by James, Peter
‘Understood, ma’am.’
Ending the call, Roy sat for some minutes feeling an almost overwhelming sense of calm. As if the monkey that had been on his back for longer than he could remember had suddenly been prised away. He looked forward to getting home and, hopefully with the rain some hours away, firing up the barbecue before it got too dark.
6
Sunday 1 September
Niall Paternoster pocketed his phone and stood by their car, looking all around, puzzled. Just where on earth was she? No way would Eden have gone to McDonald’s, she loathed it. He often had a Big Mac when he was out on the road, and had long stopped telling her except when he deliberately wanted to hack her off, because he would always get a lecture. And she couldn’t accept their vegetarian stuff was any good.
Had she gone to M&S? She liked their food halls and still bought stuff there even though, with his reduced income, he felt they couldn’t afford their prices any more – not until they were back on their feet, at least. OK, fine, she was still earning decent money, thank God. But much of it went to paying the mortgage and the rest of the bills.
He was well aware she had more income from a portfolio of rental properties she’d built up before they’d met, from savvy investments she’d made from her savings. But they’d always agreed she shouldn’t dig into them, and he had no involvement in how she ran that part of her finances, or any of their finances in truth. He told her he wanted their basic food and limited treats – including booze – to come from whatever pittance he got from journeyman cabbing. It was another serious bone of contention, with Eden telling him that his idea of the man being the family breadwinner was just ridiculously old-fashioned – and insulting.
Ever since his printing business had gone under, earlier this year, he’d been driving his mate Mark Tuckwell’s Skoda taxi on a casual basis, in the hours Mark didn’t want to work. Which was mostly nights through into early morning. Picking up drunks, with the ever-present risk of them projectile vomiting and costing him a £350 clean-up. As well as the occasional fare doing a runner.
He made his way over towards the huge M&S store, but even from a hundred yards away he could see it was closed. No sign of Eden anywhere. He phoned her again. Unavailable. He texted her and WhatsApped her, with the same message. She had said there was some charge on her phone. She must have switched it on by now if she was OK?
Eden, this is not funny, where the hell are you? I’m worried.
He returned to the BMW and waited. Another ten minutes. Fifteen. The car park was emptying. Shit, it was now 4.25 p.m.
He sat in the car and tried to think through the possibilities of where she could be.
Kidnapped on her way to the store, or in the store?
Ridiculous.
Came out of the store lugging a heavy sack of cat litter and couldn’t find him?
She’d have called or texted him, surely?
Suddenly taken ill?
Passed out somewhere?
They’d searched the store.
Babes, come on, where are you?
He stopped to think. Eden, with her Irish ancestry, had a fiery temper. There had been a few times in the past when they’d had full-blown rows over seemingly nothing, driving somewhere, when she’d told him to stop, got out of the car and taken a taxi home.
He paused for a moment. But they hadn’t rowed today, not really, surely? For God’s sake, cat litter? But he knew she was independent and spontaneous. Could she have bumped into a friend in the store and asked for a lift home?
She’d done that, also, once before after they’d had an argument. But today it hadn’t been like that.
Maybe if he drove home, he’d find her there, and she’d have a perfectly rational explanation – one he’d overlooked? Although, right now, he couldn’t think what.
He started the engine and drove an entire circuit of the car park, including checking the service areas behind the stores.
No Eden.
Debating which route to take, he decided on travelling east along the busy Old Shoreham Road, checking his phone for a message at every traffic light he stopped at. All the time thinking. Wondering where, just where she could be.
Nevill Road was almost a mile long, on the outskirts of the City of Brighton and Hove, running north from the Old Shoreham Road, passing the Greyhound Stadium, skirting the border of Hove Park, up to the edge of the city near the South Downs National Park.
Niall turned left at the lights, drove up past the school, then turned left again onto the driveway of their red-brick semi opposite the stadium. He pulled up a couple of yards in front of the motorcycle storage container which housed his Honda Fireblade – which Eden refused to ride on – and his equally cool Trek road bike. Checking his phone yet again – still no word – he climbed out and walked up to the brilliant-white front door, which he’d repainted, along with all the outside woodwork, during the plentiful free time he had these days. He went inside and called out, ‘Baby! I’m home!’
