by Alison Bruce
Somewhere in his brain lay an abyss he’d been close to, but not across. He guessed insanity lay on the other side. One day he thought he might tip into it, but that hadn’t happened yet. That’s when he most wanted someone to slip into his room and drive something brutal through his failed body.
But he was starting to learn that the panic was eventually washed away by mental exhaustion, and that the sleep following such an episode of terror was as peaceful as any he’d ever experienced.
When he woke from it, he often felt relaxed enough to conjure up clear and perfect memories. He chose the ones where he and Kimberly made love. Not a fantasy in any way, but a specific time and place being replayed exactly. There were many to choose between, and he never blurred one into another.
Today they were lying in bed. Viva Cottage stood empty apart from them, but still they hid under the covers. Fresh sheets, line-dried and unsoftened, were pulled over their heads. They talked and laughed in whispers. They had made love and were naked still.
He lay on his back and she on her side, her left leg lying across him and her inner thigh pressed soft and warm against his groin. Her skin was smooth and downy, lightly sprinkled with a few pale freckles. He traced his fingertips over her breasts and on to her belly. She never moved, content for him to explore just because she was confident in him, never because she possessed any real understanding of her own beauty.
Her mouth, close to his ear, whispered, ‘I want to do it again.’ Then her lips found his and she began to kiss him, teasing with her tongue, working harder than she needed to in order to seduce him.
She never seemed to realize that each time they made love he marvelled at his own amazing luck. She took nothing for granted, never once understood the extent of her talent and inner strength, and while he loved that about her it made him feel sorry for her too. And protective.
If he could have smiled, he would.
The memory vanished.
Jay fixed his gaze on a patch of sky in the top right corner of his window, and then forced himself to think about the baby.
That was something he never usually did. It seemed too much like poking a finger into a yellow flame; one second didn’t hurt, but a moment too long and it became really painful.
He hadn’t known how to react when she gave him the news. She was crying, which didn’t help. He’d said ‘shit’ several times, which hadn’t helped either. It had made her cry even more, and then run.
She’d never done that to him before. They were soulmates: he was the one she’d run to, never from. He went looking for her later and apologized.
She’d said she wanted an abortion. Said she couldn’t have a baby, but wouldn’t tell him why.
She didn’t need to. He already knew.
It was all about her bloody mother.
She didn’t rush out to do it though and, as the weeks passed, he’d begun to hope she’d changed her mind; even then he had an aversion to playing with fate. In the tenth week of her pregnancy, she left Viva Cottage one morning without a word. He later found her sitting at a child’s grave in Mill Road Cemetery, and sobbing because she’d miscarried.
They both then cried together, holding on to each other like the bond between them was back to being unbreakable. She told him she’d been terrified that she wouldn’t be able to love a child. That had been her overriding fear until the moment her body had rejected the baby, and she’d finally understood how mistaken she’d been.
She wondered whether she’d pushed the baby away with such thoughts alone. She held on to the guilty thought and let Jay go too.
Then she ran and ran, all the way to Spain, blowing a hole the size of a cannonball right through the centre of his life.
Anita had helped him through it, and he hoped that he’d helped Anita, too. Of all the children she’d fostered, he knew that he and Kimberly were closest to being the son and daughter she’d never had.
Occasionally Anita would update him either a passing ‘She called, she’s fine’ or ‘She seems different, I’m worried about her.’ Then, one Saturday morning, he caught Anita gazing at him with an expression halfway between preoccupation and duty.
‘She sent me a letter.’
‘And?’
‘She’s with someone else now.’
He didn’t know how he was supposed to respond, so he just said, ‘Oh.’
‘I thought you should know.’
He nodded, trying to keep his feelings private. ‘Thanks.’ He had known it was over, so what did he expect? Except it had never been over for him. He’d continued just about functioning, not really living, treading water all that time, and waiting for her to come back.
Anita watched him closely, and it was only then that he spotted the battered white envelope that refused to sit still in her hands.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘There’s a photograph.’
‘Of Kimberly?’
‘Kimberly and Rachel, and some others.’
‘And you want me to look?’
‘I’ve had it a few days. There’s something about it that’s been bothering me.’
He stared at the envelope. ‘Is he in the picture?’ He knew it was cowardly, but wasn’t sure he could face seeing her with someone else.
‘No, it’s just a group of girls. His name’s Nick, by the way.’ Typical Anita; her life philosophy was face up to the truth, then get on with it.
Despite his apprehension, Jay reached for the envelope. The photo inside was a six-by-four snap taken in a bar. All seven girls were dressed to party: micro-minis and heels, midriff tops and bare legs, skin that was uniformly brown and glowing in the heat. A couple of them were holding drinks; all were smiling at the camera.
Seven go wild.
‘They’re the staff,’ Anita added.
He then understood precisely why she’d needed to share this photo: to anyone else Kimberly would have just looked like one of the girls, but she’d never before been part of any crowd. Her smile was dazzling, but they could both see it was fake. Her eyes looked empty. It could have been down to drink or drugs, but they both knew it was neither. This was the same Kimberly that had first found her way to Anita’s door. Heading for oblivion, and content to self-destruct.
