by Anna Legat
Webber returns with the drinks. ‘So where was I?’ he asks after taking the first deep breath from his pint.
‘You were to tell me what made Luke Orwin start binging again, and being a bad boy altogether.’
‘The Hydra, of course. After she told me she’d made sure he’d stay away from her little girls, she went on to brag about how she had tracked down Orwin’s new wife through social media and how she’d smeared his good name with one press of a button. Her words, not mine,’ Webber takes out his notebook and reads out word for word, ‘"I warned Sammy what a good for nothing drunk he was, and a paedophile at that. I told her to get out while she could, before it was too late for her little girl. It's too late for my two." If it were me, I’d have her for libel. I think Orwin was too nice a bloke. Doesn’t surprise me he went on a drinking spree. Wouldn’t you?’
‘No, but then I’m not a man.’
‘Touché!’ Webber grins.
*
They identify themselves and join Stu and Ron at the bar.
‘You about Luke, aren’t ya?’ the one wearing a suspender belt guesses. His eyes are glazed and eyelids are heavy, a typical drinking man’s feature.
Gillian nods and says, ‘Can we go out in the garden, where we can talk?’
They find their way back to their old table. Three pints and Gillian’s wine glass are placed between them like chess pieces. Ron and Stu aren’t men of many words, but they do sigh a lot. She still doesn’t know which one is Ron and which one is Stu. She doesn’t want to come across as a police bureaucrat by taking down their full credentials. Webber has better ways. He extends his hand to each of them and says, ‘Mark.’
The stooping suspender belt wearer is Ron. Stu is the short one with a beer gut. The formalities behind them, Ron says, ‘He didn’t deserve that, Luke didn’t. He was a decent bloke if I knew one.’
‘Yeah, Luke was,’ Stu concurs.
‘You know who was at fault then?’ Ron wants to know. ‘My money is on that old geezer. Didn’t they say he was seventy-five? And bloody driving a vehicle in broad daylight! There should be a law against that.’
‘Yeah, it should. It’s, like, criminal to let them old folk loose on the road.’
‘We’re still investigating, but the old man wasn’t driving. I can tell you that much.’ The last thing Gillian wants is for those two to wind each other up into elderly driver bashing. It doesn’t take much when your brain is fuelled with alcohol.
‘Oh yeah? So who was it then?’
‘We don’t know, not yet. But we’ll find out,’ Webber assures them and they both nod.
‘How was Luke before the accident?’
‘How would you be? Woman problems. His missus was giving him grief. He didn’t deserve that. He was a decent bloke if ever I knew one.’
‘Yeah, Luke was. I’ll drink to that.’
They drown their sorrow in their respective pints. It’s like watching the water go down in a canal lock. Gillian is fascinated with their ability to drink without having to come up for air. While they are doing just that, she asks, ‘So he was upset? Would you say he was really down about it?’
Ron exhales some beer fumes in her face. ‘Wouldn’t you be?’
‘The day before the accident, Sunday – was he here?’
‘Where else was he supposed to be? She shut the door in his face, told him it wasn’t his day to have the girl. What’s her name, Stu?’
‘Imogen.’
‘Imogen, yeah I know, that’s the girl’s name. But what’s the wife’s name?’
‘Dunno. He only called her a bitch, didn’t he?’
‘True. We don’t know the bitch’s name. She got him by the balls! He was too decent for her if you ask me.’
‘Yeah, Luke was.’
‘So he’s been here with you all evening?’
‘Where else was he to go?’
‘Drinking?’
That’s where she goes wrong. Ron sobers up, instantly. A flash of light crosses his face. He points his finger at her. It is a slightly unsteady finger but it is pointed with serious intent. ‘Listen here, lady! You won’t be pinning this one on Luke, hear me? Kick the man when he’s lying down – police procedure, huh? He wasn’t drinking, and Stu here and I can swear to that!’
‘Not a drop. Not Luke.’