He was greeted by a pitiful miaow.
‘Eden?’ he called again, louder.
Another miaow. Even more pitiful. Reggie peered accusingly at him from the kitchen doorway. They’d named the platinum Burmese cat after the gangster Reggie Kray because the cat was, in their view, a vain bully but with huge charm and an insatiable greed. He also had a damned annoying miaow. Didn’t seem to matter how much or how often they fed the increasingly plump creature, he always wanted more. Some while back, Eden suggested they should have called him Oliver Twist. But that was lost on Niall.
As were the cat’s cries now.
But not the stench that greeted him.
Weren’t cats supposed to get the hang of peeing and pooping outside? Another thing he had blamed Eden for. She’d refused to let Reggie out for months after he’d had his jabs and his nuts removed, because they lived on a main road. When she’d finally allowed him out, it was strictly just in the back garden which they’d had cat-proofed as much as possible. As a result, Reggie now went out for hours on end, then hurried back indoors, through his flap, whenever he needed to do his business.
Hence the need, still, for cat litter.
Ignoring the creature’s cries, he checked out the living room, which was separated from the dining area by an archway. The chess game they were in the middle of sat on the coffee table, a white sofa either side. Suspiciously, he glanced at it, just in case she’d sneaked home to cheat and had removed another piece. He was already a rook down. But it was pretty much as he remembered. She was winning, as usual.
Calling out again, he hurried upstairs and into their bedroom, with its tented ceiling. Eden’s idea, when they had first moved in. She’d seen it in some designer magazine and thought it would be romantic to sleep in what she thought felt, sort of, like a Bedouin tent. Except you could now see dozens of dead flies through the fabric when the lights were on.
‘Eden!’ he shouted and went through into the en-suite bathroom.
It was empty.
He looked at his watch again. Then was tempted to check the result of the Grand Prix, but didn’t want to waste any precious time. Sod Eden, whatever her stupid game was, he thought, stripping off his sweaty top and shorts, going through into the bathroom and dumping them in the laundry basket. He washed his face, slapped cold water on his chest, slathered himself in his favourite aftershave, then put on a fresh T-shirt and shorts and his cycling socks and shoes.
Next, he bunged his phone, a shirt, slacks and shoes into a rucksack – he would change into them later before his airport pickup – and wriggled it onto his back, hurrying downstairs as he did so. Grabbing his front-door keys, he went out to the storage container, checked the bike’s tyres were hard enough – thank God, they were – and clipped on his helmet.
Moments later, after locking up, he stood on the driveway, looking up and down the pavement for any sign of Eden. The sky was darkening, but he didn’t care if he got wet. He pushed off, mounted and pedalled hard. If she wanted
to play games, that was fine by him. No doubt she would be home by the time he’d done his airport pickup and got back to Brighton.
7
Sunday 1 September
‘God,’ Cleo said. ‘The poor man – he gave up the throne for the woman he loved and the Royal Family back then really treated him like shit, didn’t they? Do you think he deserved that?’
‘Darling, I don’t think you can trust a single word on that show – I’m sorry, but it makes me angry. If you’re going to make a historical drama, you’ve a duty to your audience to make it accurate, don’t you think?’ Roy Grace said.
Stuffed from their barbecue, which they’d just finished before the rain started, they were snuggled up on the sofa with an equally stuffed Humphrey between them, who seemed as absorbed in the television programme as they were. After months of showing signs of pain, he had managed to jump up on the sofa for the first time in ages, so the massage treatment he’d been having was seemingly getting him back to normal and helping his condition. Roy had a small glass of rosé and Cleo, pregnant, a glass of water and a bowl of spicy nuts – her latest craving – beside her. The boys were up in their rooms, Noah fast asleep and Bruno no doubt gaming.
