by Hannah Howe
“Most of my clients are honest, decent people. The rewards in the job are not financial; the rewards are helping people through a problem in their lives.”
Our conversation had reached its natural conclusion, so I placed my notebook and pen in my shoulder bag and followed Greg into the hall. We were greeted with a childish chorus of ‘we know what you’ve been doing’. In response, Greg turned to his mates and gave them the finger.
At the scouts’ door, Greg mumbled, somewhat sheepishly, “He’s a lucky guy.”
“Sorry?”
“Your boyfriend. I hope he appreciates his good fortune.”
“No,” I shook my head and thought of Alan, of his tolerance, his patience, “I’m the lucky one.” With a smile, I added, “Thanks for the chat.”
Greg shrugged, modestly, apathetically. “Any time.”
Chapter Eight
I returned home, threw my work clothes into the washing machine and dived under the shower. Ruth Carey was safe in her grand house, apparently unconcerned. Greg Goodman had not attacked her; neither had he sent her the death threats, in my humble opinion. Somewhere along the line Ruth had annoyed someone into making the threats and, given her strident views, the list could be a long one. However, I still held on to the belief that she knew who was behind the threats, that ultimately she was the director of this charade.
This evening, and for the first time, I was due to meet Alis, Alan’s daughter. I wondered what she would make of me. Alan had suggested that Alis would be wary of me, jealous, even, because for seven years family life had revolved around the two of them with no permanent partner in Alan’s life. Without wishing to look like mutton dressed as lamb, I decided to go for something youthful and casual when it came to my clothing, so I slipped into a fresh pair of jeans, a hooded top and drove over to St Fagans and Alan’s sprawling, beautifully restored, sixteenth century house.
Feeling a little nervous, I rang the doorbell and tapped my toes on the doorstep. Within seconds, Alan opened the door with his customary smile. “Come in. How are you?”
“Fine.” Although a little forced, I managed to return his smile.
“Great to see you,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“Through here. Allow me to introduce Alis.”
I followed Alan along a passageway into his living room. The room was neat and modern with solid beech-coloured furniture, a soft rug covering polished oak floorboards and the usual assortment of contemporary electronic gadgets. We found Alis reclining on the settee, her mind occupied by a palm-sized computer, held in her right hand.
As Alis stared at the computer screen, I studied her. At a guess, she was around five foot nine inches tall with long, slim legs, long, brown, naturally wavy hair and even, attractive features. Her dark brown eyes hinted at her intelligence, while her budding figure suggested that she was destined to blossom into a beautiful rose.
Like me, Alis was dressed in jeans and a hooded top, though her top was pink in contrast to the cream of my garment. I concluded that my jeans and hooded top were a mistake because such attire suited Alis far more than me. It also occurred to me that maybe I should trim my hair and become more ‘adult’ in that respect, get away from the notion of recapturing my youth. It was a perplexing thought because, due to my mother’s needs, I had no childhood or youth. Although I was twice her age, thirty-two to sixteen, I sensed that Alis had a stronger sense of self, which made me hesitate as I approached her.
“Hello,” I smiled.
“Hi.” Alis glanced up from her device, then gazed down, tapping a few buttons.
“I see you two have met.” To my relief, Alan had joined us in the living room. “Put that down,” he told Alis, “you can do that later. Come on, talk to Sam.”
“Just let me finish this,” Alis complained, ignoring her father.
Turning to me, Alan sighed. He glanced up to the ceiling, a glance that said ‘what can you do?’ Then, while ushering me towards an armchair, he asked, “Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’ll have wine with the meal, if that’s okay.”
“Sure. I’m cooking a vegetable and lentil cottage pie, especially for you.” He glanced over his shoulder, towards the appetising smell that was emanating from the kitchen. “I’d better get back to the stove. Alis...make Sam feel at home.” Lightly, he placed a hand on my shoulder. “Be with you soon.”
“Chatting with friends?” I asked Alis, as Alan returned to the kitchen.
