There followed an extended interview with the senior officer leading the investigation. Chief Superintendent Norman Bailey was the Met’s most successful detective, apparently, and his neatly trimmed mustache might have been contrived to emphasize the military precision of his approach to his work. The central theme of his interview was that the killer was likely to be someone with a grudge against society in general and children in particular, but who was capable of blending in with ordinary life. In the middle of the recording the dubbing mixer turned to Michael and whispered, “Is that what’s called a blinding glimpse of the totally fucking obvious?” and the two had to suppress their laughter. The unavoidable conclusion of the program was that after an investigation lasting five weeks, the police were no closer to catching the culprit than they had been on the afternoon of the first crime.
Alison caught the train from Brighton after she finished work that Friday, and Michael was able to get away by 7:00 PM so that he could meet her at the station. He arrived with a few minutes to spare before her train was due and spent the time watching passengers coming and going on the busy concourse. Most were commuters, many of their faces showing all the lines and shadows associated with the end of a long and exhausting week. But Michael noticed that every time he saw a family getting on or off the train, the children were being kept unusually close by the adults. In cases where the children were of an age when they might be expected to run free, they were held tightly by the hand. In other cases, parents with toddlers were using nylon harnesses to keep their children safe. The Madman’s crimes had had their effect on just about every parent and child in the land, and there was no sign that the police had the first clue about his identity.
Michael felt the same rush of pleasure that he always experienced when he saw Alison after an absence of a few days. It had been raining earlier in the day, and she wore a flimsy white raincoat, tied at the waist. Her blonde hair hung in loose curls onto her shoulders and seemed to bounce in slow motion as she walked towards him. The corners of her eyes crinkled into a fan when she spotted him.
“Wow,” his reaction was involuntary, “you look like a TV advertisement for something irresistible.” He loved it that she always seemed so pleased to see him, and the couple embraced, fully indulging their moment of total disregard for the teeming humanity all around.
“You’re looking pretty good yourself,” she said, “and if you play your cards right you might not find it necessary to resist.”
They had planned to have an early dinner in town before getting the train back to Kingston, but their sudden urgent need for some privacy changed their minds for them. One hour later they were making love in his single bed, and an hour after that both pronounced themselves overcome by the need for food. She put on his dressing gown and tidied the apartment while he slipped on his clothes and walked across the bridge to buy pizza.
“So are you sure you’re happy to go to see Grandma Rose again tomorrow?” He had forgotten to say “no anchovies” and had been delicately extracting them with his fork as he made his way through the deep-dish. “She seems to be going through a really good spell, but there’s no way to be certain. The last thing we want is another scene from a horror movie.”
She smiled but did not reply, pointing to her bulging cheek by way of explanation. When she had emptied her mouth, she spoke. “No worries. It’s all fine. I reckon she’ll be OK, and if she isn’t, it’s not the end of the world. I’ve seen a lot worse than that in the children’s home.”
It was the first time that Alison had referred to her upbringing since she had originally given Michael her potted life story, and he was keen to know more.
“You haven’t said much about all that. Is that just a coincidence, or that you don’t want to talk about it?”
“I don’t really like talking about it,” she said, and suddenly her tone was becoming just a little more strident with every word, “for what I hope are obvious reasons. I was unhappy there.” Her inflection implied that Michael had raised the topic a number of times before and that she was getting impatient with him. “As far as I’m concerned I got out of all that at the first moment I could and have put it behind me and am moving on with my life.” She stopped suddenly, as though realizing that she had been overreacting. Michael was reminded of her response some weeks earlier when she had spoken about how fate had dealt an unfair blow to the witnesses on Waterloo Bridge. He wanted to say something like whoa but then had an instinct that she already knew that her response had been inappropriate, and that pointing it out probably would not help.
“That’s completely cool,” he said instead. “I can totally understand why you prefer not to talk about it. Sorry I raised it.” His instant retreat seemed to confirm for Alison that her reaction had been unfair, and it was her turn to conciliate.
“There’s no need to be sorry. It was a perfectly innocent question. I guess it’s just been a long week.” They put the unfinished pizza to one side and she curled up alongside him on the sofa. They slept in each other’s arms that night and woke to a light drizzle which put a soft-focus filter over the view from their window.
* * *
The lingering smell of deep-fried food and overcooked vegetables permeated the security doors to the waiting area, reminding Michael of school lunches. He recalled that his grandma had always been fastidious about healthy eating, even before it was fashionable, and he wondered out loud what she made of the mass catering at Greenacres.
“Presumably it’s not compulsory to eat it,” said Alison. “Personally the smell would be enough to put me off.”
“I noticed the other day that she’s getting thinner. There was nothing of her to start with, so she can scarcely stand losing more weight.” He was keen not to be making complaints at Greenacres, but made a mental note to mention his concern to Esme when he got the chance. By the time the moment came for the introductions, Michael was so wound up with anxiety that he could scarcely get his words out.
