SO THE DOVES

by Heidi James

  I took a breath, squaring my shoulders before pulling open the door. Callum stood in the dim light of the porch, his face clean-shaven and smooth, his eyes in shadow.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I swallowed and rubbed at my unshaven face, the grey patch on my chin.

  ‘You’re not answering my calls. I had to come.’

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’ I left my hand on the door latch, casual. Blocking the way.

  He shrugged, holding up a plastic bag oozing a gingery chicken smell. ‘You told me the address. I thought you could do with cheering up. I have dinner.’ He raised his other hand. ‘And wine.’

  ‘I’m not alone, my mother’s home.’

  ‘I know, that’s why I’ve got enough for three. I figured you could do with some company. I’ve been a bit worried about you, to be honest. Your mob are baying for your blood.’

  ‘Yeah. So I’ve heard.’ I stepped back, letting him in. Mother was at the sitting room door.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mum, meet Detective Inspector McMahon…’

  ‘Hello, call me Callum, Mrs Murray.’ He walked in and shifted the wine bottle into the crook of his elbow to clasp her hand in his. ‘Don’t worry, this is not an official visit, I’m a friend of Marc’s.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Callum.’

  ‘I’ve brought dinner, and wine. Hope that’s not too presumptuous, but when I saw the news and I couldn’t get hold of you, I thought I’d better come and see that you’re both doing OK.’ He smiled. ‘Plates?’ He looked over his shoulder at me. Behind him Mum tightened her brow quizzically. I shrugged.

  ‘Through here.’

  I stood by the coat rack watching as she led him into the kitchen. His hair was short and sharp around his ears and neck, the cut of his shirt pulled taut by his broad shoulders.

  ‘You won’t mind eating in the kitchen, will you? It’s quite cosy,’ she was saying, looking up into his face, intrigued and charmed. I couldn’t hear Callum’s reply, but he was nodding and sitting at the table, while she pulled out plates and cutlery. ‘Come on then, Marcus. Don’t just stand there in the hall. Get the glasses and corkscrew, darling.’ I pushed the front door shut, checking that the latch was on, and joined them.

  ‘I’m not surprised you met through work: he rarely makes time for anything else. Mind you, you were never one for large groups of friends, were you, darling?’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ I pinched the stem of my wine glass between my thumb and index finger and stared into the purple liquid as if it might reveal my future.

  ‘No, he was always a loner really, just one or two close friends. Not very sociable. I suppose that’s why nobody else has been to visit. None of his work or London friends has even called, except to get a comment about this nonsense.’ She spooned sweet and sour pork over some rice on our plates.

  ‘Well…’ Callum began.

  ‘There was Melanie, of course. She was lovely; she and Marcus were as thick as thieves for a while.’

  ‘Mum… please.’

  She pressed her mouth shut and picked up her fork.

  ‘More wine?’ Callum took the bottle and poured.

  ‘I will, thank you. This is so thoughtful of you, to bring supper and everything.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure.’

  ‘So how about you, Callum? It must be very hard at work at the moment, investigating a murder after so many years.’

  ‘It is, Mrs Murray.’

  ‘Call me, Philippa, please. Where do you even start?’

  ‘We gather all the evidence we can. We see what forensics tell us: any details, DNA left behind, the weapon used, cause of death, then build from there. Talking to family, associates, and in this case going over the initial investigation when DC Burrell first went missing. It’s not easy twenty years on, but not impossible. What about you, Philippa? What was your line of work?’

  ‘I was headmistress at the girls’ school, after Marcus’s father died anyway. Before that I was the vicar’s wife and all that entailed.’ She twisted her mouth in a wry moue. Girlish. I shifted in my seat, wanting to get out and up to bed. The syrupy remains of the food hardened and curled in their metal trays, the paper lids stacked in a neat pile on the counter.