“Just this guy.”
“A boyfriend?”
“Not really.” She shrugged. “He’s just a guy.” She tapped a few buttons, then looked across the room, peering at me from over the top of her device. “You’re a private eye.”
“Yeah.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah.”
Alis glanced down to her computer screen. She smiled. Her boyfriend had obviously posted something amusing.
I glanced around the room and noticed a very fine pencil drawing, depicting Alan. I recalled that Alis was a budding artist, so in an effort to stimulate conversation, I asked, “Did you draw that?”
Alis glanced at the picture and nodded. “Yeah.”
“You’re very talented.”
She shrugged. “It’s just something I do for fun.”
“Maybe you could draw me.”
“Nah,” she laughed. Then she frowned, “I’d insult you, I’m not that good.”
The chat about art was going nowhere, so I turned my attention to a pile of books, balanced precariously on the floor beside Alis. “Your school books?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“What do you hope to do when you leave school?”
“University, then a career in medicine.”
“As a psychologist?”
Alis thought for a moment, then with her eyes fixed on her computer screen, she replied, “Maybe general practice, like my mum. I’m not sure yet.”
With a flourish, Alis typed a message. Her online conversation complete, she placed her gizmo on a small table, at her side. Sitting up, she gave me her full attention for the first time. “Dad talks about you, a lot.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He loves you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But you don’t love him.”
I sighed. I was tempted to look up to the ceiling, but instead I held Alis’ gaze and smiled, “It’s not as simple as that.”
“What could be simpler?” she frowned. “You either love someone, or you don’t.”
How to explain...I was struggling to find the right words...“I’ve led a complicated life. I’m a complicated person.”
Alis leaned forward. She was into the conversation now, her big, brown eyes wide, offering me an intense stare. “You’ve been in the newspapers.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You shot someone.”
“In self-defence.”
“How does it make you feel, knowing that you shot someone?”
“Not good,” I admitted.
“If you have to, would you do it again?”
“I hope I never have to.”
“But if you have to...”
I thought for a moment, then came up with a truthful answer. “If the circumstances were desperate enough, I guess I would.”
Alis switched her gaze, away from me, to a framed photograph of Elin, her late mother. “My mum was a very peaceable person, she hated violence.”
“So do I.”
“But you killed someone. And you’d do it again.”
“Honestly, Alis, I’m not a violent person. In fact, I’ve been the victim of violence.”
She frowned then tilted her head to her right. Her long, wavy hair fell over her left eye so she raised an elegant finger, capped with a shapely, varnished fingernail, and flicked the errant strand back into place. “What do you mean?” she asked, the frown on her forehead intensifying.
“Has your dad told you about my past?”
“No.”
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Again, I sighed. I wasn’t sure if I was doing the right thing, but I decided to give Alis a potted history of my marriage to Dan.
After I’d catalogued the four years of abuse, Alis asked, “Why did you put up with that? Why did you stay?”
I shrugged. Try as I might, it was difficult to come up with an honest answer. “I guess I hoped it would all come right, that if I stuck around I could make it right.” Then, more truthfully, I added, “And maybe I didn’t have the confidence to leave him.”
Alis flicked her hair from her shoulders. She tucked her legs under her thighs then stared at me, her eyes thoughtful. After a long pause, she put her thoughts into words. “Do you know what I think?”
“What do you think, Alis?”
“I think because you’ve received so much violence in the past it’s made you into a violent person and now you’ve become like him, Dan, and now instead of taking it, you’re dishing it out.”
I sat back, aghast. Clearly, she was her father’s daughter and she had a basic grasp of psychology, but I struggled to agree with her conclusions. In fact, I disagreed with them, strongly.
“I’m not a violent person, Alis. I promise you.”
With the tableau frozen, and with Alis and me sitting on opposite sides of the room holding diverse opinions, Alan walked in and announced, “Dinner is served.”
