Faith

by Peter James

  A child had to have discipline. A child had to realise there were rules that society lived by, that he couldn't just leave toys strewn all over the place, and that if he did leave a toy car at the foot of the stairs, someone was going to stand on it and take a fall, maybe the kind of fall that could break a bone or even kill them. Alec needed to learn that, and some lessons were painful.

  You couldn't make an omelette without breaking eggs.

  He stared at his son, then nuzzled his face against Alec's, his tears mixing with his son's, feeling the warmth of his little body. God, you mean so much to me. You'll never, ever have any idea how much. You're my life, Alec, do you know that? You are, you and your mum. You are everything I have in the world, and everything I want.

  He kissed Alec once more. 'Goodnight, big guy, I love you.' He left the room with a heavy heart. Tonight he had done his duty, however painful it had been.

  A child had to have discipline.

  * * *

  Faith stayed put in the chair. When Ross was in these moods he was like a stranger, as if some other person were inside him. In the past she had kept quiet, thinking it would calm him if she didn't answer back, but that didn't work. Now she was standing up to him and that didn't work either.

  'I don't smell anything cooking.'

  She looked at Ross, who was standing in the kitchen doorway, shirt-sleeves rolled up, sponge and bucket in his hands.

  'Food?' he said. 'Dinner? I don't smell any dinner cooking. Why is that, Faith? Can you explain that to me?'

  She closed her eyes, and in the giddying darkness behind her eyelids she searched for some place to crawl into. She had planned to tell him there was no dinner because he had cancelled her credit cards and she had not been able to buy food. Her head was hurting so much, and with the disorienting spinning it was all she could do to remain upright and conscious. And then all her emotions burst through the fragile dam that restrained them, and she started sobbing uncontrollably.

  Moments later she felt Ross's arms around her, cradling her like a baby, and her mind went back to all those nights, years ago when they had been so much in love, when they had been two spoons in bed together, her naked body held safe and firm by those same arms.

  He was nuzzling her now, warm cigar breath on her cheeks. She turned her face sharply away.

  'I love you, Faith. You don't know how much I love you.'

  Suddenly, through her sobbing, she said, 'You hit Alec and you hit me. What are you? I don't know you any more. I used to be so proud of you, Ross, you taught me so much about everything. You taught me about people, about life, about how to look at things. You taught me how to enjoy good food, you taught me to love wine, how to listen to music. I used to look up to you and think I was the luckiest woman in the world to be married to you.'

  She tried to pull free of him, but he held her tightly, gripped her face, forcing her to look at him.

  'I'm the luckiest man in the world to be married to you, darling. I love you more than anything on this earth.'

  'I hate you,' she said, struggling against him.

  'You're the most beautiful thing that ever happened to me, Faith, my darling. I couldn't live without you.'

  'I hate you.'

  'You taught me the meaning of love, my darling.'

  'You've taught me how to hate.'

  'I just love you so much.'

  She broke free of him, stood up and walked across the kitchen. 'I hate you more than I ever knew it could be possible to hate someone.'

  34

  'Are you sure you want to know? I ask all my clients this question before I proceed. Are you absolutely sure you want to know?' It was half past eleven on Monday morning. Ross, seated behind his desk in his Harley Street consulting room, said, 'That's why you're here.'

  Ross had never met a private investigator before, and Hugh Caven, seated in the armchair normally occupied by his patients, did not fit his mental model at all. A thin, soulful-looking man in his late thirties, dressed in a tired grey suit, Bugs Bunny tie and clapped-out trainers, he sported a number-one close-shave haircut and a gold earring in his left lobe.

  It was possible that when he was younger he had been quite striking in a lean, mean, Terence Stamp way, but now his misshapen face, with its broken nose, slack skin and sallow complexion, seemed to be paying him back for years of late nights and substance abuse. He had more the appearance of a has-been rock star than a detective. A man who had suddenly found himself deposited in his own shadow.