Hugging Humphrey, Cleo said, ‘I hate to say it, but you were right, Roy. Humphrey wasn’t really getting angry with the kids – he was actually in pain. Now look at him after his massages. It’s amazing, he’s back to soppy Humphrey.’
‘Yep.’ Roy stroked him. ‘Good boy, very, very good boy!’
They’d finally got round to watching The Crown. It was 1953. The Duke of Windsor, having refused to attend the coronation of his niece, Queen Elizabeth II, without his wife, Wallis, the Duchess of Windsor – who had pointedly not been invited – was watching the coronation on a tiny television at their French chateau, with Wallis and a group of their friends. He was standing, cigarette in hand, giving a running commentary on the proceedings, clearly wistful at all that might have been for him. And very bitter at how he had been treated.
‘At least the Duke and Duchess had the good fortune to be in a decent chateau – unlike our holiday-from-hell one that I booked us!’ Cleo said.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘We chose it together.’
‘Well, next time, let’s try to make a better choice, eh?’
Cleo smiled thinly, then looked back at the screen. ‘You’re right about this show. I was rubbish at History at school,’ she said. ‘I didn’t like my History teacher, so I hardly learned a thing. Now I’m fascinated by it, I want to learn as much as I can, but how can we tell in this series what is the truth and what isn’t? I read an interview with the writer, talking about a scene he made up. So how do we know just how much he’s invented?’
‘I totally agree,’ Grace replied. ‘If I watch something historical, I want to believe it’s accurate, otherwise what’s the point? Whatever distortions in this or any other period drama, you’ll have millions of people forever believing mistakenly that that was the truth – and that’s very dangerous. And not just this show, but countless other so-called historical dramas.’
‘Also,’ Cleo said, ‘it’s hard to judge anything that happened in the past by the standards we have today, isn’t it?’
‘Sure. Attitudes in general were different then. Divorce is part of life today – back then it was pretty much a cardinal sin.’
She looked at him quizzically. ‘Would you have given up the throne for me?’
‘Without a second’s thought.’
She thumped him playfully. ‘Liar!’
‘I totally would have!’
The dog responded by farting. Both batted away the toxic smell with their hands. ‘Humphrey, no, that’s disgusting!’ Grace chided.
The dog gave him a baleful but unapologetic eye.
‘And very disrespectful in front of Her Majesty, Humphrey!’ Cleo complained, picking up the remote and freezing the video. ‘I can’t stop thinking about what you told me earlier, your visit to Guy.’
Batchelor’s notebook lay on the table in front of them.
‘It could end Cassian Pewe’s career,’ she said. ‘But what if it backfired?’
He nodded. ‘I know.’
‘They’d be relying on the evidence of a convicted, bent stockbroker and a police officer convicted of manslaughter. How well do you think that would play?’
‘In the right hands, it would be goodbye Cassian Pewe.’
She nodded at the television. ‘When he was King Edward VIII, he made a massive miscalculation, and lived out the rest of his life a sad and lost man, who had given up the trappings of royal life.’
‘And your point is?’
‘Swap Wallis Simpson for Cassian Pewe for a moment. You are risking everything that you have over him? You know the Chinese proverb, don’t you?’
‘Which is?’
‘Before you seek revenge, first dig two graves.’
He smiled. ‘I will. One for Cassian Pewe and one for his ego.’
8
Sunday 1 September
Mr and Mrs Sutherland, account customers of Mark Tuckwell, were a sweet, wealthy couple in their eighties. They divided their year between their house in Naples, Florida, their flat in Marbella and their penthouse on Hove seafront.
Niall had helped them patiently as they made their way at a painfully slow pace from the airport to the taxi and then from the taxi to their flat. He lugged in Mr Sutherland’s Zimmer frame, Mrs Sutherland’s folding wheelchair and an incredible amount of luggage which he had only just been able to fit into the taxi, and then carried each of the almost unbelievably heavy suitcases into the rooms they directed.
‘You are so kind,’ Joan Sutherland had said. ‘There’s really no need.’
‘It’s no problem,’ he said, sweating profusely.
