by Tania Carver
Hester thought she would be feeling anger at the woman’s words. But she didn’t know what she felt. It was like the anger she had expected to feel was in there but was getting churned around with some other stuff that she didn’t know the name of so that it wouldn’t come out properly. In fact, the other stuff felt like it was going to come out more. She didn’t know what it was but she didn’t like it. It made her feel sad. And that wasn’t good.
So not knowing what to do and wanting to get rid of the feeling, she screamed at the TV. And kept on screaming.
The baby woke up. Hester felt it all in her head, couldn’t tell who was screaming the most. Eventually she stopped, leaving just the sound of the baby. Hester was breathing hard, like she had just been for a long run or worked outside in the yard. And the baby was still screaming.
He was watching the TV alongside Hester when the woman came on. Speaking to the camera, looking serious. Begging whoever had the baby to give it up. At first he was surprised. He recognised her but couldn’t think from where… then he got it. Leisure World. The yoga class. Same as the last one. He smiled. She was pregnant too.
That gave him something to think about. Something to consider…
The baby kept crying.
Shut that fuckin’ noise up, or I will…
The woman had gone from the TV and the news was on to something else. Hester got up, went to the baby, picked it up, looked at it. Feeling not anger or love but other things. Like when the woman had been talking. Things she didn’t know the name of. Things she hated the feel of.
She sighed, knew what her job was. What her job would be.
To find ways to stop the baby crying.
56
Phil sat on the sofa, Marina next to him. In front of them sat Erin O’Connor.
Phil could see why a man like Graeme Eades would fall for her. She sat curled in an armchair, her legs tucked underneath her, long-stemmed glass of white wine in her hand. Her body was as warm-looking and inviting as her eyes were not. Like twin adding machines. But Phil doubted Graeme Eades had looked at her eyes much. Mid-twenties, he guessed, her long dark hair pulled back, wearing pink velour jogging bottoms and matching hoodie with a tight white T-shirt underneath. The tracksuit said she had been working out. Taking care of her greatest asset, he thought.
She sipped at her white wine. Phil and Marina hadn’t been offered any. The house was small, a two-up two-down terrace in New Town. It was pleasantly furnished but didn’t feel lived in. Phil got the impression that Erin O’Connor didn’t intend to be living here, or anywhere like it, much longer.
Phil had got her phone number from Graeme Eades. It had been a simple matter of calling, explaining who he was, getting her address, then going round. He didn’t tell her what it was about, only that it was an important matter.
Marina sat next to him. He had intended driving her home, but Erin O’Connor’s was on the way. He didn’t mind her listening in, since she was part of the investigation. Marina, however, didn’t seem all that comfortable. She sat on the edge of the sofa, looking round the room. No doubt, thought Phil, sizing its owner up, making assumptions. Hopefully ones that would be able to help them.
‘So what’s this about, then?’ Erin O’Connor was trying to look composed and nonplussed, but failing. An unexpected night-time visit from the police would do that, thought Phil. There was tension in the set of her jaw. Her voice was well modulated, as if she had taken elocution lessons to obliterate any trace of an Essex accent.
Phil leaned forward, confidential but professional. He felt weary as he did so, his muscles complaining. The stress of the day and the aftershock of the panic attack was making itself felt. He needed a bath. A long, hot bath. And a large glass of whisky. Something expensive and peaty. Or a good bourbon. He blinked. Concentrate.
‘Well,’ he said, pulling all his focus together on Erin O’Connor, ‘I couldn’t say much on the phone, but I believe you’re familiar with Graeme Eades.’
Erin O’Connor stiffened, the wine glass halting on the way to her lips. ‘Yes,’ she said, her face as blank a mask as she could make it, ‘I am. He’s my boss at work.’
Phil nodded. ‘More than your boss, I believe.’
She held her wine glass so tight that Phil thought she might be wearing her drink before too long. She must have reached the same conclusion, as she put it down, clasped her arms tightly round her body. ‘What’s this about?’
Cut to the chase, thought Phil. She can take it, she’s a big girl. Very big girl, he mentally added. ‘We believe you spent the afternoon with him at the Holiday Inn.’
