by Tony Kent
Michael walked towards the door, taking a detour on the way to pick out a bottle of Corona from the pantry’s refrigerator. He popped the lid as he walked. Took a long swig as he headed outside.
The sight that greeted Michael as he reached the top of the stairs was exactly as expected. Sarah and Anne Flaherty were seated around the long metal garden dining table with a wine glass each. Sarah’s glass was half full. Anne’s less so. An empty bottle of white wine sat in front of her, next to a cooler.
Both women noticed Michael at the same time.
‘Do I need to ask?’ he said, in reaction to two welcoming smiles, nodding towards the empty bottle as he spoke.
‘If you insist, Mikey,’ Anne replied. Her voice was full of affection. It always was when she spoke to Michael.
Michael returned the smile before doubling back into the kitchen for another bottle. He reappeared less than a minute later, walked down the steps and poured a fresh glass for Anne. He then topped up Sarah with barely a drop before putting the new bottle into the cooler and taking a seat between them.
‘Quitting again tomorrow, are you?’
Michael had noticed the cigarette in Sarah’s hand. He smiled as he spoke, making it clear that his question was light-hearted.
‘Leave the girl alone, Mikey.’ Anne seemed to have missed Michael’s playful tone. He could see why. She had clearly put away more of the first bottle of wine than Sarah. ‘She works hard. She’s allowed to relax.’
‘But she only relaxes this way when she’s with you,’ Michael replied. ‘You’re a bad influence, Anne Flaherty.’
This time Michael’s tone was unmistakable. He was teasing both his wife and his oldest friend. It was a relief to finally be playful.
‘So how was your day, Mikey?’
‘Long and emotional,’ Michael replied. He noticed his own Northern Irish accent becoming more pronounced, as it so often did when he was with Anne. ‘Everything went a bit mad with Phillip Longman’s murder.’
‘Is that the judge Sarah was telling me about?’
‘Yeah. He was a big name in the legal world. A huge name. The whole Temple pretty much shut down when the news came out.’
‘How’s Derek?’ asked Sarah. ’Have you spoken to him?’
‘Earlier, yeah. He’s holding up. He’s with Longman’s son. Helping him through. To be honest, I think he’s keeping himself busy so as not to fall apart.’
‘Did Derek know him, then?’ Anne asked.
‘He did, yeah,’ Michael replied. ‘Longman was Derek’s pupil-master. Like Derek was mine. Knowing Derek, I really don’t think he could have lost anyone closer.’
‘Jesus. The poor man.’
Anne lit another cigarette and took a sip of wine. Michael could see the sympathy in her eyes. If anyone could empathise with Derek’s loss, it was Anne Flaherty.
‘Are you going to see him?’ Sarah asked.
‘Tomorrow. I’ve got to meet the junior in my murder trial in the morning. Then I’m going to head to Derek’s place and make sure he’s OK.’
‘You’ll give him our best?’ Sarah said, her voice concerned. ‘And make sure he knows that we’re here for him?’
‘I already have, sweetheart.’ Michael reached across and squeezed Sarah’s hand, grateful to see her genuine care for his friend. ‘But for now there’s nothing we can really do for him. For now it’s Derek who’s being the moral support, to Longman’s sons. But it’ll come. He’ll need a shoulder sooner or later.’
No one spoke for a few moments. All thoughts were on Derek Reid. Michael took another long swig of lager. Anne did the same with her wine. Sarah stubbed out her cigarette and took a sip from her glass.
Finally Sarah spoke.
‘Don’t share this with Derek, but from what I gather it seems Longman died badly. Real nasty stuff.’
‘What did the police tell you?’
‘Nothing, really. But you know how it works. If it was straightforward – if it was just the average murder, no matter the victim – they’d let us know that, off the record. But they won’t tell us anything on this one yet. Nothing at all. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, that’s a bad death. Add in the team in charge of the investigation and the story nearly writes itself.’