Jay handed the photo back to Anita. ‘Maybe this boyfriend, Nick, will be good for her.’ There was nothing Jay could do. She’d moved on.
That was when he had told Anita that he didn’t want to know anything else, and from then the months slipped by with eerie slowness. He had thought he was almost over it, until the day Rachel phoned from Spain and told him that Nick had beaten Kimberly unconscious.
He had arrived to find her in Rachel’s apartment. Her face was swollen but they’d kissed, and then it was like all the months in-between were nothing. It had taken until then for her to stop punishing herself about their baby. They’d made love, staying in bed for two full days, then she’d told him to go home.
‘I’m not going to run away from here,’ she declared. ‘I’m going to leave.’
She promised to follow in a few days.
There was nothing he remembered from that moment . . . until the realization hit him that Kimberly was back, but all the possibilities had gone.
He didn’t blame her, because it wasn’t her fault, but that didn’t mean he didn’t wish some things could be different.
Top of the list, Jay wished that he really was Riley’s father.
THIRTY-FOUR
Stefan Golinski had partial movement in his body and about the same in his brain. Neither would do what he wanted and, although he knew his arms should have had the strength to break free, they only flapped and jerked at his command.
He knew he’d been drugged, of course. His brain wasn’t that incapacitated. He was well aware of the other signs, too, but he couldn’t work out what he’d been given, or when.
He tried to think of something to take his mind off his current situation, and ended up thinking about Jay Andrews.
Was this what it felt like to be Jay?
Stefan could speak, though, and could also move. The last time the door had opened he’d tried both but to no effect. Perhaps Jay also thought he could still do both.
The pen is mightier than the sword. He’d never recognized the truth in that until the last day or so. He hadn’t known a single person that would have been able to take him in a fight, yet here he was immobilized by someone smaller and weaker.
And he was fucked.
The ceiling was white but looked grey. In fact the whole room looked dull, especially around the edges of his vision . . . it made him wonder if the air was bad. Tough shit, there was nothing he could do about that; he needed to breathe.
The television was still switched on, stuck on a channel broadcasting an endless stream of US imports. He hadn’t seen the news appear again: didn’t know the latest on Rachel, didn’t know for sure that she really was dead. He knew he was still angry with her, but somehow couldn’t feel it any more. Didn’t even feel anything for Kimberly or Riley, or the recriminations they deserved for screwing up his life. It was as if he was letting them go. Facing death did that.
THIRTY-FIVE
They’d barely left the Hinton Avenue nursing home car park before Goodhew’s mobile rang. It came so soon after his conversation with Marks that he hoped to see his boss’s name on the display, and to hear Marks telling him that he’d be able to interview Kimberly Guyver after all. But it was Bryn, and Goodhew felt a pang of guilt as he remembered how Bryn had already left one voicemail asking him to call.
‘Can you stop by?’ Bryn asked.
‘It’s a bit tricky right now.’
‘I need to talk to you.’
‘About last night?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Is it important?’
‘Maybe, maybe not.’
‘OK, give us five minutes.’ He hung up.
Goodhew realized how his end of the conversation would have sounded to Gully, and smiled. ‘I need you to drive down Mill Road, on the way.’
This time she made that hissing noise and shook her head at the same time; advanced manoeuvres. ‘I thought we were going straight to the station. We’ve been out of the loop for long enough.’
‘Marks doesn’t need us right now. In any case, how do you know we’re not still in the loop? Someone’s going to make a breakthrough; and it could be us.’
‘Yeah, I’m sure that whatever it is we learn “about last night” will really help the case along.’ Gully continued driving with a frustrating level of accuracy, keeping the car within the speed limit, changing gears and indicating like she was doing her driving test.
It was 1.45 p.m. when they pulled up outside O’Brien and Sons. Gully scanned the front of the building. Bryn had his back to them as he leant into the engine bay of a fifteen-year-old Vauxhall Vectra.
‘What are we doing here?’ Gully asked.
‘Semi-social occasion. I was at school with him. Coming?’
‘Why?’ Her face clouded with the kind of deep irritation she’d been demonstrating off and on for the entire day. Somehow he didn’t think she’d be impressed to find out that he’d enlisted a mate to help with unofficial surveillance.
‘Just to say hi? You don’t have to. I’ll only be a minute or two.’
She looked doubtful. ‘I can’t tell if that’s reverse psychology to get me out of the car, or a double-reverse to keep me in it.’
‘Why go for a single when the double’s handy?’
‘Nah, too confusing.’ She reached for the door handle then changed her mind. ‘Two minutes, right?’
‘Absolutely.’
Bryn still didn’t move. His elbows rested on the front wing and his hands were oily but empty – not a spanner in sight.
‘Are you OK?’ Goodhew asked him, as he approached.
Bryn finally turned. It was as if in slow motion, and maintaining contact with the vehicle seemed pretty crucial. He settled with his back against the car and one elbow resting on the roof. ‘I’m beyond knackered today, thanks to you.’
‘Because . . .?’