*
Male solidarity aside, Gillian knows she has a clear-cut case of drunk driving. The few, obligatory pints at The Goose and Egg (Orwin wasn’t there for the eggs) followed by a bottle of vodka and half a dozen beers at home (evidence of which was found behind the settee at his flat), could not have evaporated overnight. On that Monday morning Luke Orwin was as drunk as a skunk. Naturally, this wouldn’t stand up in court. Ron and Stu would turn up in their best wedding suits to vouch for their friend’s sobriety and a good lawyer would argue the bottle of vodka could’ve been drunk over a period of six long months and at irregular intervals, with not a single drop passing Orwin’s lips that Sunday night. Gillian stands no chance with her version of events and no prosecutor will run with it. Yet she knows Luke Orwin got behind the wheel drunk and ready to die. And she also knows that Margaret Adams was driving to her death. It does feel like the lot of them was heading for some macabre suicide convention held at the Poulston junction. Jon is right on that account. Still, Gillian’s inventory is not complete. Something is missing. A vital trigger.
Fritz jumps onto her lap just as she is to get up and go to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Provided she has milk in the fridge. She couldn’t swear to that. Since Tara left to go back to uni, a week ago, the day after their huge fallout over Gillian emptying her drawers into the rubbish bin, Gillian hasn’t shopped. So even if there is milk in the fridge, it may not be drinkable.
She doesn’t want to unsettle the cat. After his nesting dance he is curled up in her lap, trusting her with his life. A cat who has outlived two of his owners. Does he bring bad luck? Nah, not Fritz. He means well. She will stay with him for a while until he is ready to move on, onto the bed or under the kitchen table for a snack, or out for a night’s worth of bird watching.
Apart from Fritz’s silky purring, the house is silent. It is an unnerving silence. Tara didn’t have to go back to Exeter. Not for another two weeks. She went because she was making a point. She has made it. Gillian is alone. Suitably rejected.
And worried. Worried to death.
She reaches for her iPad. In her Favourites she has saved all of Tara’s sites, including those of some of her friends: Facebook, Instagram, flickr. Some of them are long abandoned. Others are regularly updated. Gillian has learned to keep up with that virtual world if she wants to keep up with her daughter. If she wants to know her at all. It is a forever changing, living matrix. Nothing lasts. Everything is fluid and fleeting. But it is an invaluable source of information about Tara.
She needs to know, needs to understand what is happening to her child. And why.
She is paging through the photos in Tara’s album. They go back a couple of years. The latest ones are disturbing. They should have a rating and warning sign: No Parents. This may give you permanent heartbreak. Young people are posing, laughing, raising their half-full glasses and beer bottles, leaning on each other, sticking out their tongues. In some pictures they are caught in the act: of dancing, grimacing, squatting on the toilet, wearing a Santa hat. Young people, full of life. Tara is amongst them. Everywhere, in almost every photo. She poses too, but she is a ghost. She is a shadow of her friends. A reflection. Gillian holds back tears and skips back in time. As she does, the skeletal Tara from the latest photos begins to grow and the hollows of her cheeks and her chest, her thighs and her arms, fill. She is waking up. Livening up. Her smile becomes more and more real. A dimple begins to deepen to the left of her lips. Gillian is smiling back at her, relieved. Such heart-warming images, going back to Tara’s gap year, her trip to Thailand – Tara astride an elephant’s neck, laughing. Tara, towering over Sasha, her arm over her friend’s shoulders, m
othering her, stronger and bigger than her. Tara with her father in Africa, both of them larger than life. Tara and that good-for-nothing Charlie Outhwaite, both indestructible in their robust youth, the dust of the red Australian desert behind them.
And then a jump forward – a leap. That was the last picture. The album goes on a loop. Gillian is back to the latest, to the ghost, the skeletal replica of her girl. She has seen this so many times but it is still a shock. And she still doesn’t know why. Only twenty months ago she had a healthy happy daughter, and now. Why? The answers won’t come from the gallery of silent pictures. Tara won’t speak to her. Gillian can’t bear the silence. She can’t carry her anxiety without breaking into sobs.
*
Scarface wants results. He is the Cup-a-Soup man – results in under two minutes. His impatience and jumping to instant conclusions are the cause of an ongoing personality clash between him and Gillian. In their true primeval roles, Gillian is the gatherer type, Superintendent Scarfe – the hunter. She collects evidence painstakingly, inventorises and re-thinks it endlessly, he goes for the kill. Usually the most obvious but perfectly innocent suspects get hurt in the process, but cases are kept under budget.
