The doorman thrust the hood back over my head. I instinctively jerked my head around. I could make out the faintest splinters of light from the exposed bulb’s efforts splitting the fabric, but nothing more.
“Good bye, detective,” Karl said. I could feel his weight walking past me and then heard him move up a staircase, back to his party and his prey. The doorman shoved me in the back, hard, and I stumbled. He grabbed my elbow, and we moved past the table and to the back wall. I still couldn’t see, and not having my hands to wave in front of me left me feeling doubly exposed.
A door opened, and I was pushed through. We were outside. He shoved me again and I lurched forward.
I could hear the party and its revelries getting fainter behind me. I tried to keep my back straight, and put one foot in front of the other. The air was cool—I could feel it chilling against the spreading sweat on my shirt. The sun was bright enough that I could feel its heat through the hood.
“Nice day,” I said, but a little quietly. The doorman said nothing. The ground, all pebbles and twigs, squeaked and crunched under our footsteps. I could no longer hear even the music coming from the house. Above me, there was a slight trilling of birds.
I wanted him to take off the hood. I wanted to really feel the sun, and I wanted to see the sky, just for one more minute. I was too afraid to ask. I didn’t trust my voice. Another sharp push to the back, and I staggered again. Straightening, I gritted my teeth and turned around.
“Look, asshole,” I snarled, “Just get on with it, all right? Cut the mind-fuck bullshit and let’s go.”
The sun disappeared for a split-second, blocked out, and then I felt the weight of metal against my chin. I stumbled back, and he reached out, steadying me. He pulled the hood off, and I blinked, sucking in a greedy gulp of cold air.
We were by my car. I slipped to one knee. The doorman loomed above me with the revolver in his hand, which he was tucking into the back of his trousers. I raised a hand to signal my compliance. Impatient, he stuck his hand out. I took it and he pulled me up and pushed me towards my beautiful, beautiful Saab.
I slid into the driver’s seat and caught my reflection: Cracked lips, a lot of swelling, and a very black eye hanging under my left socket.
He handed me the water.
“Do what you’re told,” was all he said. I drank from the bottle, refusing eye contact, and I managed as non-committal a grunt as I could muster.
He reached in and grabbed my left index finger from the wheel, and pulled it back. I yelped and instinctively tried to work it free, but no go.
“The only reason you’re leaving here is because we are fairly certain someone is waiting for you.” He gave my finger a final enthusiastic yank and then releasing it—agonizing, but not quite broken. “I ask you to take this gift—of your life—and make better choices regarding us in the future.”
I was out of wise-ass comments. I held up my hands and nodded, beaten. I twisted the key, the engine caught. I slipped the car into drive, keeping my foot on the brake and my eyes on him. He looked a little bored, his gaze drifting back to the house and the party. I popped the door and drove it into his knees.
“Blyat!” he roared, buckling over.
I drew the door back and thrust it out again, this time connecting with the crown of his head. I could see blood quickly roping through his hair—his scalp was split. He lunged towards the door, but I had already pulled away. I began to cackle, gleefully and loudly, palming the wheel and forgetting about my own messed-up face and loosened teeth for a second. I stamped the gas and gravel flew. I watched him fumble in his jacket, then, thinking better of it, he started to run after the car. But he was soon just a shrinking blur in my rear-view mirror.
My hands were shaking and my chest surging. There was the chance, of course, of some payback for that. Fucking worth it, I thought. I flipped on the radio, tapping along with one hand, still smiling, idly thumbing through the papers and envelopes with the other. I drove, briskly, towards Bath, where I was planning to regroup. I’d wait until I was fully out of sight of Karl’s estate before making the call.
The papers were a mess. I attempted to stuff them back in the satchel with my free hand. It was then that I saw the postcard, cheery and yellow, showing a sunny day on a sparkling white sand beach that ran alongside a bustling city. It was so bright. That’s what I would remember.
It was so bright, so free.
My eyes focused.
