I return to Margie. She’s standing by the stove, methodically stirring the spaghetti with a wooden fork. She doesn’t hear me come in. She’s staring at the steam and swirling pasta as if she’s in a trance.
“That’ll do,” I say to her gently. “It’ll be another five minutes or so. You can leave it now.”
She turns quickly, startled, splashing the back of hand with some drops of boiling water. She drops the fork into the pan, sucks her hand.
“Careful!” I say. I smile at her. “You didn’t get yourself a drink. Would you like one now?”
“Yes, please. Just water.”
I debate whether to pour myself a glass of wine and decide that I probably shouldn’t. She’s old enough to drink, but still it could make things awkward. I fill two glasses with sparkling water and take them to the kitchen table.
“Come and sit down,” I say. “We can keep an eye on that from here.”
Hesitantly, she obeys. She takes a sip from the water and plays with her thumb in the ridges made by the pattern on the glass.
“What did you want to see me about?”
She looks up, meets my eye and shrinks away again. She seems timid, yet I note again the streak of defiance in her manner which I first spotted at Mrs Sims’.
I smile.
“I won’t eat you,” I say.
“I don’t suppose you will. I just don’t know whether I can trust you.”
“You’ve no reason not to trust me. But if you tell me something that I feel I can’t help with, or that I don’t think is right, I promise you I won’t tell anyone else. Unless you’re breaking the law,” I add.
She grins and immediately looks her proper age again, instead of resembling an anxious young woman just this side of thirty.
“Mrs Sims said your husband is a copper.”
“He is. And I work for the police as well.”
She eyes me.
“I’ve been taught to look out for coppers.”
I laugh.
“You wouldn’t be the first. But I’m not one. I’m a police researcher. I don’t have any legal powers.”
She looks at me again, takes a deep breath and then shuts down, playing abstractedly with the glass, her eyes fixed to the table. The pan of spaghetti begins to boil over.
“God, I forgot it after all!” I say, jumping up and seizing the handle of the pan with a tea towel. I strain the spaghetti in a colander. I take out two plates and begin to ladle it onto them.
“Don’t bother for me,” says Margie gracelessly. “I’m not hungry.”
“Please yourself,” I reply, equally offhand, “But if you don’t want to talk and you don’t want to eat, I’d like you to tell me exactly why you’re here.”
Tears well up in her eyes.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so rough.” Immediately I’m repentant.
“It’s not you. It’s my Mum and Dad.”
“Mrs Sims mentioned that they might be splitting up. I’m sorry,” I say again.
“Not might be. They have. Dad’s left her for some tart who works in his office. And she’s going to pieces, drinking all the time, although there’s no money.”
“Are you very close to your Dad?”
“I was. I don’t see much of him now.”
“What about your Mum?”
“I’m living with her. That’s what they agreed on. No-one’s close to her any more. She’s just a zombie.”
“I can understand how upsetting it must be . . .”
“No, you don’t understand. It’s not about them. If they want to fuck up their lives, that’s up to them. But there’s no money now for me to go to university. I’m going to have to work until I’ve saved enough. And what I get at Mrs Sims’ is barely enough to keep me.”
“Keep you? Is your mother taking money from you?”
Margie shrugs, but I can tell she can hardly be bothered to defend her mother.
“Doesn’t have much option, I suppose.”
“I’ll try to help you, but it might take a while. I could look into scholarships, foundations that help students suffering from hardship, that sort of thing.”
She’s silent. Evidently such a solution doesn’t appeal. Perhaps it sounds too daunting.
“Did you have something else in mind?”
She scrabbles at the glass.
“I was wondering . . . you’ve seen me with Sophia; you know I’m good with her. And I know it’s hard being out at work when you’ve got a baby. The other mothers are always dashing in late or asking Mrs Sims to take their kids when they’re not really well enough to be there. I wondered if you’d like a live-in nanny? For a couple of years, maybe. Then I could save for university and Sophia would be well-looked-after until she goes to pre-school. And you wouldn’t have to worry about her.”
I’m speechless, not because I think the suggestion is outrageous, but simply because it isn’t something I’ve considered. My first reaction is that Tim and I wouldn’t be able to afford it; my second, that we’d have to think very carefully about the implications of live-in help. The bungalow is small. What’s more, Tim is implacably opposed to any kind of domestic service, which is why we don’t have a cleaner. And Margie might be good with children, but as far as I know she’s not been trained as a nanny.
“You don’t like the idea, do you?”
“I wouldn’t say I don’t like it.” She’s fragile and I know I must choose my words carefully. “You’ve taken me by surprise, that’s all. I’ll talk to my husband about it when he comes home. He’s working away at the moment.”
She gets up suddenly, almost knocking the glass flying. She catches it emphatically, stands it foursquare again.
“Don’t bother. There’s other things I can do.”
She’s out of the kitchen and has crossed the hall before I can reply.
“Thanks for the water,” she calls as she opens the door, “and for letting me put Sophia to bed.”
She doesn’t slam the door, but she’s obviously desperate to get away. I don’t call after her.