After glancing at me, Alis made her slinky way into the dining room. Meanwhile, I climbed somewhat shakily to my feet. As I stood, Alan extended an arm and asked, “Are you okay, Sam?”
“Yeah, fine.” I flashed him a broad, bogus smile, then wrinkled my nose towards the dining room. “That smells nice.”
“Come on.” Alan took hold of my arm and guided me towards the dining room, where we found Alis seated at the table. “Tuck in,” Alan encouraged, “you’ll love it.”
Chapter Nine
During the meal, which I have to admit was very tasty, I watched the easy way in which Alan and Alis interacted, the way they laughed and joked and mocked each other. I thought about Alis’ assumption that I was a violent person, and I wondered if her comment held a grain of truth. Unwittingly, Alis had opened the door to a disturbing thought and, if I was good at one thing, I was good at nagging away at disturbing thoughts.
I was not a violent person, I concluded, but who was I? Who was Samantha Smith? Maybe I should ask my dad, if only I knew who he was.
After helping her father to clear away the dinner plates, Alis retired to the living room to chat on her computer. Meanwhile, Alan and I retired to Alan’s study, where we sat in leather armchairs, sipping white wine.
“You’re quiet, Sam. Did you enjoy the meal?”
I looked up, suddenly aware that I’d lost myself in the depths of my wine glass. “Yes, sorry, it was a lovely meal.”
“I hope Alis was communicative. She didn’t spend all her time talking with her online friends?”
“We had a very...interesting chat.” Then, with more enthusiasm, I added, “She’s a lovely girl, very pretty.”
“She takes after her mother.”
I nodded, recognising the strong family resemblance between Alis and Elin. “There’s a lot of love between you.”
Alan sipped his wine. He smiled over the rim of his wine glass. “We have enough to share.”
“I’d hate to upset you, or Alis.”
“You won’t upset either of us, so don’t even think about it.” Alan replenished my wine glass, then he frowned as a message came through on his mobile phone. As he read the message, he asked, “What are you working on at the moment?”
I sipped my wine and replied, “What do you think of eugenics?”
“I think it’s an affront to humanity. Why do you ask?”
“I’m working for Dr Ruth Carey.”
“Ah.” Alan closed the phone and returned it to his trouser pocket.
“You’ve heard of Dr Carey?”
He nodded. “Our paths have crossed.”
“What do you make of her?”
“She’s very sure of herself, forthright, opinionated. Personally, I don’t think she’s a very good psychiatrist, but she has her followers and admirers.”
“Dr Carey’s husband hired me because she is receiving death threats and this morning she was attacked after delivering a lecture on eugenics.” Suddenly, the frustration of the day took hold of me and I gripped the wine glass tight. My hand shook a little, threatening to spill the wine on to my lap. “She’s messing me about. She knows who’s threatening her and who attacked her, I’m sure of that, but she won’t talk.”
“Why not?”
“Because I think the attacker is one of her patients.”
“What leads you to that conclusion?” Alan asked, moving forward to the edge of his seat, his wine glass balanced in his hands, the inquisitive look on his face revealing that he was genuinely intrigued.
“A hunch. And she’s very evasive whenever I raise the subject.”
Alan took a sip of his wine. He toasted me and said, “You’ll get to the bottom of it, I’m sure of that.”
I took a sip of my wine and nodded my thanks. We lapsed into easy silence for a full minute, then while refusing the offer of more wine, I said, “You believe in me, don’t you.”
“Of course I do. You’re a very good private detective, and you know that.”
“But I’m a lousy lover and partner.” My cheeks flushed as I said the words, so I tilted my head forward and allowed my hair to fall over my face.
“You’re being too harsh on yourself again, Sam.”
“Dan always said that I’m damaged goods. Maybe he was right.”
Alan shook his head. He shot me a stern, censorious frown, then asked, “Why did you marry him?”
“Because I was on my own and insecure. He smiled at me, took an interest in me. He was handsome, charming. So I thought, grab him, you might not get another chance.”