‘Which team?’ Michael asked. ‘Who’s in charge?’
‘Joelle Levy. Major Investigation Team One from Scotland Yard.’
‘They’re taking this seriously, then.’
‘You know that team?’
‘I know Levy. I’ve cross-examined her.’ Michael’s career had included many major cases. In that time he had encountered most of London’s top cops. ‘She’s good. Formidable.’
‘She seemed fairly reasonable to me,’ Sarah observed. ‘None of the uncooperative crap we sometimes have to deal with.’
‘Just stay on her good side,’ Michael advised. ‘You won’t want to see the bad one.’
Sarah nodded. ‘I’ll make sure and stay friendly.’ She squeezed Michael’s hand as she spoke. Nothing more needed to be said on the subject.
A comfortable silence fell between them all. Michael took another long taste of his beer and sat back into his chair, enjoying a light, warm breeze that had grown out of nowhere. Sarah did the same, only to see the small sip she had taken from her wine glass replaced by far more from the bottle now in Anne’s hand. What was left was then poured into Anne’s now-empty glass, before she climbed to her feet and headed towards the kitchen.
‘There’s time for one more,’ Anne said, speaking over her shoulder as she climbed the first step.
‘How many has she had?’ Michael asked, his voice now quiet.
‘This’ll be the third bottle.’ Sarah answered. ‘And she’s had most of them.’
Michael shook his head.
Already one too many.
Anne’s drinking had been a concern for months. Longer, maybe. But so far Michael had been unable to bring himself to confront her about it. He had tried to rationalise his reluctance, telling himself that it was not that bad. Then that it was her life. But deep down, he knew the cause. Michael did not raise the subject of Anne’s drinking because, ultimately, he believed it was his fault.
Anne had been Michael’s sister-in-law in all but name. The partner of his brother Liam since they were teenagers, she had stayed in Liam’s life when Michael had not. And she had still been there when Michael had returned after two decades, running for his life from a professional killer hunting both him and Sarah.
Michael had brought that threat into Anne and Liam’s world. A threat which had ended in Liam’s death and with Anne a shell of her former self.
Michael would have given anything to turn back the clock. To keep his brother alive. That was impossible. But he could take responsibility for his brother’s broken ‘widow’, and that was exactly what he had done.
‘How was she before I got here?’ Michael asked.
‘She had on a brave face like always,’ Sarah replied. ‘But I could tell she’d been crying before I got home.’
‘And drinking?’
‘Didn’t seem like it,’ said Sarah. ‘But then she can hold her liquor a hell of a lot better than I can, so maybe.’
‘Look, I’m really sorry.’ It was not the first time Michael had apologised for imposing Anne on Sarah’s life. Guilt built upon guilt. ‘This won’t be forever. I promise that. Anne will get better, and when she does we’ll find her her own place. It’s not like she can’t afford it.’
‘Michael, how many times do I have to tell you? Anne is not your imposition on me. It wasn’t just you who went to Liam. It wasn’t just you Liam was protecting. Christ, if it wasn’t for me then neither of you would have been in that cabin. I owe Anne as much as you do. And besides, she’s family now. She can stay with us as long as she likes, on one condition.’
‘That we help her get better.’ Michael had heard the condition before.
‘That we help her get better, yeah. We’re doing her no good by enabling her
. But as long as we’re helping, as long as she’s getting better, then she’s got a home here.’
Michael reached out and gripped Sarah’s hand once again. Tightly this time.
‘You really are perfect, Sarah Truman.’
‘Nobody’s perfect, Michael Devlin,’ Sarah replied with a broad grin. ‘But yeah, I run it close.’
‘Just that humility that’s missing, eh?’ Michael laughed.
‘Just that, yeah!’
‘What’s so funny?’
Michael and Sarah were still laughing as they looked up to see Anne walking down the steps, a fresh bottle of wine in her hand.
Michael rose from his chair and moved towards her.