‘So? What if I did? It’s not illegal.’Then, before Phil could say anything more, ‘Do I need to get a lawyer?’
Phil shrugged. ‘You tell me. But while you were with Mr Eades this afternoon, someone broke into his house and attacked his wife.’
Her jaw dropped. Phil was treated to the sight of some expensive dental work and wondered whether Graeme Eades had paid for that too. ‘Are you… but I was with Graeme… do you think I did it?’
Her Essex accent had started to creep back, Phil noticed.
‘No.’
‘You think I know who did it?’
‘Do you?’
‘No!’ Her accent had returned completely. ‘Course not. Oh my God… Did they… what happened? Did they get away with much?’
Phil knew Marina would have noticed that remark. Not asking whether Mrs Eades was all right, but was there anything taken. From that, he knew that Erin didn’t have anything to tell them. It would just be a matter of sorting out timelines. Ruling out rather than ruling in.
‘Robbery wasn’t the motive, we don’t think,’ he said. ‘She was murdered.’
Her hand flew to her mouth. Stayed there. Her eyes widened. ‘Oh my God…’
‘I just need to know what time you were with Mr Eades from and what time you left.’
‘Oh my God…’
‘Please.’
‘Oh…’ Erin O’Connor became thoughtful. Before she spoke, her eyes narrowed. ‘Am I going to lose my job for this?’
‘That’s not for me to say,’ said Phil. He had had enough of this woman. ‘You’ll have to talk to Graeme Eades about that.’
‘Oh…’
‘What time were you there from, please?’
She thought. ‘About half one, two-ish, I think. I left, we left, about five. Something like that.’
‘Can anyone verify that? Did you check out?’
She shrugged. ‘Graeme paid for the room. It was all done upfront. When we were finished we just walked out.’
Phil blinked again, stifled a yawn. He shouldn’t be doing this. He was too tired. A voice came from his side.
‘Would you describe Graeme as your boyfriend, Erin?’
Marina. Her voice soft and gentle. No longer uncomfortable. Phil didn’t look at her, kept his eyes on Erin. Waited to see what her response would be.
She frowned again, took a sip of wine. She seemed more at ease with Marina. ‘I suppose… we’re…’
‘Lovers?’ suggested Marina.
She nodded. ‘Yeah. That’s it. Lovers.’
Marina smiled. ‘Seems an odd match. I mean, you’re young and very attractive…’
Did Phil notice Erin O’Connor blush?
‘And Graeme’s… well. I met him.’ Marina smiled. ‘I would have thought you could have done better.’
‘He’s my boss,’ she said, as if that explained it. And in a way, thought Phil, it did.
‘Does he have lots of girlfriends?’ said Marina. ‘Lovers who he’s the boss of?’
‘I don’t know. He said he doesn’t.’
‘Did he promise to…’ Marina shrugged, as if the question had just come to her. ‘I don’t know… advance your career?’
‘That’s exactly it!’ Erin O’Connor almost shouted as she jumped enthusiastically on the suggestion. ‘He said I would get promotion if I slept with him.’
‘And did you?’
‘He promised I would. He was going to do it. Start the ball rolling tomorrow, he said.’
Marina shrugged. ‘I think all that’s changed now, don’t you?’
Erin nodded. Then she became reflective. Phil looked at Marina, impressed. Marina stifled a small smile. Phil knew they would get no more from Erin O’Connor. He knew she would just move on to the next man who fell for her charms. He made to stand up. Then Erin O’Connor spoke.
‘You know what he said?’ There was a bitterness in her tone, as if she was realising not only that she wouldn’t be getting her promotion through Graeme Eades, but that she had wasted all that time with him when she could have targeted someone else.
Phil stopped moving, stayed where he was. ‘What? What did he say?’
‘Today. This afternoon. He was… when we were… doing stuff. And I… I asked him if it was okay. If he liked what I was doing. And d’you know what he said?’
Marina and Phil waited, knew it was a rhetorical question.
