The Primrose Switchback

by Jo Bannister

  He offered to come to the Chronicle. But she glanced round ruefully and saw he’d only be able to sit down if he’d hold a stack of cuttings on his knee. She said she’d meet him at the police station.

  He had coffee waiting, and some news. “We have the body.” His tone was both sombre and matter-of-fact. “Found it in a goods wagon in a siding at Holyhead. Lucas was right: it was a woman. She’d been stabbed through the heart.”

  Rosie breathed lightly. Knowing what he would find didn’t rob the disclosure of its shock value. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t say I’m surprised, but even when you know what he can do you kind of hope this time he’s going to be wrong. Have you told Shad yet?”

  Marsh shook his head. “I thought I’d let him catch up on his sleep first. In the meantime, I hoped you could cast light on something rather strange.”

  Rosie stared. “Me? How can I help? The first I knew of these events was a couple of hours later.”

  “I appreciate that. All the same, there’s a connection between you and the dead woman. It may be only coincidence. I’d like your view on that.”

  Rosie had gone cold. Someone she knew, someone she’d met; someone she’d advised? Dear God, was that it? She’d given the girl bad advice and she’d died of it? There was a crack in her voice. “Who was she?”

  But Jackie Pickering meant nothing to Rosie, however deeply she trawled her memory. “I don’t know the name. Have you a photograph?”

  “Not yet. And it mightn’t help if I had.” Marsh considered for a moment, decided to put his cards on the table. “You may never have met. But she knew about you. She worked as a researcher on that programme of Dick Chauncey’s. The one where you socked him on camera.” He hid a smile. Their business here was no laughing matter, even if there were aspects to it which had given a lot of people a lot of pleasure.

  “You’ve Been Had,” whispered Rosie, stunned past belief. Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t that.

  And, like a terrible echo, she remembered having coffee – no, tea – with someone else, and what they’d talked about then. With Prufrock. They’d agreed that an aggrieved Chauncey might try again to humiliate her. They’d agreed that she wasn’t particularly vulnerable, but Prufrock had been concerned that next time he’d try to hurt her by hurting someone she cared about.

  They’d been worried about Alex. It hadn’t occurred to them that, with his history, his unusual facility unsupported by much intellectual understanding, the easiest target of all was Shad.

  When she got her voice back Rosie said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, Superintendent Marsh. I don’t know what happened behind the station last night. And I firmly believe that if Shad remembered he’d have told us.

  “But it occurs to me that a researcher for You’ve Been Had might have wanted to meet Shad Lucas. He’s an interesting man, well worth making a television programme about. He wouldn’t have agreed to that, but she might have strung him along on some other pretext. Maybe that’s what he was doing behind the station – he was on his way to meet her. I think you need to see her employers. If they sent her to sweet-talk Shad into doing one of their wretched programmes, they bear a considerable responsibility for what happened to her.”

  She heard what she was saying too late. Marsh had heard it too: one eyebrow climbed towards his hairline. He looked as if he’d started to interview a casual bystander and been rewarded with a

  full and frank confession. “And where do you suppose the rest of

  the responsibility lies, Ms Holland?”

  Alex Fisher was an intelligent woman in almost every way, but even after nine months at the Chronicle it hadn’t struck her that within ten minutes of Rosie going out Matt Gosling always needed a quick word with her.

  “Missed her again?” he clucked with entirely phony disappointment, dropping his haunch on to the desk. “I’ll wait till she gets back.”

  “It could be a while,” said Alex apologetically. “Detective Superintendent Marsh wanted to see her. Whatever he has to say, I doubt she’ll be back before lunch.”

  That was pretty much the answer he’d been hoping for. He sighed long-sufferingly. “OK. Well, I’ll just get my breath back before I tackle the stairs again.”

  The same blind spot seemed to have hidden from Alex the fact that her proprietor had installed a lift to his office in the attic and always used it except when he came to visit Rosie. Then he needed to muster his strength before tackling the stairs. “Have you time for coffee?”