  I decided that I was going to see Charlie, and I needed to think about what I was going to ask him. I wanted to think about Steve and Melanie and the past and put it all in order. What I was forgetting or never knew in the first place. Then I was going to email Neil Mason at the Telegraph, see if he still wanted my story, see what he would make of the documents. They wanted to shut me up but I wasn’t going to go down without a fight. I would prove I was right. Then maybe sell the flat, move on, start again somewhere new. Write a book.

  ‘Marcus. You’re miles away,’ she said. ‘It must be hard to hear all this talk about work, darling.’ She patted my hand, releasing the scent of her lavender hand cream. ‘Tell us about when you interviewed Philip Devereaux. That was such a coup! What was he like? Was he brilliant? He seemed brilliant, from your article.’

  ‘No, Mother. I’m sure Callum doesn’t want to hear about that.’

  ‘Of course he does, don’t you?’ She tilted her head, as if emptying her ear.

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said, watching me. He’d undone the top buttons of his shirt, looking entirely comfortable, as if he were enjoying himself.

  ‘You see? We want to hear. Tell us about how amazing he was.’

  Well, honestly, he wasn’t, he was ordinary. Disappointing. Like the rest of us, only he was guarded by a team of polished publicists and hotshot assistants. Of course I didn’t tell her that.

  What I said was: ‘Well, he was charming and extremely clever, as you’d imagine. And gracious. Well-dressed. That’s about all I can remember. Sorry.’

  ‘That’s alright. It was a marvellous article, they said you’d managed to really get him to open up, that you showed a different side to him. Did you read it, Callum?’

  He’d been watching me speak and only turned away to answer her. I thought about the shape of him against his bed sheets. ‘Yes, I think I might have. I read his article on racism in the police force, obviously.’ He cleared his throat, ‘He’s more handsome in the flesh than on TV though.’ He winked at me.

  ‘Well, I think so, but then I’m his mother,’ she blushed. ‘He’s written so much. Achieved so much. I can’t honestly see how Marcus could be considered unprofessional after all he’s achieved. It’s beyond me. In light of these recent scandals, I mean honestly, how can they lump Marcus in with these phone-hackers and liars? He was instrumental in uncovering what they were doing. It’s unjust.’ Her eyes were suddenly magnified by the brief lens of tears.

  ‘Mum, really, it’s alright. Don’t get upset.’

  ‘I’m not upset. I’m angry, bloody angry. I can’t understand how people you’ve known and worked with for so long can write such lies when lives are at stake, reputations – your reputation. You’ve done nothing wrong, worked so hard and for this? What’s your opinion, Callum, as a policeman?’

  ‘I’m sure Marcus will be fine. They’ll investigate the claims and find him innocent, eventually. It’s the waiting that isn’t easy, for you both, for us, but they’ll get to the bottom of it I’m sure.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  I watched them moving and talking easily. They thought they knew the situation, knew all the answers – getting to know each other, cosy. The boyfriend and the mother, at ease, comfortable. For us, he’d said. I got up and cleared away the plates, the foil containers and sticky cutlery. There is no us, I wanted to say, and the investigation is over, I’m over, but there was no point, it wouldn’t change anything. They were convinced of their world, it was up to me to either confirm their view or stay quiet, both of which amount to the same thing.

  ‘So tell me more about Marcus when he was
younger. Who was this Melanie? Should I be jealous?’

  ‘Well, at the time I’d have thought so, I was very naïve!’ They laughed as I rinsed the plates under the tap, feeling the water warm over my fingers, reassuringly ordinary, banal. What danger could there be when the tap spills clean water over your hands?

  ‘They were very close, the best of friends. Then she just vanished, ran away and then, a couple of years later they found her belongings – her bag and passport, some clothes – and signs of a struggle, in a bedsit in France. Presumed dead. Murdered. Just awful. That’s about it, isn’t it Marcus?’ I turned to face them, to answer, but she continued, ‘Marcus was at the LSE by then, you got a letter didn’t you? From her stepfather? There was no funeral, no saying goodbye. Tragic really…’ I listened to them talk, discussing Melanie and me, watched them gesture, her hands lift and drop, not expansive, not dramatic, but practical, efficiently articulating her point, his frown and eyebrows indicating his concentration. ‘Oh he mourned,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you?’ I nodded and she pressed her lips together in that sad sympathy smile while he inclined his head, and I thought about all that I couldn’t say, all that I’d worked to forget.