GREETINGS FROM SUNNY SAN DIEGO
I flipped it over. My name and office address were printed neatly on the right. And on the left, just one line in the middle of the white space provided:
Wish you were here
Over the ‘i’, a tiny perfect heart to mark where the dot should have been.
36
“You look a fright,” Calloway said. He was sipping his tea and picking disinterestedly at a sausage roll. We were the only patrons in the caf, as it was almost five o’clock the day before Christmas, but the waitress didn’t seem to care. She and the cook were in amiable conversation about something I couldn’t hear. In my defence, my right ear was still ringing a bit, so hearing everything wasn’t going to be my strength for a few days.
I had been to the washroom already to try and freshen up but this was, sadly, as good as it was going to get. “Sorry to disappoint,” I said. “For our next get-together I’ll try and make more of an effort.”
“What’d you get?” he asked, placing the mug down.
I took out a pad and sketched out the layout of the house and the grounds, plus a rough approximation of the cellar. As I drew, I told him what happened.
“That it?” he asked.
“Sorry,” I said. “Did I mention the whole getting the piss knocked out of me, or should I go over that?”
Calloway sat back. We were at a booth by the window and he looked outside as a light rain began to fall, barely more than a mist.
“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Calloway said. “But you didn’t see anything actually illegal, right?”
“No,” I said. “But there was another mover there, guy named Mackenzie. He’s looking to get a bigger piece of the action. You should keep tabs on him, too. He’ll flip to save his own skin if he gets anything you can use about Karl’s operation.”
Calloway looked my face over and smirked.
“You sure about that? Karl seems persuasive.”
“A master negotiator,” I said. I leaned back and stretched. The waitress refilled my coffee and I thanked her.
“No problem,” she said, laying down the bill. “You lads take your time.”
We sat in silence for a moment as we sipped our respective beverages.
“Plans for the holidays?” Calloway finally asked.
“Dinner tomorrow at my colleague’s. Boxing Day, I’m seeing my daughter. You?”
He shrugged. “Nothing too big. I’m working tomorrow morning, actually. But maybe dinner with friends in the evening.”
“Busy, busy. You get that move to Professional Standards?”
He nodded. “I haven’t forgotten my offer. I’m sure there will be work for you if you want it.”
“I’m undecided about my career plans right now. But thank you.”
“Either way, thanks for doing this. We didn’t know the Bravta was moving so heavy into the sex trade. Hell, this guy might be a new player. Either way, we might be able to stay ahead of that curve, so we owe you one.”
I put down my coffee. Time to get a move on back into London. I pulled my suit jacket on over my now-wretched shirt and stood. “You’re welcome,” I said, and I meant it. I extended my hand. We shook.
“Hey, did he say anything about the Claymore girl?” Calloway asked, as he stood. I opened my wallet, but he shook his head. “On me.”
“No. And I thought that one over. She’s gone, either way. Hell, maybe you guys got the actual truth from Lotte: Topped herself, just like she said. Makes the most sense and it’s the easiest explanation. I was get
ting a bit carried away thinking anything different, I suppose.”
The rain had picked up a bit. I watched it slap the glass, watched as some of the drops pulled free and raced each other to the bottom of the pane. I kept my eyes away from the inspector, affecting indifference as I faced the window. I waited.
Calloway buttoned his coat. We regarded each other in the doorway for a moment, until he finally just shrugged and headed out into the early evening’s dusk.
“Happy Christmas, Grayle,” Calloway said. “Take care, yeah?”
37
That night I spent Christmas Eve convalescing on my couch, eating passable chicken doner and Thai chilli crisps from the only two places open for business near my flat. I did some reading, made some case notes and kept ice on my lip and eye. The next morning’s reflection looked somewhat better but it was still all a bit gruesome.
“Yikes,” Charlie said when she opened the door to her Archway flat. Clean, nice-ish neighbourhood, but certainly nothing fancy.