‘Change of plan.’ He was careful to keep his tone playful as he reached out and took the wine bottle from her hand. ‘Enough booze for tonight. I’m taking my girls out to eat.’
‘I’m not hungry, Mikey,’ Anne protested. ‘Let’s stay here and enjoy the garden.’
‘Don’t care,’ Michael replied. ‘After the day I’ve had I’m bloody famished, and I hate eating alone. Now go get yourself ready. We’re leaving in ten.’
FIFTEEN
Adam Blunt did not try to suppress his smile as the news report ended.
It was the fourth time he had watched the same bulletin.
The first had come as a shock. But the repeats had been for entertainment. And he was not tiring of it yet.
I could watch this all day long, he chuckled to himself.
Blunt had hated Phillip Longman for almost twenty-five years, although their first encounter had been years before that. Early in Longman’s judicial career. Back then Longman had been the legal world’s rising star. Blunt had heard that long before meeting the man. What he had not heard was that Longman was also an uptight, preachy hypocrite. At least that was how Blunt remembered it. True or not, there was no doubt that the two men disliked one another intensely.
Every time Blunt appeared in Longman’s court he seemed to be criticised. And that criticism hurt. Not personally – Blunt couldn’t give two shits for what Phillip Longman thought – but professionally? Such repeated attacks by a well-respected judge could only be damaging. Still, Blunt had survived them. Bloody and bruised, but still standing. Until their final case, where Longman went further than ever before and ended Blunt’s first career.
Blunt could never forget that. And he would never forgive.
In the years that followed, their paths had crossed only occasionally. Blunt was never more than an ambulance chaser as a solicitor, and so was rarely involved in cases serious enough to come before a judge as important as Longman. That had become only more true as Longman had risen through the judicial ranks. And yet, every now and again, Blunt had still found himself in Longman’s court.
Each time had brought back memories. Each time had made him hate the man more. Which was why he smirked to himself now, as he watched the report of Longman’s murder with grim satisfaction.
I hope the bastard suffered, he thought, for what could be the hundredth time that day.
The pleasure was short-lived, banished in a moment by the familiar stabbing pain in Blunt’s gut. It distracted him from his enjoyment, just as it distracted him from everything else. It was not a constant pain. Sometimes it went away. Sometimes the drugs worked. But mostly it was there, crippling and mocking in equal measure.
He gritted his teeth and forced the pain from his mind as best he could. He would not allow it to destroy this moment for him. He had so very little left. He would at least enjoy today.
The diagnosis had come a year before. Bowel cancer. Six months at most. But here he still was, twelve months later. Alive and kicking. Well, alive at least. Something had kept Blunt going. Not family, of which he had none. Not friends, of which he had just as few. And certainly not hope for the future; Blunt had sold his law firm before his illness and had retired to the Suffolk coast alone. What future was there?
No. It had been none of these things that had kept Blunt alive. It had been God, he now realised. God – or whatever the higher power was – had kept Blunt here long enough to see Longman’s violent death.
Blunt looked towards his wall. The clock hanging upon it read 3.10 a.m. He no longer kept normal hours. He just slept when the medication made him. And when he did sleep it did not matter where. Blunt had slept in his armchair much more than his bed in the last few months. If anything, that was a relief. The effort of moving from seated to standing was becoming more than he could take.
The medication did not control his bladder, however. Blunt’s bowels had rebelled against him. They were slowly killing him. But right now his need to urinate was a more immediate problem.
He climbed to his feet. Slowly. Painfully. The closed door of the living room was perhaps ten feet away, give or take. Blunt could make that distance, but any further would have been a problem.
He took a few moments to regain his breath. Just getting out of his chair was getting much harder, he realised. The beginning of the end.
Still, I beat Longman.