His cleft lip is raging with him as it becomes more purple by the minute. Gillian can’t take her eyes of it. ‘What can be so complicated in a straightforward road accident, DI Marsh? Accidental death. Moving on swiftly to the next case – your casework needs urgent attention.’
‘I’m not satisfied, sir,’ she emphasises the title to stress his superiority. She isn’t looking him in the eye, but down at the floor. She read somewhere that in the animal world looking another straight in the eye amounts to challenging their authority. She doesn’t wish to challenge Scarface in any shape or form. She just wants him out of her hair.
The tactic may work in the animal world, but it doesn’t work with Scarfe. ‘I am. SATISFIED. The reckless driving on part of at least three drivers, one under the influence of alcohol, another with a history of reckless driving. We don’t have to worry about proving any of it beyond reasonable doubt, because all of them are dead. Nobody’s going to trial. All four are accidental deaths. Case closed. Moving swiftly to the next case.’
‘The coroner –’
‘The coroner agrees with me.’
Gillian’s telephone rings. Salvation is on its way, she hopes, as she glances at the number. It’s Jon. ‘Sir, may I take this? It’s Riley at Forensics. He may have something pertinent.’
Scarface waves his arm. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’ And as she is leaving with the phone to her ear, he adds, ‘Final report on my desk. Tomorrow morning. You’ve had a week.’
*
‘Brakes tampered with. Really crude job. A child could’ve done a better one, but it worked. Vitoli stood no chance. The brake fluid would’ve leaked out altogether by the time he hit Poulston junction. He couldn’t have slowed down by then, couldn’t stop. The only way to avoid a head-on was to go into a ditch. The guy had the presence of mind to do exactly that.’
‘At least one of them was trying to save his own life instead of –’ Gillian is hurrying down the staircase, excited, her sentences unfinished, her steps echoing on the metal surface. ‘Can you say with any certainty how long it would’ve taken for the brake fluid to escape? I want to be sure when it was done. Whether it was done the previous day at work or somewhere between work and home, or whether it was homemade sabotage.’
‘Not before six that morning, I’d say. Going by the fact that he was able to drive and presumably brake successfully on his way out of town and up to the point of Poulston junction. That’s about, what? A mile, two miles?’
‘Yes. You’re sure?’
‘Have I ever been unsure? I only tell you what I’m sure of. Rough assessment based on the size of the cut in the cable and the amount of fluid that should’ve been there, taking into account that the van had been for a full service only two months before. I can do the maths if you like.’
‘I do like. I like to be sure.’
‘Anything for you, DI Marsh!’ There is a wide grin at the other end of the phone, Gillian knows even if she can’t see it. ‘Are you on your way to see me? I only need a few minutes to make myself presentable. And to do the maths.’
‘I’m on my way to see Megan Vitoli.’ Before she puts the phone down, she thinks of the forensic evidence that must be secured around Giacomo Vitoli’s house. ‘Jon, send some people to go through the house and the garage at 44 Arcadia Close. I have a sneaky feeling we may find something we'll be able to use later on...’
*
When minutes later, Gillian, accompanied by DC Webber, arrives at the Vitolis’ she experiences an eerie sense of déjà vu. Like the first time, she has to go round to the back of the property as music blares out of every crevice of the house and no one bothers to come to the front door. She leaves Mark there and proceeds to the shabby wooden gate, which again isn’t on the latch. She again peeks through the patio door, and again spies the well-toned bare torso of a man in his prime, already known to her as Ryan. Ryan is resting on the couch in a semi-reclined pose. The only difference is that Megan is already in the room, pink as ever, her sweet blonde head nestling gracefully in Ryan’s lap. They are settled comfortably in front of the blasting TV.
Gillian calls out, ‘Hello? Anyone home? DI Marsh, Sexton’s Canning CID!’, and observes, to her bemuse-ment, Ryan springing off the couch and tripping on the raised threshold on his way out of the lounge – just like he did the first time round. Of course, he doesn’t anticipate Mark to be standing on the other side of the front door, so he bundles through straight into Mark’s arms.