  ‘All that promise,’ she continued, ‘Melanie was bright, very bright, at least that was the impression she gave.’ She fell silent, her face half shadowed in the low light. I pictured Charlie’s broad cursive filling a white page with her name and commiserations and felt again the dull, insistent pressure of sorrow and guilt and the unknown. I turned off the tap.

  ‘What a morose evening this is turning out to be! Let’s lighten the mood.’ She stood, almost flouncing despite her usual stout, solid manner and as she left the room she turned. ‘I’ll just be a moment.’ Her hand was raised, palm pressed against the air as if stilling our impatience. Theatrical.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What for? I’m enjoying myself, your mother’s great.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose she is.’

  ‘I’m glad I came, I wanted to see you and your phone is dead.’

  ‘I’ve turned it off. My lawyer said to keep my head down until things are settled. Then I can make some decisions about the future.’

  ‘That makes sense.’

  ‘What does?’

  ‘Keeping a low profile, avoiding the press.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it does. Makes me look guilty, I think, like I’ve got something to hide. You haven’t asked me if it’s true, if I’m guilty.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s that then.’ He laid his hands on the table.

  ‘Are you always so easy to convince, Detective?’

  ‘Only if the culprit is as sexy as you.’ He smiled.

  ‘A charmer and worryingly unprofessional, that’s not very reassuring.’ Why did this man find me attractive? Why would anyone want more than a quick fuck? I was used to a brief intimacy, a connection that dissolved loneliness momentarily, just long enough. How could he like me?

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m ruthlessly professional when I have to be.’

  ‘So how’s the case going? I heard you’ve released the name of the victim.’

  ‘Yes, we’re working on a few leads.’ He steepled his fingertips. Look inside, there’s all the people.

  Mother bustled back in, her slippers scuffing the floor. ‘Look! Aren’t they adorable? You were devastated when she disappeared, weren’t you darling?’ She passed the photo of Melanie and me in the back garden to Callum who held it close, scrutinising it. He looked up at me then back at the photo. ‘What’s the name of the girl again?’

  ‘Melanie, Melanie Shoreham. That’s right, isn’t it Marcus?’

  I nodded, meeting Callum’s eye and he smiled back, giving nothing away.

  I didn’t ring ahead but the warden buzzed me in anyway. Rita was right: she was no ray of sunshine, her lips pressed in a line as flat as a corpse’s ECG. ‘He’s in number twenty, through that corridor and up the stairs on the right.’ She nodded her head in the general direction and went back into her office, releasing a cloud of cigarette smoke and air freshener before banging the door shut behind her.

  I walked down the corridor, my feet gathering static on the red nylon carpet tiles. I passed the entrance to what looked like the communal sitting room, set up for bingo with chairs arranged around small card tables, all facing a larger table with the cage full of coloured balls and a pile of cards stacked neatly beside a microphone. A lone elderly woman dozed in one of the plastic-upholstered winged armchairs that lined the room.

  The walls were painted a bland institutional beige, and the glass in the doors and windows had lines of wire embedded in it, segmenting the view into tiny squares like a page in a child’s maths book. It didn’t feel very homely. I passed a couple of doors to the flats; it was just after lunch and the smell of hot fat and stewed tea leached into the corridor. It was quiet, although the blare of a TV show and canned laughter indicated the presence of life somewhere. I don’t ever want to end up here, I thought, and was reminded of a conversation, not that long before – but in a different world it seemed, another life: over dinner, with wine and good scotch, when there was talk of a stylish retirement with Eames chairs and luxurious linens, with beautiful young gardeners stripped to the waist tending the flowers, decent food and art on the walls. A villa somewhere in France or Italy perhaps: an old folk’s home for discerning old queens and their pals. Then I thought of Callum and the photo of Melanie, and the way he squeezed my arm as he kissed me goodnight, the rub of my stubble on his chin. My mother’s look of approval. The idea of a coupled life, with its inevitable disappointments and failures.