“Grandma, I said I was going to bring someone to meet you.” They had arrived in her room, and he was immensely relieved to see his grandmother rise from her chair and put out her hand. “This is Alison. She and I have been seeing a lot of each other.”
“Hello, Mrs. Beaumont.” Alison’s smile was broad and engaging. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
The two women shook hands, and Michael wasn’t sure whether Alison didn’t do a little curtsey. He noted again how tiny his grandmother looked, and how fragile. After the formalities they all sat around a table which Grandma used for taking meals when she chose to eat her food in the privacy of the room. It was very obvious that Rose was having a good day, and now Michael reproached himself for not having been more careful in preparing for the visit the first time he tried it. They talked casually about the weather for a few minutes, until there was a knock on the door and Esme came in pushing a trolley with tea. Michael leapt to his feet to hold the door back against its spring.
“Michael has brought his new friend to meet me, Esme,” said Rose. “Looks like you’ve missed your chance.” Esme greeted Alison warmly. She put the teapot and cups onto the table and removed a layer of tinfoil to reveal a homemade Victoria sponge cake. “Esme made this cake herself especially for the two of you.” Rose had a little bit of mischief in her voice. “I told her that Michael was bringing a special friend, and for some reason she thinks the cake they usually serve here isn’t good enough.”
“I knew it was an occasion, is all,” said Esme. “Nothing wrong with the cake at Greenacres.” She turned to Rose and wagged a finger. “Don’t you go getting me into trouble with that careless talk.” The two women were obviously great friends.
Alison was quick to respond. “That was really kind of you, Esme. The cake looks completely delicious. I’m always in awe of anyone who can bake.”
Esme was clearly pleased. “It may take face powder to get ’em, honey, but it takes baking powder to keep ’em.” Everyone laughed, and she finished laying out the cr
ockery and headed for the door, but turned to Michael before she left. “She seems far too good for you, mind. Make sure you look after her.”
“That’s the plan,” said Michael, and everyone smiled again.
After Esme had gone and Michael poured tea, Alison complimented Grandma on the comfort of her room, and Rose explained how the care home was organized. All the residents had their private space in which they could put their own furniture, ornaments, and pictures, but they were welcome to take meals and mix with the others in the communal areas. It all worked rather well.
“Is that Australia I detect in your accent?” Rose asked. “Whereabouts does your family come from?”
“I’ve been working in Australia for quite a few years,” said Alison, “but originally my family came from the south coast of England.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” said Rose. “I know that part of the world well. My husband and I used to spend a lot of time in Hove. Whereabouts did you grow up?”
Michael was aware that his grandmother was straying into territory he knew Alison to be sensitive about. He was about to interrupt to change the subject, but Alison seemed ready with her answer. “I went to school in Brighton,” she said, but Michael thought he detected just a slight change of tone in her voice. He decided to try to intervene.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around much, Rose,” said Michael. “It’s been a busy time at work and I’ve been putting in a lot of extra hours.”
Rose did not respond to Michael’s interjection, and when he glanced up at her, he saw that his grandma was continuing to stare in silence in the direction of Alison. It was not easy to read her thoughts, and after a few more seconds had passed he wondered if she had lapsed into a daydream. “Grandma? Did you catch what I said? I was saying sorry that I wasn’t around last week.” Still he had not managed to get her attention, and now Alison began to show the first indications that she was feeling embarrassed. Rose was continuing to stare at her, with a look that suggested she was trying to work out a puzzle which was eluding her.
“Rose? Are you OK?” The change of tone in Michael’s voice finally got his grandmother’s attention, and suddenly she regained animation, as though coming out of a trance.
“Sorry, I was miles away,” she said. “I was just thinking about something else.” She turned back to Alison and smiled. “Please do forgive me. My mind does wander about these days. I can’t always remember…” and now her words trailed away.
Michael got to his feet and started to collect the cups and plates. “Listen, Rose,” he said, “we’re tiring you out. And anyway you’ve got to keep your wits about you to cope with those cardsharps I saw you playing with the other day.”
The spell was broken, and Alison also got to her feet, taking care not to let the crumbs from the cake fall onto the carpet. “Thank you for the tea and cake, Mrs. Beaumont,” she said, “they were delicious.”
“Thank you. Actually I have the wonderful Esme to thank. When I told her that Michael was bringing a special visitor, she told me not to order the cake they serve you here and that she would bake one. I gather that it’s her specialty.” Rose’s smile suggested no awareness of the repetition of their earlier conversation.
“Well, maybe we’ll see her on the way out, but please give her our thanks and compliments if we don’t.” Michael had taken his jacket from the hook behind the door and was slipping it on. “I don’t know when I’ll get here next, but I’ll be sure to pop by sometime in the week.”
Rose reassured him that she always loved to see him, but that he mustn’t exhaust himself on her account. “And anyway, you’ve got Alison, who’ll need your attention now.” She spoke with no apparent trace of regret. “You can’t be spending your spare time with a daft old woman like me.” Michael told her that she was talking nonsense and gave her a careful hug. He glanced back as Rose prepared to close her door behind him and was disappointed to see that once again his grandmother’s expression had returned to the stony stare which suggested that she was retreating into another world.