Inside the house, Gillian allows Mrs Vitoli to gather the lapels of her dressing gown and cover her modesty. The remote is retrieved somewhere from a crack between her breasts and the telly is silenced. Mrs Vitoli wriggles herself upwards to a sitting position. Slowly the ripple effect of her sudden movement on her entire body settles. Mark leads the bewildered Ryan back into the lounge. Gillian points to a chair.
‘May I?’
Mrs Vitoli nods, her blonde locks bouncing endearingly. Ryan sits next to her. Involuntarily, she slides her hand into his lap. He glares at her, mortified, and tries to push her hand away. She claps her rej-ected hand on her ample bosom, looking hurt. Mark cocks his head, watching their antics with increasing interest.
‘We have some news,’ Gillian tells them once both their hands are reunited with their owners.
Mrs Vitoli clutches her chest. ‘Jammie’s dead!’ she exclaims and, again, attempts to seek comfort from her unresponsive cousin.
‘Jammie?’
‘Giacomo,’ Ryan clarifies. ‘Megan calls him Jammie. Don’t know why. Should I... Should I leave you alone? Should I go?’
‘No, we need you,’ Gillian smiles. ‘I’m actually intrigued to find you still here, but I’d like you to stay.’
‘All right then.’
‘Incidentally, the light fittings – still not installed?’
‘They are, if it’s any of your business.’ He sounds aggressive. Typical reaction of a guilty man – defensiveness.
‘Ryan, please don’t...’ Mrs Vitoli gazes at him pleadingly. She turns to Gillian, ‘Ryan is here for me. I can’t cope on my own, without Giacomo. I don’t know how long he’ll be, you see?’
‘Yes, I can see that. Ryan is of course your cousin? On your mother’s side if I remember correctly?’
‘Yes, yes... on my mother’s side.’
‘So what exactly is the relationship between the two of you?’
‘Why do you need to know?’ Ryan steps in, bravado in his voice, as if telepathically channelling a mantra into his delightful cousin’s small brain: they’ve got nothing on us! Stay cool!
‘I need to know a lot of things to do with Mr Vitoli’s accident. Anything and everything to do with him, Mrs Vitoli and – clearly – with you, Ryan, is my business. May I have your full name, please?’
Ryan glances a
t Mark as if looking for some form of customary male-to-male support. Mark has taken out his black notebook and, pencil suspended over it, is waiting for the name. He doesn’t respond to Ryan’s cry for help.
‘This is DC Webber,’ Gillian says, hoping that Ryan will feel obligated to return the courtesy of introduction.
He does. ‘Ryan Parks.’
‘And you are an electrician? Where do you work?’
‘Mechanical electrics, yes. I'm self-employed. Can I ask what this is all about?’ His tone is subsiding, heading for full cooperation. Gillian smiles.
‘You work with cars?’ Webber asks.
‘Yes, I do. But I can also do light fittings and stuff around the house, you know! For friends. And family.’
‘No one doubts that,’ Gillian assures him.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Megan intervenes now that she has had time to recover her wits – more or less. A cup of tea must be her usual deflection tactic.
‘That’d be lovely, thank you! Two sugars, remember?’
The mass of Mrs Vitoli heaves itself from the couch and scuttles away with surprising speed and agility. Seconds later, cupboard doors take on a life of their own, squeaking and banging. A clinically straightforward panic attack.
‘So you’re finished with the light fittings here. Or not yet?’
Ryan shrugs. ‘I’m done with that. So what’s that to do –’
‘Just wondering why you’re still here. You seem pretty well settled in...’
‘Like Megan said, I’m helping her get through this.’
‘Oh yes, the cousin thing... So what’s the relation exactly?’
Once again Mrs Vitoli saves the day. She stumbles in with a silver tray and flowery mugs with steaming tea. The ceremony of passing mugs, milk and sugar cubes gives them time to regroup. Gillian gives them the time. She knows she’s got them. She will break it to them slowly, toy with them a bit. She despises them by proxy – on that poor old husband’s behalf. A man should never marry too late. And most certainly not a bombshell half his age. In any event, all being equal, he’s had a lucky escape. If he lives. Gillian takes her time, sipping tea from her lovely cup adorned with pink roses, and waits for the Forensics to arrive.