I sit at the table for a few minutes before I get up to confront the congealing spaghetti. I throw it away and contemplate cooking some more before I decide it’s not worth the effort. I spoon the bolognaise sauce onto a soup plate and eat it with a hunk of bread. When I’ve finished eating, I pour a large glass of red wine.
I’m not sure whether I’ll mention Margie’s visit to Tim. He’ll probably tear me off a strip for letting her into the house. Perhaps I shouldn’t have trusted her with Sophia, though something tells me that, even if Margie’s unstable, she would never harm a child.
Chapter 17
Tim and Derry emerged from the cool of the building into the warm evening air. There was a festive feel to the city as people finishing the working day dawdled and chatted.
“Only 6.50,” said Derry, consulting his watch. “We’ve got time for a swift drink if we step on it.”
“Where’re we going?”
“To the Tube. St James’s Park. We want to be in Tottenham Court Road, so there’s a change at Embankment, but with a bit of luck we won’t get held up.”
“Why did you choose that part of town? Because it’s cheaper than round here?” Tim smiled. He was feeling quite a lot better and had decided not to let Derry get the upper hand for once. Derry gave him a straight look.
“Not at all. It’s because Patti’s staying in a hotel nearby. St Giles. I thought it’d be better for her not to have to traipse around too much, as she doesn’t know London well. And it’ll be easy for you to get back to Waterloo afterwards.”
“Thanks,” said Tim dubiously. “Where’s the restaurant?”
“In Charlotte Street. A French place I found some time ago. And, for your information, not at all cheap.”
“I’m happy to pay my
share . . .”
“Nonsense. It was my idea, so my shout.”
Tim decided to say nothing but to play it by ear. It would be out of the question to charge a meal for three people in a fancy restaurant as subsistence (he winced inwardly as he imagined Thornton’s enraged expression) and money had been tighter since Katrin took maternity leave. But it was equally unconscionable to allow Derry to foot a very large bill on his own.
They reached Tottenham Court Road quickly. It was still only 7.15 p.m..
“St Giles is at this end, isn’t it? Are you planning to pick Patti up on the way?”
“No. She said she’d be out somewhere this afternoon: she’s coming straight from wherever.”
“We could have headed for Goodge Street, then. It would have been nearer.”
“As I said, we’ll have a swift drink along the way. There’s a pub just by the station that serves drinks outside. It need only take a few minutes.”
Again Tim felt dubious. He didn’t really want a drink and he thought it would take them at least fifteen minutes to walk most of the length of Tottenham Court Road. Wearily, he followed Derry up the station steps.
The pub was only a few yards away. Inside, it was crowded and very noisy, but Derry was right: there were a few tables outside, one of them just being vacated as they arrived.
“Grab that,” said Derry. “I’ll get them in. What’ll you have?”
“A glass of red wine, thanks. A small one.”
“Bit of a girl’s drink, that. What about a real ale? Sussex Mild?”
“Whatever you like. I’ll leave it to you.” Tim was too tired to argue. He sank down on one of the wrought iron chairs and rested his arms on the cockly table, drawing a rivulet of spilt beer towards him. He moved hastily and tried to shift the table to a more stable position.
Derry returned quickly, bearing two foaming pint glasses. He had started draining one before he handed the other to Tim.
“Just what I need,” he said with satisfaction. “It’s been a tough day.”
“It certainly has,” said Tim.
“Cheers, anyway,” said Derry, raising his glass. “And now we’re here, old son, there’s a little favour I’d like to ask of you.”
“Oh?”
“There’s no need to look like that. You know what we were talking about earlier?”
“We talked about quite a lot. Which specific thing did you have in mind?”
“The conversation about Patti. As I said, I’d like to have another go. You’d help me out if you left a bit early, so I can walk her home on my own. Should fit in with your plans, from what you’ve been saying.”
“But what if Patti..?”
“That’s up to her, isn’t it? She’s a big girl. I’m sure she knows how to say no. Besides, you’ve given up any rights you might ever have had to look out for her.”
“Don’t keep going on about it. Yes, all right, then, as long as she doesn’t seem upset when I start talking.”
“Cheers,” said Derry again, giving Tim’s arm a punch. “Drink up, now, we’re going to be late.”
Tim downed about half of the beer and immediately began to feel nauseous.
“Let’s just go, shall we? I can’t drink this in a hurry on an empty stomach.”
“As you wish. Waste of a good ale, but we’re late already. Better get a cab.”
Derry whirled into the road, his arm outstretched. A black cab stopped almost immediately. The driver didn’t complain when he was asked to turn round and head back the way he’d come.
The traffic was heavy. It was 7.45 p.m. when they reached the restaurant in Charlotte Street. Tim tried to pay the driver, but Derry insisted that he would do it, so it was Tim who entered the restaurant first. It was dark inside, the gloom accentuated by oak-panelled walls. Patti must have seen him first, because by the time his eyes were accustomed to the change in light she was already staring at him, her face a picture of astonishment not exactly tempered with pleasure.
She had been seated at a square table near the back of the room, but stood as soon as she saw him. He noticed that she was wearing a pale dress of some floaty material: an unusual garb for the Patti he knew, who spent most of her life in trousers. She extended her hand.