‘He said, at least I don’t have to pay for it any more.’
‘Charming,’ said Marina.
‘At least I don’t have to pay for it…’
There was nothing more to say. They said goodbye and left Erin O’Connor to her thoughts, her wine, her small house and her plans for the future.
Outside in the street, Marina pulled her coat tightly around her. Phil looked at her.
‘Waste of time,’ he said. ‘Just another gold-digger.’
Marina shrugged. ‘See a lot of them, do you?’
He smiled. ‘Only professionally. Not personally. Come on. I’ll get you home.’ He started walking towards the Audi. Marina hesitated, then stayed where she was.
‘No,’ she said.
He stopped, waited for her to catch him up. She didn’t move. He had no choice but to turn round, walk back up the street towards her. ‘What’s up?’
She didn’t answer immediately. Phil waited, saw an expression on her face that he couldn’t read. She looked like she was at war with herself. Eventually she spoke.
‘I… I… don’t want to go home.’ She kept her eyes away from his.
Phil didn’t know how to respond. ‘Why? What’s… what’s wrong at home?’
‘Nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘Well…’
Phil felt a flutter in his chest. Not a panic attack, he knew that. But something just as dangerous. Hope?
He stood directly in front of her. When he spoke, his voice was soft, gentle.
‘Is something wrong? Tell me.’
‘It’s…’ Her hand went up to her face. She dabbed quickly and sharply at the corners of her eyes, as if angry with herself for crying. Certainly in front of Phil.
‘What? Tell me.’
Marina sighed, looked round, looked anywhere but at Phil. The street was narrow, tight. Terraced houses on both sides, cars parked either side of the street, allowing only single-file traffic through. The night was cold. When they exhaled, their breath left their bodies as clouds of steam.
‘I…’ She shook her head. ‘I wasn’t going to do this. I said I wasn’t going to do this…’
Phil waited. Watched the clouds leave his mouth, dissipate in the dark.
‘I saw things today… I can’t, can’t just go home after that. Take them with me.’ Then, in a quieter voice, almost to herself, ‘Again.’
‘There’s nowhere else to go, Marina.’ Phil wasn’t sure he meant those words. But he had to say them.
She shook her head. ‘There is.’ She looked up. Eye to eye.
Phil didn’t know what to say. It was the moment he had been waiting for for months. It was the moment he had been dreading for months.
She turned away, looked up and down the street once more. They were the only people there. ‘I… I missed you. I missed you…’
‘I missed you too,’ he said, not daring to believe his luck.
‘But I couldn’t. We couldn’t. Not after…’ She sighed. ‘And then today. Everything that’s happened today…’ She looked back to him. ‘I saw the kind of things today that I only ever deal with in books. How can I go home after that?’ Her voice fell away, as small and fragile as a child’s whispers. ‘What if I have nightmares?’
‘I’ll be there for you.’ He smiled. ‘I might be having them as well.’
She smiled, the tears starting again. Phil gently put his arms round her. She fell into his embrace. She turned her face upwards to his, eye to eye once more. The tears in her eyes making them glitter like diamonds in the streetlights.
On that cold, narrow street, they kissed.
And Phil, tired beyond endurance only a few minutes ago, had never felt more alive.
57
The Hole in the Wall pub was, as it claimed, in a hole in the wall. The old Roman wall that ringed the town loudly proclaimed its heritage, having been preserved and patched up over the centuries. Built into the Balkerne Gate, an old Roman entry point, the pub had its own kind of heritage. It was near the town centre but didn’t attract squaddie or townie drinkers, which meant less violence, which in turn meant, for Clayton, less chance of bumping into colleagues.
He walked inside, unused to the surroundings, trying quickly to get his bearings. Not a coppers’ pub, he thought, then amended that: he could imagine Phil in here. But certainly no one else.
Walls bare except for flyers advertising gigs at the Arts Centre and plays at the nearby Mercury Theatre; stripped floorboards; deliberately mismatched old wooden furniture. At a table sat a bunch of people in paint-splattered overalls, scenery painters and designers on a break from the theatre. Some goth types sat at the bar, and despite their spiked piercings and fierce tribal make-up, Clayton presumed they were harming no one but themselves.