“He showed no hint of his violent character, before the marriage?”
“He was the perfect gentleman, until our wedding night. We had a simple, registry office ceremony, but the day drained me. That night, he wanted sex, but I was too tired. He got angry, we argued and he broke my jaw. And that set the pattern for the next four years. Throughout our marriage, I regarded myself as a useless lover. But recently I’ve been reflecting. Maybe Dan had problems too. He wanted me, but when it came to the moment, nothing happened. Maybe it had something to do with the booze; maybe he had issues with sex. We never talked. We never did try to understand each other. He was a troubled man, but to the outside world, he hid it so well. He was charming, pleasant, just like...”
“Me. And you think that if we get too close, I will turn into Dan.”
“Yes.” I nodded, grateful that my hair was long, to hide some of my embarrassment. “Am I cruel to think that? Are you offended?”
“I understand your fears, Sam. They are natural and normal. You are not cruel and I am not offended.” Alan walked over to my chair. He squatted by my side. Somehow, I found an ounce of courage from somewhere and managed to look up, into his eyes. While gazing into my eyes, he said, “I give you my word that I will not turn into Dan, but my word alone will not convince you, will it?”
“What will convince me, Alan? Honestly, I want to be convinced.”
Alan took the wine glass from my hands and set it down on a small table. Then he placed my hands in his and gave my fingers a gentle squeeze. “Picture this. You are standing on one side of a canyon, I am on the other side and between us is a rickety, rotting old wood and rope bridge. To get to me, you have to cross that bridge, but naturally, your senses tell you that it’s dangerous and that you’d be foolhardy to set foot on it. I want you with me, so I repair the bridge and now it’s secure. But you are still reluctant to set foot on the solid bridge because in your mind’s eye, it’s not secure – you still see the damaged bridge. You have to convince yourself – you have to set foot on that new bridge and, step by step, walk across. And tha
t is what this evening is all about, you taking another small step on that bridge, inching yourself towards me, exploring that bridge until you realise that it is solid and secure. And when you reach that point you will run across the bridge into my arms and I will whisk you off to paradise.”
I gave Alan a wan smile and said, “We might be old and grey by the time I cross the bridge.”
He laughed. “If we are, it’ll be worth the wait.” More seriously, he added, “But I think you’re nearly there. I think you only need to take one solid step and then the rest will follow. I say that because of your past, because of what you’ve achieved with your agency. When you set out as an enquiry agent, you must have been full of fear and self-doubt. But bit by bit, case by case, you proved to yourself that you are capable and that you can do an excellent job. Once you find it within yourself to place one confident foot on that bridge, you will cross it, I have no doubt.”
His face was close to mine, his lips close to my lips. We leaned forward and kissed, tenderly. His faith in me was so touching, especially as my mind was riddled with doubt. I wanted to be with this man but something, fear, threatened to ruin everything. I felt so angry with myself, so frustrated with my inability to accept his love and reciprocate.
While still holding my hands, Alan said, “We’re attending the fireworks display at the castle on Bonfire Night. Would you like to join us?”
“I’d love to,” I nodded.
Alan squeezed my fingers. He smiled, “One confident step on the bridge, Sam. Then you can leave your violent past behind.”
Chapter Ten
The following morning Dr Ruth Carey was back at work and her husband, Professor Henry Chancellor, instructed me to follow her. My task was to establish who was behind the death threats and the kidnap attempt.
Ruth’s office was situated in Cathedral Road, Riverside, in the heart of the city, west of the River Taff and near the cricket ground. Her office neighboured ‘Novello House’, a building named after the famous actor, composer and West End producer, Ivor Novello. I parked my Mini in Cathedral Road, near ‘Novello House’ and was tempted to break into one of Ivor’s famous songs, ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’. However, as my musical range extends to one note, and one note only, B very flat, I decided to keep mum. Instead, I snuggled into my trench coat and kept an eye on the street, looking for potential kidnappers or authors of poison pen letters.