  Although he did not care for the man's appearance, he was perfect for the job, Ross thought. A chameleon. Sit him. on a sofa and he would disappear into the pattern of the upholstery. Yet he had achieved notoriety: Ross had seen his name in the papers only recently. Hired by a suspicious wife, his investigations had caused the resignation of a cabinet minister whom he had photographed frolicking with his bisexual lover. Hugh Caven had been highly recommended by one of the divorce-law partners at Ross's solicitors.

  He spoke with an Irish accent, his voice soft but insistent. 'I always say this, Mr Ransome, because some people like the idea of finding out but then they have the problem of facing the reality. The Bible tells us that the truth shall set us free, but that's not my experience. The truth can shackle you for the rest of your life. I think it's only fair to warn clients of the pain they might face if their suspicions prove true.'

  Ross stiffened. 'Look, if I wanted a shrink, I'd have phoned a shrink. I want my wife followed, I don't want a fucking sermon.'

  Hugh Caven stood up. 'Then I'm afraid I'm not your man. Been nice talking to you, Mr Ransome.' He ducked down and picked up a nylon laptop bag from the floor.

  Ross stood up also, clumsily, in surprise. 'Hey, what do you mean?'

  Caven turned to face him and now, for the first time, Ross could see the true toughness of the man.

  'Clients hire me, Mr Ransome, because they have a problem. I've seen it all, believe me, I'm talking about everything. You want some sleazy gumshoe with a long lens, take a look in the Yellow Pages. What you're asking someone to do is to turn your life upside down, your wife's life and, if she does have a lover, her lover's life as well.'

  His eyes opened wide and looked even more soulful. 'Three lives, Mr Ransome. We all have to rub along on this planet together, that's my philosophy. I like everybody to be cool. If you don't want to be cool, I don't need to work for you. It's a fine morning, I'll take the day off, go fishing down the Thames estuary on my boat. I'll be happier and you might be happier too.'

  'Look, wait a second — I'm a little confused —'

  'I don't think a man of your intelligence needs to be confused, Mr Ransome.' He put the bag back down on the floor. 'It was Charles Darwin who wrote that the highest possible stage in moral culture is when we recognise that we ought to control our thoughts. You're a smart man, you're a pretty good example of survival by natural selection. I'd like you to listen to me, or I'm through that door and on to my boat.' He opened out his hands, palms outwards. 'You tell me.'

  Do I want this cocky little shit working for me? Ross wondered.

  But if not it would mean finding another agency, starting again. Losing valuable time. He took a deep breath and said, 'I'm listening.'

  The private investigator nodded. 'Good, then we're cool. How about we sit down again?'

  He pulled his computer out of the bag, settled it on his thighs and opened the lid. 'I want you to think about the implications very carefully all the time I'm working for you, Mr Ransome. Any time you want out, you call the mobile number I'm going to give you.' He gave Ross a searching look, then busied himself with his computer.

  'You seem to have a problem with your conscience,' Ross said.

  'I like to sleep at night.'

  'I'd like to be able to sleep at night too,' Ross said. 'I'd like to sleep at night without wondering who my bitch wife has been screwing during the day.'

  Caven peered at his screen. 'Address that you'd like me to use in communications with y
ou, please.'

  Ross gave him the address of his consulting room. 'What's your success rate in cases like this?'

  Caven was still typing the address. 'If your wife is having an affair, Mr Ransome, I will find that out for you.'

  'How long will it take you?'

  Caven raised his hands in the air. 'I can't answer that without more information. Depends how careful she is. Could be a week if I'm lucky, could be a couple of months or more if she's being clever. And it depends how far you want me to go — and how much you're prepared to pay. Do you want just one person, or a full round-the-clock surveillance, nine men, three shifts of three? Are you happy to pay for phone taps? Audio bugging? Stake-outs? Video surveillance? Satellite tracking? There's a whole package of options I can offer you, depending on your budget and your urgency.'

  'When can you start?'

  'As soon as I have details of both parties, and your retainer, Mr Ransome, I can move as quickly as you want. I can start having the lady watched from this afternoon, if you like.'