The layout of the pub was haphazard. It looked as if sections had been added over the years. Consequently the floors were uneven, with steps up and down to various levels. There were open spaces and hidden spaces, high ceilings and lower, sloping ones. Clayton scoped the place, frowning at the noise coming from the jukebox, something thrashing and insistent, something he would never appreciate if he lived for ever, looking for the person who had texted him. He found her sitting on a leather sofa in a secluded section at the back of the pub, underneath slanted wooden roof beams.
Sophie.
She was sitting with a drink in front of her – vodka and Coke, he imagined – wearing jeans, boots and a shiny black padded jacket. He noticed there was a very large handbag at the side of the sofa. He crossed over to her, looked round once again to make sure there was no one he knew in the pub.
‘They let you go then?’ he said.
‘Had to. Had nothing to keep me on,’ she said, taking a mouthful of her drink.
He sat down next to her. ‘I’m takin’ a big risk meetin’ you here. This better be worth it.’
She put the glass back on the low table, moving her shoulders back, thrusting out her breasts in the process. A faint, fleeting smile played across her lips. ‘I’m worth it.’
Clayton said nothing.
Sophie’s mood changed. The smile disappeared, to be replaced by something darker. ‘I’ve left him,’ she said.
‘Brotherton?’
‘Who else?’ Her voice matched her features.
Clayton wished he had bought a drink at the bar now. ‘What did he say?’
Her face dropped, her eyes on the table. ‘Haven’t told him yet. Just went home, grabbed my stuff and left. He’ll find out when he comes home.’
‘He’ll be well pissed off.’
‘That’s his problem.’ She took another mouthful of her drink, a large one.
Clayton sneaked a look at his watch. Wondered what Phil and the team were doing. He felt bad about being dropped from the team. Like a striker who was having a goal drought. He knew that wasn’t the case, but that was how it felt. He was embarrassed about it. His first thought: what do I tell my mum? She was always so proud of his achievements. And he gets dropped from the highest profile case
he’s ever worked. Not his fault, but how would she feel when she found out? He should have been out there, working, investigating. Not sitting here worrying about his future. But he knew he had no choice. So when Sophie called, he didn’t know what it was about, but if it was something that could save his career he had to go. And now he knew.
‘Well, good luck.’ He stood up, made to go.
‘What you doing?’ She looked up at him.
He turned, stood over her. Looked right down her cleavage. Well, he thought, it was there, rude not to. ‘Leavin’. Nothin’ more to say, is there? You’re leavin’ him. Good luck.’
Anger flashed in Sophie’s eyes. A kind of anger Clayton hadn’t encountered before. ‘That’s it, is it? Good luck? Good fuckin’ luck? Oh no you don’t.You owe me, Clayton.’
Clayton felt anger of his own begin to build. ‘Really? I owe you? Yeah? You’re a big girl, Sophie.You make your own decisions. ’
He started to walk away. She stood up, came round the table, grabbed hold of his arm. There was a surprising strength to her grip. Her fingers dug in. He turned.
‘You walk out of here, Clayton, you walk out on me, and you’ll be sorry. Really fucking sorry.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Because there’s still things about you I can tell your boss. Or your mate. DC Hepburn, isn’t it?’ A smile crept back on to her face. No warmth, just a sick, calculating coldness. ‘She doesn’t like you, does she? Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s her problem. Perhaps she’s the one I should talk to. Tell her about your past. What d’you think?’
And once again, Clayton felt scared of Sophie. Not just because of what she could reveal – he had experienced that before – but because of the way she was behaving. This was a side of her he hadn’t seen before. One he didn’t want to see again. Not just scary, unnerving. He opened his mouth to speak. She stopped him.
‘And don’t tell me I wouldn’t. ’Cause you know I would.’
Clayton sighed, too angry, too scared to speak. She smiled again, and this time there was warmth in it. Or an approximation of warmth.
‘Why don’t we sit down again?’ she said. ‘Talk this through.’