“Yeah, thanks,” I said, stepping in. “Guess it’s a bit more Halloween than Christmas on my face, sorry.”
“I expected worse, actually,” she said, taking my coat. “But, yeah, still pretty bad. Good Lord.”
“Wait, what?” I asked, touching my mouth and cheek. “Am I bleeding again?”
“What are you wearing?” she said, unable to stifle a short, incredulous laugh.
“Jeans.” I tried to sound less defensive than I felt.
“It’s just… wow. They look very new, Thad,” she said. “Are they ironed?”
“No, they’re not ironed. They’re just very stiff. I’m still breaking them in.”
“Well, you look very nice. And certainly more your old self from the waist up.” I was wearing a dark V-neck sweater, white oxford shirt, and a red striped tie. She gave me a polite peck on the cheek.
“Thought I’d go for the festive-casual vibe,” I said, handing her a bottle. “I think I saw it in GQ a few years ago.”
“Thanks,” she said taking the wine and leading me to the kitchen. “Mum! Thaddeus is here!”
“Who?” her mother called. “Charlotte, who’s there?”
Charlie stopped me by the kitchen. She took a breath. When she had steeled herself somewhat, she spoke. “My mum is not well. She likely will not remember who you are, and she may confuse you with other people. And she hasn’t been the same since my dad passed, so she will want to talk about him at some point. Just smile and nod. But don’t condescend to her. She might be sick, but she can still tell when people are talking down to her. I know maybe we should have talked about this before but we’re here now and we’re going to try and have a lovely day, a nice Christmas. So, all good?”
I was surprised; not that Charlie’s mom was unwell—she had told me this before—but because I hadn’t realised her parents were older. And then I remembered I had never asked, not once, about her family in any serious way during the time we had worked together.
Son of a bitch.
I nodded. She opened the door.
Charlie’s mom was still in her dressing gown but managed to be elegant nonetheless. Her hair and makeup were perfect and there was a sprig of jewelled holly on her lapel.
“Hello, Mrs. Colbourne. I’m Thaddeus. I work with your daughter.”
“Happy Christmas, Thaddeus.”
“Thank you. Same to you, ma’am.”
“Oh, he’s so polite,” Mrs. Colbourne said to Charlie, smiling. “And he brought a gift?”
“Yep,” Charlie said, rustling in a drawer for an opener. “Very conscientious of him, especially when I told him to.” She finally pulled one loose and began working the cork.
“Wow,” she said, checking out the label. “Bordeaux? That’s a bit posh, isn’t it?”
“I had bought it a little while ago for a friend. But I decided to hold onto it in the end.”
“We’ll give it a good home,” she said, pouring two glasses. She handed one to her mother and a tumbler of ginger ale to me.
We raised our drinks.
38
The day passed. We ate turkey and all its proverbial trimmings, pulled crackers and wore the crowns, and watched a lot of TV. Christmas in England always seemed to peter out by the afternoon. Mrs. Colbourne had a final brandy and dozed on the couch. Charlie and I sat at the kitchen table, taking turns picking the lamest Christmas songs we could find on her laptop’s iTunes and via YouTube.
I told her about the party, Karl, Calloway and, finally, the post card. She took it all in.
“That is some day at work,” she finally said, sipping a coffee and Baileys. I was easily on my second litre of Canada Dry. “So, she’s in the States?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. That card could have been sent from anywhere. Regardless, it was very likely her letting me know she’s alive and very likely hooked up with Lotte. She would have told her I was working the case and that I knew about California. Wherever they are, they’re off the radar for now, and I’d like to think likely safe. I mean, they’re pretty resourceful, if nothing else.”
“Soooo, what now?” she asked after a moment, leaning across the table to play some more festive dreck.
“About what, the case? Well, that’s it. A postcard’s not proof of anything. My hunch feels like it was right, and it likely is. And we managed to get something possibly useful to the cops about a very, very bad dude.”
“What about Mr. Claymore?”