“DI Yates,” she said archly. “When DI Hacker said he’d like me to meet a colleague, I had no idea it would be you.” She glanced over Tim’s shoulder. “Rather disingenuous of you, really. You gave me to understand that it was someone I hadn’t met before.” The last sentence was addressed to Derry, who had just appeared behind Tim.
“I thought you’d be pleased!” Derry cackled brazenly. “Anyway, we’re all here now, and we’re going to have a bloody good evening. I’ll see to that.”
“Will you?” said Patti coolly. But Tim could see she was amused. She dropped the subject.
“Sorry we kept you waiting,” Derry continued. “I hope you’ve ordered a drink?”
“I’ve asked for a big bottle of water. I thought we’d all want some of it.”
“Possibly. But I meant a proper drink. What will it be? A gin and tonic?”
Chapter 18
Juliet resisted the temptation to fix a third Bloody Mary. She remembered she’d meant to call Katrin and looked at her watch. 9 p.m. Not too late.
Katrin took a while to answer: so long that Juliet debated whether to abandon the call before she woke the baby.
“Hello?” The voice at the other end of the phone sounded hoarse and groggy.
“Katrin? Is that you? It doesn’t sound like you.” Juliet regretted this observation immediately. Katrin sounded as if she’d been crying.
“Yes, of course it’s me.” Katrin’s false little laugh was unconvincing. “Who did you think it might be?”
“Are you OK?”
“Yes, just a bit tired after my first day back. And I had a rather strange visitor, which put me off my stroke a bit.”
Juliet noted that she didn’t mention Tim.
“Are you all right, anyway?” Katrin continued, making the question sound like a challenge. “You seemed pretty down when I saw you today.”
“I’m fine. Just wondering what I’m doing with my life, that sort of thing,” said Juliet lightly.
“Join the club!” said Katrin with feeling. As if afraid she’d been disloyal, she added, “Missing Tim, probably.”
“He’s such high maintenance, I’m surprised you aren’t enjoying a few days without him.”
They both laughed.
“Did you have a reason for calling? Not that it’s not nice to talk with you.”
“Yes. I meant to call you before you left the office this afternoon. I’ve spoken to the woman I mentioned in Peterborough, the one in social services who’s helped girls whose families have tried to force them into arranged marriages. She says she can see you tomorrow morning. Apparently she’s away for the rest of the week. I said I’d ask you. I realise it may be too short notice. Is tomorrow one of the days you’re working?”
“Not supposed to be, but I agreed that I’d be flexible. Sophia can probably go to the childminder again tomorrow. I’ll have to check, but the childminder’s not fully booked up at the moment.”
“Don’t do anything you can’t cope with. If you think Sophia needs to be at home tomorrow, I’ll understand.”
“Waiting until next week’s not really on, is it? If this woman’s going to give us some clues about Ayesha Verma’s state of mind, I’ll need to talk to her as soon as possible. Where does she want to meet? In Peterborough?”
“Actually, she said she could come to see you tomorrow. She’s got a lunchtime meeting in Boston, apparently, and can make a detour.”
“Even better. Let me call Mrs Sims. I’ll let you know, either way. Shall I text you?”
“If you want to, but you can call again if you like. I’m co
mpletely at a loose end this evening.”
Chapter 19
The small man, no longer dapper, was running. Without stopping, he looked fearfully behind him, his tie streaming over his shoulder. He could see them in the distance, distinctive in their brilliant white shirts. They were running, too, but seemingly effortlessly, their loping strides much longer than his own. They were tall, each of the three of them rising half a head above the milling sea of faces that made up the crowd. He knew they still had him in their sights, that he hadn’t shaken them off. He was flagging. He had a stitch in his side and his breath was coming in ragged bursts.
He was frightened. More than frightened, shit scared. He’d been chased before, even beaten up before and he hadn’t enjoyed it, but on those previous occasions he’d known that he’d survive. His assailants then had smacked him to teach him a lesson, but they hadn’t planned to kill him. They weren’t nutters. These three weren’t even fucking nutters, they were worse: human automatons who obeyed orders with no attempt at compunction or mercy, no questions asked and no fear of the consequences. And if he stayed on the pavement he knew they’d catch up with him in minutes.
There was a crossroads up ahead. He dived to his right and entered a much smaller street. Here there were fewer crowds but many more cafés and pubs. The whole street was full of them. Summoning up a final spurt of energy, he passed the first two and flung himself through the doorway of the third, knowing he could get no further before his pursuers rounded the corner. Ahead of him he saw a bar. He hurtled towards it and grabbed hold of the brass rail set on the customer side of its counter, using it to support him as he edged to the furthest end of the bar, a dim little recess beside a grimy hardboard service door.
“Are you all right, sir?” The barman was of a type that he’d encountered many times before: florid and slightly overweight, thinning hair plastered flat against his scalp, studiously polite but ready to get heavy if he scented trouble.
“Yes, yes, just had to run for a bus, that’s all. It’s kind of you to ask,” he gasped.
The barman eyed him sceptically.
Rooted in Dishonour Page 8