  'I want photographs,' Ross said. 'Clear photographs of her and her lover doing whatever it is they do to each other. Blow-ups. You can do that?'

  'You're the client, Mr Ransome, you can have as many photographs as you want.'

  'It's not quantity, understand? Quality. I'm making myself clear?'

  'Very clear. Quality. Not a problem. We stand for quality. We're very cool about quality.'

  Ross reached down and pulled his cheque-book out of a drawer. 'Money isn't an issue, Mr Caven. I want the best you've got.'

  35

  At ten to twelve Faith pulled on her coat, stepped off the train at Victoria station and began to walk down the platform, with butterflies in her stomach.

  She'd spent an age deciding what to wear and had changed clothes in front of the mirror three times. Finally she had settled on a navy trouser suit, scarlet body, and ankle boots she'd paid an extravagant sum for. But she was glad she'd bought them: they made her feel good every time she wore them. Especially now.

  Zipped into an inside pocket in her handbag, and safely switched off, was her old mobile phone. In her hand she carried the tiny brand new Nokia, with its new number, which she had bought earlier this morning with cash from her personal savings account.

  When she reached the end of the platform she used her new phone to call Oliver Cabot's mobile number.

  'Oliver? I'm here!'

  A booming Tannoy announcement almost drowned his reply. She could just hear, 'Make a left — I'm parked outside the Grosvenor Hotel.'

  Excitement coursed through her and she had to make a conscious effort to stop herself breaking into a run.

  She barged into a large Middle Eastern man lugging a suitcase on wheels and apologised. Then she collided with a backpacker. 'Sorry,' she said, and carried on, threading through the crowds who seemed to be pouring into the station and leaving it at the same time.

  Then she was outside in chilly spring air, the smell of petrol fumes, the thunder of buses, the rattle of a taxi, angry blasts of a horn. She hurried past the window of a foreign-exchange stall, a news-vendor, ducked around a gaggle of Japanese students who were blocking the pavement, heard the ting of a bicycle bell and the blare of another horn. Then she saw the navy blue Jeep ahead, flasher winking.

  Oliver!

  He was standing there, anxiously scanning the crowds, a blur of silver hair, huge smile, black polo-neck, outstretched arms. He seemed even better-looking than the image she had carried in her mind during the past three long days.

  'Faith!'

  'Hi! I'm sorry, the train was late!' She felt his outstretched arms close around her and they kissed, left cheek then right cheek. Gently, he pushed her back to arm's length, his smile changing to a frown.

  'Your face — what happened?'

  She'd been rehearsing this, but her delivery came out sounding clumsy. 'Oh — I just, um, tripped on one of my son's toy cars, caught my head on the corner of a wardrobe. It's nothing.'

  'Is it hurting?'

  'No — it hurt like hell last night after the anaesthetic —' She stopped. She'd already said more than she intended.

  'Anaesthetic? You had stitches?'

  'Just a few.'

  'Where? In hospital?'

  'No, er, Ross — happened to be around.' Her feigned innocence sounded just that. 'Couldn't really have a better person to do it!'

  'No,' he agreed, with a laugh that ran out of steam half-way up his throat.

  A traffic warden was approaching. Oliver ushered Faith into the car and started the engine. It felt warm as toast in the Jeep, and as they pulled out into the traffic, she felt snug, safe.

  Free.

  He turned his head. 'Do you like Thai food?'

  She hesitated. Thailand, where she'd recently been with Ross. And from where she had returned with the bug. The choice seemed a lousy omen, but she wasn't going to let it bother her. 'Love it.'

  'There's a great little place I go to. One of London's best-kept secrets.'

  'My lips are sealed.'

  The wipers flicked away a few spots of rain. Classic FM was playing on the radio, Elgar, a rousing, uplifting piece, the kind of music men held in their hearts as they marched towards battle; the kind of music that could make you feel invincible. And she felt joyously, recklessly invincible. Sitting high up in the Jeep someone they knew might easily spot her, and she knew she ought to be worried, but she wasn't. She felt higher than any happy pill could have made her.