The first steps had to be steady. A stumble could be fatal. Blunt knew that, and so he took a few seconds more before moving. Right foot first. Slowly, but not so slow that he would lack momentum. One step. Two steps. Three steps. The door came closer with each. Four. Five. Six. Closer still. Seven. Eight. Nine. The door was in reach. Blunt put out an open hand as he took the final two steps. He gripped the door handle and rested his shoulder onto the frame. To take the weight that now threatened to fall.
His breaths came thick and fast. Eleven steps had sapped his energy.
Eleven fucking steps.
The thought angered him. How had it come to this? How could he end this way, broken and alone? Only the thought of Longman’s fate held off a bout of despair.
It took over a minute for Blunt to recover enough energy to continue. Hopefully enough to see him through the four more steps to the washroom on the other side of the closed door.
It would have to be. His bladder would not wait.
He gripped the handle tight and pulled hard to open the door.
The sight that greeted him put everything else out of his mind.
‘Right.’ Blunt spoke almost to himself as he faced the palest eyes he had ever seen. Eyes from his distant past. Their appearance was almost a relief.
He began to smile as he uttered his final words.
‘Well, that makes sense.’
SIXTEEN
Levy glanced at her watch as she finished setting the table for breakfast.
Still on time, just about.
‘Richard, it’s on the table,’ she called out, raising her voice just slightly. The house was not big. Just two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. It did not take a bellow to be heard.
The sound of fast footsteps on the staircase was immediate and moments later her ten-year-old son Richard burst into the kitchen. He took a seat at the small dining table and tackled his breakfast enthusiastically.
They ate in silence. Levy had raised Richard to be well-mannered, which included not speaking with a mouthful of food. She had also taught him the importance of eating when he had the chance; that he would never know for sure when the next meal would come. It was a lesson Levy had learned in the Israeli military. Breakfast – like every other meal – was, first and foremost, functional.
‘You were late last night, Mum,’ Richard said when he had finally finished his food. ‘I woke up when you got home.’
‘I know I was, Richard. I’m sorry.’
It was not unusual for Levy to keep unpredictable hours and to miss her son’s bedtime. The frequency did not improve her feelings of guilt.
‘Yesterday was a very long day.’
‘What happened?’
‘You really don’t want to know, Richard.’
Levy was used to her son’s questions. He was an intelligent boy, well educated and mature. She would sometimes tell him about her cases – just the broad strokes and heavily edi
ted – but this would not be one of those times.
‘It was a nasty business.’
Richard nodded his head. Young as he was, Richard knew when his mother did not want to answer, and he understood enough about her job not to press her.
‘Will you be late again tonight, Mum?’
‘I hope not.’ Levy was not about to make a promise she could not keep. She had made that mistake before. ‘I don’t think so, I mean. But you never know after yesterday. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure Claire is around to look after you if I get stuck.’
Claire Gordon was a local girl well used to Levy’s last-minute need for her services. Over the years she had been paid a large chunk of Levy’s salary in childcare fees.
Which means more money out, Levy thought to herself. Along with everything else.
Levy had fallen pregnant aged twenty-eight, barely two years into her time with the police. It had not been planned and she had not known the father. Levy was far from promiscuous; she could count her sexual partners on one hand. Only once in her life had she slept with a man she could not call her boyfriend. Richard had been the result.
Levy had spent the next eleven years turning that accident into a blessing. And a blessing it had become in every way but one: her finances.
Driven to give Richard as full a life as she could, Levy had pushed hard for promotion. She had achieved it and had used the increased salary to find a home in a good area, close to the best schools. But a detective chief inspector’s salary did not go far in a place like Highgate and so Levy had settled for a small house. It was barely big enough for them both, but was in the best location for her son’s future.
‘Are you driving me to school today, Mum?’
Richard’s question broke the silence that had fallen.
Levy looked at her watch. 8 a.m.
‘Yes, definitely.’ Levy reached out and ruffled her son’s hair as she spoke. Her mind had been drifting back to Phillip Longman. One look at Richard’s face banished those thoughts. ‘But we’ll have to leave a little early, OK?’