I sighed and squeezed the back of my neck, still stiff from my head snapping back yesterday when taking those punches. “I’ll tell him.”
“Even though it’s not concrete?”
“It’s his call what he wants to do next. Proof or not, he paid his bill.”
“Which was before you went to the world’s worst holiday party—”
“Hey, that was a pretty swank bash before I was knocked unconscious and dragged into a basement.”
“Which means your professional obligation is done. Finished. You worked this part pro bono.”
I looked at Charlie’s soft smile—she looked gentle, yes, but also something else was there. Protective, and maybe even a little proud. I felt a twinge, one of both longing and regret.
I put my hand on hers. She looked at me, lips still curled upwards, genial and gracious. I slipped my fingers around hers and squeezed. Those snowflake fingernails were only slightly chipped. I gently reached across with my other hand and touched her cheek.
“Thad,” she said, softly.
“Charlie—”
“Thad, don’t,” she said. She pulled her hand away, kindly but firmly.
We sat in silence for a moment. I stared at the floor tiles and felt the rockets burst just beneath my cheeks.
“I care about you,” she said. “And yes, I’ve thought about it a few times. But, no.”
“I’m sorry,” I muttered.
“Don’t be,” she said, and touched my forearm. “Please. It’s just not a good idea. I need you to hear me out about something.”
I finally looked up.
“Have you thought about what you’re doing next? For you?”
“Probably take a little time off. Other than that, I haven’t thought about it at all.”
“You were thinking about getting out, quitting, maybe doing something else?”
“Well, yeah,” I said. I shifted in my chair. “But maybe not.”
“Why are you rethinking?”
“I don’t know how to explain it,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “I just… It was different. There was… well, I don’t know. It was better, maybe.”
“Was it fun?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said immediately. “Yes, it was. I guess that’s all there is to it. It was crazy. And weird. And terrifying. But fun, yeah. And I felt like I was doing good work. And I was good at it.”
She took that in.
“My mum is getting worse,” she said, quietly. “She’ll need to be in a home in a year or two. I’m putti
ng school on hold.”
“OK.”
“And you need a new associate.”
“What?” I asked after a beat, realizing where this was going.
“Ruddick is gone, and you’ll need someone you can trust out there working for you. I’m not a former cop, but I’m smart and I’m committed. Plus, we are going to be getting more and more tech stuff, more social media stuff, and I’m up to speed.”
I considered this.
“And you sound like you have a new friend at Scotland Yard, anyways,” she said.
I considered this, as well.
“What do you think?” She smiled, cautiously optimistic that she had made her case.
I put my elbows on the table and rested my chin on my fists. Admittedly, she had made a good case.
The reality is, many decisions of your life, including the big ones, the life-changers, take place at moments like these. They’re unexpected moments, sure, but they’re still here: Here in the banality of a kitchen listening to godawful songs, or a burger shop check-out, or sipping a cuppa while waiting for the toast to pop. They come without fanfare, without warning, and certainly without glamour. We want to imagine different, but they don’t. The decisions we make—who we work with, who we stay in touch with, who we love, who we betray—they all happen somewhere in between the everyday manoeuvers we navigate, the motions we go through. We want to think they’re special, but they’re not.
It’s because we’re not special. That’s what I’ve learned in this job. I’ve seen husbands and wives let out howls of rage and heartbreak that only lies can give us, all with nothing more than a few printed e-mails or a packet of photos. I’ve seen both the strong and the proud choke back their anguish before finally conceding defeat and letting it all out through tears and barked sobs. That little office has seen real misery play itself out in front of my desk, and what you learn watching someone at their most broken and vulnerable is that no one’s pain is any different or any more important than anyone else’s.
Even I won’t say that love is pain. But to have love is to accept that pain is a very real part of the deal. We pretend like we know that, but we don’t. We don’t truly know it until people leave us. Physically, sure, but also in the silence they let grow between us, the words that are never said.
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