And bless Mr Sutherland. Tipping Niall, he’d pressed a banknote into his palm, thanking him for his help, and told him to go and buy himself a few drinks. Niall, imagining it to be a tenner or maybe a twenty – or perhaps even a fifty – thanked him profusely. But when he checked it as he got into the lift, he saw it was just a solitary five-pound note. Either the sweet man wasn’t quite up to speed with the times or his eyesight was failing. Or maybe he was just a tight-fisted old bastard.
Due to a French air-traffic controllers’ go-slow, which had impacted much of Europe, the flight had been over an hour late. As a result, Niall – cycling the mile back home uphill from the Tuckwell house after returning the taxi – didn’t get home until just after 11.45 p.m. By the time he took off the fuel cost and Mark deducted his cut, he’d be left with about fifty quid for over five hours’ work. Well, fifty-five quid, actually, including the tip.
Throughout the evening he’d repeatedly called Eden, but her mobile remained unavailable. It was the same with the house landline, no reply. Even so, he had little doubt, as he entered the house, that he would find her either in the lounge in front of the telly or upstairs in bed watching some crime series on Netflix or Amazon Prime.
The lounge was in darkness. He could hear no sound upstairs. Maybe she was asleep. If she was cross with him, hopefully she’d sleep it off and be in a better mood in the morning. He climbed the carpeted treads softly, not wanting to wake her, walked the few steps along the landing towards the bedroom door, which was ajar, and pushed it open further. Despite the heavy curtains, thanks to a street light right outside, their bedroom was tinged at night with a faint orange glow.
He saw their bed, neat and tidy, duvet on top, plumped pillows and an array of cushions, just as Eden had left it this morning.
OK, he thought. What game are you playing, babes?
Despite his tiredness, definitely needing a drink now, he went down to their sleek, modern, charcoal-and-white kitchen, took a beer from the fridge and searched around in the drawer for the bottle opener, where it normally lived, cursing when he couldn’t find it. Why couldn’t Eden ever put things away properly? He tried another drawer full of graters and other cookery gubbins, rummaged abou
t, then cried out as he felt a sharp pain.
‘Oww, shit!’ He’d sliced his index finger open on a razor-sharp potato peeler. ‘Shit!’ he said again.
Blood dripped onto the white marble work surface. He sucked his finger, slammed shut the self-close drawer and looked around the worktops. And noticed a large knife missing from the rack. Why the hell couldn’t she ever put anything back where it belonged? Not that he was obsessive, but he enjoyed cooking when he had the time and was always careful to keep everything in order.
More blood dripped onto the floor. He sucked his finger again, then gripped the bottle, placed the cap against the edge of the worktop and banged it hard with his left fist. The cap flew off and froth rose out of the neck of the bottle. He swigged it, then pulled out his cigarettes, lit one with the lighter from his pocket, grabbed a saucer from the drying rack for an ashtray and sat on a high stool at the island breakfast bar unit.
Eden didn’t like him smoking indoors, but to hell with that right now. If she didn’t like it, she could walk into the room and tell him.
He sucked his finger again, tasting the coppery blood and wracking his brain. Stood up and went over to the pine Welsh dresser, the one antique in this room, where their best crockery was stored behind the glass doors, and glanced down at a framed photograph of the two of them on their honeymoon in the Maldives, in better financial times. They’d paid the resort’s photographer to take a series of photos of them and this one had been their favourite. Eden in a pink sundress and himself in a navy-blue T-shirt and shorts, holding hands and running along the sand at the water’s edge. She looked pretty damn gorgeous and he looked bloody handsome. The perfect couple.
Once upon a time.
Next to it sat the leather-bound address book with their initials embossed on the front in gold, a wedding present from someone – he had forgotten who. Despite Eden’s expertise in computer technology, she’d always insisted on keeping the names and addresses of all their friends and relatives – and tradespeople – in this book. Glad about that now, he picked it up, carried it back over to the breakfast bar, sat, took a drag on his cigarette, another swig of his beer, and began thumbing through the book. Thinking.