  The glance at his watch was purely for effect. When he didn’t have time he made it. “That was a weird business last night.” He’d had the gist from Dan Sale who’d had it from Rosie.

  Alex nodded, fetched the coffee from the machine in the corridor. They made themselves comfortable in Alex’s office. She had her own now that the cramped room in which The Primrose Path was produced had become a suite. The physical impossibility of squeezing in a second filing cabinet – needed because Rosie had filled the first with alcohol and cigarettes – had led Matt to empty the store next door and knock through the wall. Now that Alex had the outer office to herself it seemed much roomier – partly because Alex was built on a different scale to Rosie, but mainly because she put things away when she’d finished with them.

  Matt gave the new door an appreciative grin. “If she gets stroppy, we could wall her up in there.”

  “Of course you could. Along with half your circulation,” said Alex loyally.

  “You could write The Path.”

  Alex smiled. “I don’t think the Sunday papers would be franchising any advice I could offer.”

  That might be true, but Matt was biased. For different reasons and in different ways he adored both women, but if he’d only had time to rescue one of them from a burning building his paper’s famous Agony Aunt and the profitability she represented would have gone up in smoke. “Don’t underestimate yourself. OK, it’s Rosie’s personality that makes The Path what it is. But without you she’d never make a deadline; and if she did she’d bring the Press Complaints Commission down on our heads.”

  Alex was realist enough to know that her contribution could be made by any competent PA. That didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the professional respect of a man she admired in return. “It’s nice to be appreciated. But I couldn’t do Rosie’s job if I wanted to.”

  “But you do do it,” objected Matt. “I know you do. I can tell which of the replies Rosie wrote and which you did. Hers might be more entertaining but yours are often more help.”

  “But it’s not the helpful ones people buy the Chronicle for.”

  In the part of him that dealt with the accountants Matt knew she was right. But his heart was reluctant to acknowledge the fact. He picked a letter off her desk at random. She’d been dealing with the post when Rosie went out so these were appeals which the counsellor had yet to see.

  “I bet,” he said, “that whatever the subject of this, your advice would be as sound as Rosie’s and a damn sight more sympathetic. If she ends up in Skipley General next time she takes a swing at someone, you’ll keep The Primrose Path in print for as long as necessary. Caring may not be as amusing as clever but it lasts longer.”

  Alex knew that he didn’t mean half of it. She knew that Rosie Holland had her proprietor’s absolute confidence, that he’d be deeply disappointed if she were to alter her style in the interests of compassion. She appreciated his support but she’d never replace Rosie Holland. Rosie was a one-off.

  She glanced at the letter he’d passed her. “You’re right; at least about this. It’s for the TLC pile.” Alex smiled at Matt’s expression. Tender loving care wasn’t the first thing anyone associated with Rosie. “There are three. I think she got the idea from triage in A&E. Some just need answers to their questions: what are their legal rights, what’s the best treatment for a sprain, how do you find a nursing home? Some are personal problems: they don’t need answers so much as guidance. Get them to understand what’s gon
e wrong and they can find their own solutions.

  “Then there’s the TLC pile. We can’t help them with either answers or advice. Life’s dealt them a bad hand. Sometimes we can suggest some practical help, but they’ve usually done the rounds already. They’ve talked to Welfare and the charities, and they still have an intolerable situation to deal with. All we can do is acknowledge that. Reassure them that they’re doing as well as anyone could. It’s more comfort than you might think. These are lonely people, trapped in a situation from which there is no honourable escape, and sometimes they convince themselves it’s their fault. That anyone else would cope better; that they just need to pull themselves together. If we can say to them, Look, just getting through every day in these circumstances is a triumph of the human spirit, they immediately feel more positive.