‘Because you sent me snooping at the Celeste, and thanks to you I’ve had an hour’s sleep, and rehydrated soup for breakfast.’
Goodhew glanced back at Gully, but the car windows were closed and he was sure she was out of earshot. ‘I have to be quick, so just give me the potted version, anything that might be relevant to the case.’
‘You realize that’s not much of a bedside manner, right?’
‘So, you went into the Celeste, and then?’
‘OK, OK. I went up, and your girl was nowhere, so I hung around the bar. Didn’t really think that there was any point in it, but I decided to stay for a while longer. I thought I’d just buy a drink and keep my eyes open for a bit. She had to leave sometime, right?’
‘I saw her come out.’
‘Good, because I sort of lost track of the time. I mean, I saw her leave but by then I was chatting to Star . . . she’s this Aussie girl works behind the bar. She’s been there since Easter, so she knows Stefan. When she saw Kimberly, she said, “That’s Stefan’s wife’s mate,” so I asked her what Kimberly was like, and she said she didn’t know. Said her instinct was not to like her just because she’s “built like a stripper”.’
‘That’s not fair.’ The protest was involuntary.
Bryn raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s not an insult. She just meant that women are usually suspicious of really beautiful women.’
‘Maybe. Go on.’
In the end she started to wonder why I was asking so many questions. I told her how I’d seen the murder investigation on the news. I said I was a big CSI fan.’
‘Great.’
‘It was, too. She loves the programme and asked if I was watching the latest series.’
‘Bryn, get to the point.’
‘I am. It was because she watches CSI that she took me back to hers and started telling me her theories. I don’t even watch the show, but she had most of it on DVD. One dismembered torso later and she’s on top of me, acting like she hasn’t had a bloke for a year. She’s still breathing her ideas into my ear, mostly the same stuff that’s been in the papers, when she comes out with the one thing I hadn’t heard anywhere else.’ Bryn slid a packet of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit from his top pocket, and offered it to Goodhew.
‘No, thanks. What did she say?’
‘I couldn’t tell her why I needed to phone you, so I slipped into her bathroom.’ He unwrapped the gum, folding it in thirds before putting it in his mouth. ‘You heard my message, right? “Hi, it’s me. I won’t be back tonight. Ring me tomorrow.” Star heard it too, made up her mind I was phoning my wife or something. I came out of the bathroom, and she’s standing there in just her underwear. Hands on her hips and livid. Totally fucking livid. Wouldn’t have helped to tell her the truth, would it – “It’s OK, I was on the phone to my detective mate, thanks for the info.” You screwed up my getting screwed, Gary.’
‘Well, I really appreciate your sacrifice. In fact I’ll appreciate it even more when you finish the story.’
‘Mule’s gay.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yes. But think about it. Star’s been there just a few weeks, and she’s known that practically since day one. It’s not information that this Mule guy volunteers openly, but all the staff know. It’s an in-joke that all the best-looking women go after him but all the best-looking men end up with him.’
‘Maybe he’s bisexual?’
‘Absolutely not. So Stefan must have known . . .’
‘Yeah, I get it. Rachel wouldn’t have been sleeping with him.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So he punched Mule for another reason entirely.’
‘Wow, Gary, you should do this professionally.’
THIRTY-SIX
They tracked Mule down to a lock-up garage behind a house in Victoria Avenue. It was larger than average, and one of several with a pitched roof over
properly constructed walls built from mottled Cambridge brick.
But where the others had their fascias and down pipes conventionally painted either grey or black, Mule’s garage was trimmed in red and cream.
Mule opened the door from the inside, probably using his elbow since both hands were loaded with a pile of six shoeboxes.
He wore boardies and a baggy sleeveless T-shirt. The facial swelling had now subsided and his hair flopped forward over the bruising evident across his right cheekbone.
‘I guess you’re not here for the delivery,’ he smiled warmly at them, looking like the perfect ad for cosmetic dentistry or the New Zealand Tourist Board. ‘Come on in, then.’
Goodhew glanced at Gully and caught her staring at the back of Mule’s torso with a slightly titillated look in her eye. When he waggled his finger at her jokingly, she tried to look exasperated but didn’t quite succeed.
The inside of the garage was a revelation: the unplastered walls had been whitewashed, the floor covered with a stark black-and-white striped lino. A six-foot by eight-foot work table stood in the centre, its surface empty apart from the pile of boxes that Mule had just dumped in the middle.
Instead of legs, the underneath was a solid block of drawers and cupboards. The rear end section of the garage had been fitted out exactly like the interior of a VW campervan, with red and cream seating, a two-ring hob and a miniature sink. A ladder rested against a roof truss, and Goodhew could see that the low triangle of loft housed a mattress.
‘You live here?’
‘Stay over, sometimes.’
‘We don’t have another address for you.’
‘Either I’m between places, then, or I’m trying to give you an answer that won’t get me evicted.’
‘Fair enough. We’re here to ask a few more questions about the assault.’
‘Shoot.’
‘You led us to believe that when Stefan attacked you, it was because he suspected you of having a relationship with his wife. Is that correct?’