  Oliver turned right, past the coach station, heading into Belgravia. There was an easy silence between them. She watched the traffic through the windscreen, detached from it by the cocoon of the car and the music.

  This felt so good. So damned dangerously good.

  Then the dark shadow of Ross's attacks on Alec and her on Thursday evening was stalking her again. She'd had nightmares for the past four nights. There was no question that, however much she tried to play it down in her mind, Ross's behaviour was getting worse. He had never hit Alec or her before.

  He'd been full of remorse the next day. On Saturday afternoon after playing golf he'd brought home a massive bunch of flowers for her, and an electric car for Alec, which he could actually sit in and drive. He'd taken her out to dinner on Saturday night. On Sunday he'd made her breakfast in bed, something he'd done maybe twice before in their entire married life. Then he'd taken Alec on a bike ride. After Sunday lunch the three of them had gone out for a long walk, something they used to love doing together but hadn't done for a long time.

  But none of it had meant anything to her. She had done her best to get through the weekend without another confrontation, scared that now Ross had finally crossed that Rubicon of violence he might now hit Alec or her again at any time.

  'Your husband hit you, didn't he?'

  Oliver startled her. Had he been reading her thoughts?

  She considered the question carefully, unsure whether she wanted him to know, deeply humiliated. Slowly, she turned towards him and nodded.

  36

  The newsagent's was busy, filled with kids on their way home from school, buying sweets and cigarettes. No one took any notice of the tall schoolboy standing by the newspapers, browsing the latest edition of the Streatham Advertiser, which had come in today.

  Ross found what he was looking for on page five. He couldn't have missed it. He had expected to find a couple of lines, but this was almost half a page, with the headline: man dies in arson blaze, and a photograph of his mother with the caption, Rosamund ransome. critical.

  Glancing round to ensure that no one noticed, he scanned the article, then read it through again carefully.

  An arsonist was almost certainly responsible for a blaze on Monday night that claimed one life and left another person critical.

  Streatham taxi driver Reginald Malcolm Tyler, 24, was rushed to King's College Hospital following a blaze at a first-floor flat in Lackham Road on Monday night, but was pronounced dead on arrival. The flat's tenan
t, Mrs Rosamund Ransome, 36, a cashier at the Co-op, was transferred to the burns unit at East Grinstead Hospital with 60 per cent burns to her body and face.

  Police have refused to confirm reports that a can of petrol was recovered from the blaze scene. DCI David Gaylor of Streatham Police said, 'I am treating this blaze as suspicious and we have opened a murder inquiry on the dead man. We would welcome calls to our incident room from members of the public who saw anything suspicious in the vicinity of Lackham Road on Monday night.'

  The police have no leads at present, but DCI Gaylor confirmed they are anxious to interview acquaintances of Mrs Ransome. A neighbour, whose name and address is withheld, said that divorcee Mrs Ransome had a number of men callers.

  There was no mention that she had a son. That both relieved and angered him.

  The following morning Ross emptied his savings from a small metal box into his jacket pocket. Then, instead of attending school, he took a bus to Clapham Junction railway station, and bought a return ticket to East Grinstead. He only just had enough money.

  The events of the past week had depleted his cash reserves. But they had been well worth it.

  37

  'Do you eat shrimp?'

  'Shrimp?'

  'They do a terrific shrimp starter.'

  'You mean prawn?'

  'Uh-huh.' Then, mocking, he put on an exaggerated English accent: 'I say, old girl, they do an absolutely ripping line in jolly old prawns here, don't you know? Top-hole and all that. Spiffing.'

  Faith laughed, and the happiness in her face seemed to Oliver to fill the whole restaurant with light and warmth. He stared at her across the fresh linen, the tall, gleaming glasses and the single-stem vase with a purple orchid. It felt so good to see her pretty face all lit up with laugh lines, those gorgeous, alert blue eyes, the blonde sheen of her hair, her elegant clothes. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to hold her in his arms, hug her tight.