  I took the stairs two at a time and was panting when I knocked at Charlie’s door. He took a while to answer, shuffling and muttering before he opened the door. He was stooped, his shoulders curving in towards his chest, and thin – much thinner than I had expected – but he was still a man to be reckoned with, impressive even. His hair was still thick, with only patches of grey around his ears; not so much changed from when I last saw him, when Melanie had left.

  ‘Yeah?’ He said, looking me hard in the eyes, evaluating, weighing me up.

  ‘Charlie, I’m Marcus, Melanie’s friend. We were in school together, before she—’ I looked over my shoulder, back out at the corridor. ‘Before she left.’ I turned back to him.

  ‘Oh yeah, I remember you. What do you want?’

  ‘To talk. I’ve just come down to visit my mum and I thought I’d drop by and see how you are.’

  He looked me over again, nodded and stepped back. ‘Come in then.’

  His flat was small, but neat and tidy. It was open plan, with the kitchen in one corner of the main room, a large window across the wall above the sink. Newspaper twisted into bird shapes hung limp on cotton threads instead of a curtain. It was touching, the tatty scraps dangling there, a reminder of his old life.

  There was a puffy black leather armchair angled in front of a large flat screen TV, a side table supporting the paper and an ashtray, and a small pine dining table with two matching chairs. He invited me to sit, and as I pulled out one of the chairs at the table I glimpsed his bed and a chest of drawers through the half-pulled curtains that sectioned off his living and sleeping areas. He turned the volume down on the TV, leaving the racing on the screen. Red alarm cords dangled from the ceiling – one above the small fridge by the sink, one trailing down over his TV and another by the entrance to the bedroom. I imagined accidentally pulling on one and having to face the wrath of the squint-mouthed warden.

  ‘Tea? Or something stronger? You look like a man who likes a drink.’

  I shrugged and he fetched a couple of cans of cheap lager from his fridge, handing me one and sinking down into his armchair. Both cans opened with a sharp fizz and we drank. He sipped his and placed it on his side table, while I gulped mine, opening my throat with that pa
rticular thirst that comes with nervousness. I swallowed. ‘Sorry. I’m thirsty.’ I squashed my lips in the cup of my hand and wrung out the moisture, my face cat-tongue rough.

  ‘You always were polite.’ He took out his tobacco tin from his shirt pocket and began rolling a cigarette. ‘Want one?’ He offered the tin.

  ‘No, thanks.’ I waited as he finished rolling and lit up. He coughed as he exhaled and took another sip of his beer to settle his chest.

  ‘You’ve changed, I wouldn’t have recognised you. Not a skinny, shy kid any more, uh? I suppose we all have, look at me, an old man now. It comes to us all, don’t it?’

  ‘If we’re lucky.’ I agreed and drank.

  ‘Need another?’ He tipped his can towards me.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘You just look like you need one.’ He drew on his cigarette, and had to relight it. ‘How did you find me here?’

  ‘I went round to your old allotment and a woman called Rita, who says hello by the way, told me you were here.’

  ‘Rita? Big girl? Nice eyes?’

  I shrugged and half-nodded.

  ‘Yeah, she was always a nosy cow. Nice enough girl though,’ he paused, looked wistful for a moment, then, ‘How was my patch? Bet it’s all planted up now.’

  ‘Yes, afraid so. You must miss your pigeons.’

  ‘I do, you know. Beautiful birds. I had some champions in my time. Never mind. So what brings you here? I ain’t seen you in what? Twenty years at least.’

  ‘Melanie,’ I said.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘I want to know what happened to her, after she left, why she left. I don’t want to cause trouble, I just have questions.’

  ‘Yeah. Questions. But why now?’ He looked at me, one bushy eyebrow raised.