  “They’re so relieved some of them burst into tears. They knew it felt hard, they’d never been sure it actually was that hard. Just telling them, Yes, it really is, and nobody could deal with it any better, lifts a weight off their shoulders. They still have the problem but we’ve bolstered their self-respect and that’s worth something. TLC. It doesn’t make the mountain any lower but it makes the climb less soul-destroying.”

  She hadn’t realised how quiet Matt had gone. She looked up from her coffee and found his blue eyes dwelling on her in a kind of wonder, his frank open face mesmerised. For a silly surreal moment she wondered if she’d said something outrageous and hadn’t noticed. Her lips formed a question mark. “Matt?”

  For a split second he was ready to do it: to heap all his hopes together and throw the dice. She could only say no, and she might not do that. She might not understand. She might ask him to repeat it, her lovely eyes puzzled on his reddening face. That would be deeply embarrassing but at least there’d be no going back; it would be out in the open and they’d have to deal with it. He wouldn’t be working in a vacuum any more, wooing her so subtly she was plainly unaware of it.

  On the other hand, she might say yes. Or she might ask solicitously if he’d really thought about this – when he’d thought about nothing else for months! – and then, taken by surprise as she was, consent to giving it some thought herself.

  Or she might – and this was what stopped him – give that exquisite blink of reproof that said he’d transgressed and would cause real offence if he continued in the same vein. The look by which a cat marks its disapproval of the sardine in its dish when the family’s eating salmon. If she did that, if by word or deed or mere devastating look showed that she had no interest in him, what would be left? He knew he was only going to get one shot at this, which is why he’d been so patient about setting it up.

  He wasn’t a patient man by nature: all his instincts were to go after what he wanted. As a youth he’d fallen into and out of love affairs with what used to be described as gay abandon until the words acquired a subtext. This was different because of how much it mattered to him. Men always say they’ll change for the right woman, and most women have more sense than to believe them. But Matt had actually done it. He’d changed the habit of a lifetime by sublimating short-term desires to long-term aspirations, and he thought, he really thought, he was winning. He thought the moment would come when he could ask Alex Fisher to marry him and she wouldn’t respond with that offended cat-like blink and murmur, ‘Of course I’m flattered but …’

  But was it here yet? Was she even aware of his intentions? They’d spent a lot of time together but never on anything resembling a date. Business things, friends things, four-somes with Rosie and Dan Sale, but nothing that said unequivocally, This is getting serious. He suspected it was a transition he had to steer them through before dropping the bombshell of lifetime commitment on her. They had to talk about the future: specifically, whether Alex saw a role for Matt in hers.

  He blurted out, “What are you doing tonight?”

  She blinked – not offended, just a little surprised. “Nothing, I don’t think. Is there something you need me for?”

  Matt took his courage in both hands. “Alex, I don’t want anything from you. I just want to see you, to be with you. I enjoy your company. I’ve run out of excuses. There are no more conferences we could go to, and if I rearrange my furniture once more I’ll never get the marks out of the carpet. I don’t care about the furniture. I don’t care that much about the Small Newspaper in the Digital Age. I care about you – about us. I want to talk about us.”

  He ran out of things to say, dared to look at her. She didn’t look horrified, she looked taken aback. “God damn it,” he swore disgustedly, “you’re not going to say This is so sudden?”

  For a moment he couldn’t at all read her expression. Had he blown it? He didn’t know what else he could have done, how he could have put it better, but suddenly just having coffee with her, going to conferences with her, even shoving his goddamned furniture about, all that a minute ago hadn’t seemed nearly enough, was too much to have risked. He didn’t want to lose her. If he could only have part of her, it was better than nothing.

  Alex bit her lip. “Matt, I’ve been here for nine months. It took about nine days for the office gossip to get started. I ignored it; I thought you were doing too. I thought that was best.”

  His heart plummeted. He had, he’d blown it. “You mean, you’re not interested.”