FIVE
It was a less busy week at work, and Michael was given some opportunities to sit in with the sound engineer as he mixed the music and effects for an ITV drama which was in postproduction at Hand-Cutz. He never ceased to be amazed at the skill involved in blending a dozen or more unrelated tracks together in a balance which sounded as though it was all meant to be. He watched as the engineer, his friend Stephen, placed each of his fingers on a different fader like a concert pianist and edged down the volume of the music tracks as the sound of a passing car came through the frame, and nudged down the blasts from a series of gunshots just at the right moment so that the screams from the victim would cause appropriate alarm.
“Now you try.”
The great thing about the digital suite was that everything could proceed by trial and error until the perfect mix was achieved, and so no mistakes were final. Michael spent a happy hour trying different balances between the sound sources and eventually produced a sequence which Stephen declared to be “not at all bad.” He then suggested that Michael should try mixing in some dialogue, but they had nothing suitable readily available, and so Michael went into the sound booth. They both had trouble keeping a straight face as he read aloud from the lunch menu which they offered to outside clients. The eventual mix of a dramatic shoot-out accompanied by the voice-over describing a range of pizza toppings caused hilarity and eventually was declared by Stephen to be a good morning’s work, which had made him need some food. That was about as high a compliment as Michael had ever heard from Stephen, so he was pleased with himself. They had a client coming in for a voice recording at 2:00 PM but agreed that they could spare an hour to go to the local pub for a sandwich. Security at the production house had been tightened since the break-in some weeks earlier, and they set the lock on the door of the dubbing suite before they went to lunch.
The Ploughman’s Arms was an unlikely watering hole for the middle of Soho, but it was only a few hundred yards away, and Michael and Stephen arrived to find a collection of colleagues already ensconced at a corner table, where they had saved two seats.
“Looks like I’ve arrived just in time to buy the drinks,” said Michael. “Funny how that happens.”
“Put it on the company account,” said Stephen. “I reckon that what we’ve done this morning counts as working through lunch, so Hand-Cutz can pay.”
“Nice one,” said Michael. He wrote down an order from everyone at the table and queued at the bar while his friend sat down. The room was decorated more in keeping with a village in the Cotswolds than an inner-city district where the clientele was a mix of workers from the media and the sex trade. The walls of the Ploughman’s were covered with sepia photographs of men driving cart horses through fields of wheat. Leather straps decorated with horse brasses adorned the bar area, and as he waited, Michael perched himself on a stool which seemed designed along the lines of a saddle. He glanced ahead and caught the eye of a young woman who was in conversation with a friend.
The woman immediately looked away, but something in that moment told him that they had recognized each other. She had blonde hair and was heavily made up, and Michael wondered whether the woman was employed in the other industry for which Soho was famous. He always enjoyed exchanging banter with the girls who stood outside of the clubs and bars describing the temptations within, and wondered whether that was where he knew her from. She did not look back at him after that first glance, and it seemed that her conversation was coming to an end. Something told Michael that the woman already knew the answer to the question he was trying to solve, and it was only when he had paid for the drinks and delivered Stephen’s pint to the table that he remembered. He looked up again and saw that the friend was just leaving the bar, and the woman he recognized was also preparing to depart. He excused himself from the group of workmates and walked towards her.
She turned to face him with a look which suggested that she had guessed what he was a
bout to say: “Didn’t I see you in Brighton, at that French restaurant, on the day when those kids were thrown off the pier?”
“That’s right,” she said without hesitation. She was collecting her things and showing no signs of stopping. “Work around here, do you?” She picked up her cell phone from the bar and put it into her handbag.
“Yes, just down the road. But have you got a minute for me to ask you something?”
The woman’s face was a picture of disinterest, as though she knew she was not about to help him but was resigned to going through the motions. “Go ahead. I’m not in any great rush.”
“Well, you thought my girlfriend was someone called Lizzie, which she isn’t, but I had the feeling that you didn’t believe her?”
The woman looked into Michael’s eyes, her own darting from side to side, and eloquently conveying a sense that she doubted his intelligence.
“I don’t want to go about calling anybody a liar. I just know what I know, is all.”
“So you don’t think it’s possible that Alison just looks a lot like the person you know? How long is it since you last met Lizzie?”
“Look, like I say, I don’t want to get into anyone else’s business. Everyone has their own reasons. All I’m saying is that I know what I know. I’m not saying anything more.”
Michael stared hard at her, as if a study of her face might give him a clue as to the explanation. Her blonde hair was overdue for having the roots done, and the thick and clumsily applied makeup did nothing to enhance what might otherwise have been an attractive face. He did not think she was telling lies on purpose, and there had been something in Alison’s response when they met in Brighton which suggested there was more.
The Bridge Page 5
