumbs of the muffin get into the grooves of the corduroy trousers, and my shoes leave garden mud on the carpets.
The lawyer (Mr McNulty, his card reminds me), is telling me that I am waiving all my rights under the agreement. Mr McNulty and the car hire company are not very imaginative. If I had to write an agreement for someone to waive all their rights, it would be much longer. This agreement does not even cover the three inalienables: life, love, liberty. It does not waive my right to kill myself. Or anyone else. If that is a right I have. If not, too late. Can I plead self-defence, I wonder? To be an author, I must flourish. To flourish I must have my closeness. Therefore I must defend myself against anyone who would come in its way.
In turns out, when I query it, that he only means my rights before an employment tribunal.
‘Fine. I’ll sign,’ I say, taking out my trusty red pen. I register its colour. Not so trusty. Nicole-red. I should have replaced this by now. It’s become a spy-pen, Nicole using it to watch my every move. Or else, it is appropriate; I am writing Nicole, after all, for book four. I can use her own devices against her. I take off the lid and move nib to paper.
‘Now, now, Mr Millard. Let’s not be hasty. I think the indemnity at clause 5.4.1. is a little onerous. And what about this provision for you to return your company car? Do you even have a company car?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t drive.’
‘You see,’ clucks Mr McNulty. ‘That’s template agreements for you! Had the same problem with Jimmy – if he’d had a company car, our friend Adam wouldn’t have had to give him a Maserati, eh? Now, if we just strike through here, and here, then—’
‘Adam bought Jimmy a Maserati?’ I ask.
Mr McNulty’s pen pauses, mid strike-out. He takes a moment, then looks up at me. His face is almost as white as his shirt.
‘Why?’ I ask.
There is another pause. I can see Mr McNulty thinking. He hasn’t had to do it until now in this meeting.
‘Ah, now, that’s confidential, Mr Millard! Let’s get back to this agreement, shall we? As I said, at’
‘Which agreement do I sign if I want Adam to buy me a Maserati? As his oldest friend?’
‘Well, not this one, Mr Millard. If you will concentrate, please, we’ve almost gone through the two hundred pounds
on the clock.’
I look at my watch. There is a good fifteen minutes still available.
‘Is it because of the forms?’ I push. ‘Because I signed many more forms than Jimmy ever did. And, you know, I did it for friendship. Not a Maserati. But if the going rate is a Maserati, I want a Maserati.’
Mr McNulty puts down his pen. He folds his hands in front of him and looks at me.
‘Mr Millard. Dan. I don’t know what forms you’re referring to –’
‘For the cars, the forms for the free secret cars!’
Mr McNulty holds up a hand.
‘– but I’ve known Adam for a long time –’ he says.
‘Not as long as I have!’
‘– and he values loyal friendship as a commodity that can’t be bought. Adam’s life is commercial, about money – he’s a banker. It is second nature to him to regard problems as a question of “how much do I need to pay?” – and if it’s the going rate for a second-hand Maserati, so be it. But what a relief for him, how much he values, the things that can’t be paid for. Like friendship. Don’t you find?’
So what Mr McNulty is saying is that people like me are Adam’s biggest luxury. No, that’s not correct. Not people like me. Just me. I am Adam’s secret escape from the commercial world. The world of money and appearances and fakery means nothing to him. The money, which he’s always craved, as a tool, is nothing more than that – a tool. All he really wants is me. The testament to that is my Maserati-less driveway.
Mr McNulty is a wise man. I let him delete the indemnity at 5.4.1. and the reference to returning the company car. I stroke crumbs out of my cords while he makes an angry phone call to the car rental company. When he hangs up, he clicks about on his computer for a bit. I practise my fencing. It is no good. I do not feel method. I cannot write fencing yet. Which means Luke cannot fence properly. Which means if he has to defend himself, or I have to defend him, while I’m myself, we lose all. I must be method. I must go and learn fencing in the flesh.
After Mr McNulty has finished clicking, he starts printing. When he’s done that, he signs two bits of paper – the ‘adviser’s certificates’ – and hands them to me proudly. I don’t know why he is proud. They don’t look like a big achievement or worthy of framing, like proper certificates. But he tells me if I take them, and the newly printed agreement, to the car rental place now, they will sign the agreement and give me a cheque.