  It would have been easier on him if she’d been a bit more brutal, sent him packing while some scraps of dignity remained to him. Instead she held him in the gentle adamant of her gaze. “Matt, I enjoy working for you. I enjoy your company too. I hope we can go on being friends. But I don’t mix business and pleasure. It matters too much when it goes wrong.”

  He could have left then, but it turned out that he cared too much to take no for an answer. “Who says it’ll go wrong?”

  Alex smiled. “The law of averages. How many girls have you dated and not married? At some point, one of you decided it wasn’t going to work. There’s nothing wrong with that – it’s infinitely better than staying with the wrong person – but if you have to work together the next day, and all the days after that, and after one of you has found someone else and the other hasn’t, it’s going to be a problem. The best way to avoid it is to keep work and private life separate. I’m sorry.”

  Matt believed that she was sorry. He believed that she valued their friendship. What he didn’t believe was that she’d thought this through. Not properly. He couldn’t believe she’d throw away what they could have together for a principle.

  “Can we at least talk about it?” He heard the whine in his voice and flushed. “I don’t mean to embarrass you. But I didn’t say this on the spur of the moment. It’s been on my mind for most of those nine months. My God, you can have a baby in that time – are you telling me it isn’t time enough to hatch a date?”

  Alex rewarded him with a laugh. At least his persistence wasn’t annoying her. “Matt, please don’t take this personally. Ask Rosie – she’ll tell you I’ve always had funny ideas about dating. She counts the number of heads and if it’s less than two she’ll go out with it. But I’m wary of casual liaisons – it’s too easy for people to get hurt. That goes double for casual liaisons with people from work, and by a factor of ten for dating the boss. It’s a bad idea, Matt. Take my word for it.”

  Matt didn’t realise she’d finished, was expecting her to say something more. Was still expecting, in spite of all the evidence, that she’d change her mind. But as the silence stretched he began to realise that it wasn’t going to happen. The brows knitted over his frank blue eyes like a schoolboy’s stymied by calculus. “I don’t want you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with,” he managed at last. “I don’t want you to be anyone but who you are. That’s the person I …”

  He was too afraid, it wouldn’t come. Damn it, spit it out! “Alex, we’ve known each other for nine months. That’s long enough for me. I know what I feel for you: I love you. I understand how you feel about casual relationships, but that isn’t a problem because there�
�s nothing casual about this. I can’t get round the fact that we work together, but I don’t see what happens when we split up as a problem because I don’t believe we will. I’ll try and prove it if you’ll give us a chance.”

  He watched for signs that she was growing angry with him and saw none. Worse, she went on regarding him with the kindly tolerance due to someone she was fond of but would never love. He exhaled slowly, felt his lungs emptying. “I’ve made a fool of myself, haven’t I?”

  Alex shook her head. “Not that. Never that. I mean it, I really am sorry – especially if I’ve let you think this was an option. But honestly, Matt, it isn’t. For both our sakes, you must accept that.”

  When he was gone she lowered herself carefully into her chair, as if bruised. She thought, Am I being stupid? Should I have done it differently? – seen him a couple of times, then told him it wasn’t working? Have I hurt him so much he’ll never forgive me?

  She drew a shaky breath, aware that she had to get on with the day. She glanced at her watch, was astonished to find it was still only mid morning. There were hours to dispose of yet. She supposed she might as well do some work.

  She picked up the letter Matt had taken from the post. It began: ‘First, believe me when I say that my lover’s happiness is all that matters to me …’

  Chapter Six

  Rosie didn’t know what to say so she kept it brief. “They’ve found a body. Superintendent Marsh wants to see Shad again.”

  Prufrock nodded. “I’ll wake him.”

  There was nothing in his manner or in his astute, pale blue eyes that said he was aware of a subtext. She thought that sooner or later she’d have to confess to her latest attack of foot-in-mouth disease but decided she would only make things worse by doing it now. Besides which, Detective Superintendent Marsh had allowed her to fetch Shad instead of sending a police car for him on the express condition that she didn’t discuss his evidence with him.