They all look again at the lists. Langton drew no payments from late November to early January either, although she’d worked the autumn before and in the months immediately after. ‘Christmas,’ I say. ‘More trade, bigger tips.’
Watkins looks up from the desk, staring at me. I don’t look away.
She says, ‘So, your hypothesis is that Langton was working for tips only on some of the nights that Khalifi was there?’
There’s a prickling feeling in the room. A sense of movement or hidden life. I don’t know why.
I say, ‘Yes.’
Three heads bend back over the lists. Not mine. I’m trying to work out what this prickling sensation is. I can’t. I try to understand the feeling. What bit of me is feeling what? I try to dissect my own sensations the way my psychiatrists once taught me to, but I don’t get anywhere.
I say, ‘Langton called her mam most nights.’
Watkins glares at me. A bit of jaw action, but not much. She pulls the phone records away from Susan Konchesky. The records list dates and times of calls. Langton used to call her mother briefly – a minute or two – then her mother would call back to save on the phone bill. Mostly Langton called fairly late – 9 or 10 PM mostly. On nights when Langton was working, she called much earlier, 6 or 7 PM, and spoke for less long. There were a number of Fridays and Saturdays over the right period when Khalifi was in the Unicorn and Langton was calling her mother early.
Watkins and the others have a bit of discussion about this. Langton was a student, so if she wasn’t working on a Friday or Saturday, she was probably going out for the evening anyway.
Buzz says, ‘Yes, but she wouldn’t go out that early. A girl like that wouldn’t go out on the town until nine o’clock or whatever. It wouldn’t have been cool.’
Buzz is a nice man, but he’s about as cool as I am and I’m as cool as a lump of coal. Konchesky is a mother of two who works part-time. She’s hardly got her finger on the pulse either, but she agrees with Buzz.
Watkins grabs all the paperwork now and bends over it, leaving nothing for the others. I’m fed up with the overlit room and turn all the lights off, except the spot directly over where Watkins is sitting. When she glares at me, I say ‘Sorry,’ but don’t put the lights back on. It feels better now. The prickling feeling is still there, but not in a bad way.
‘Isn’t this nice?’ I say to no one in particular. Everyone stares at me but no one says anything.
Then Watkins is done. It seems probable but not certain that Khalifi knew Langton. Watkins will arrange a full set of interviews in the morning. A load of DCs will be sent to talk to Langton’s former colleagues at the Unicorn to see if any of them can connect her to Khalifi.
The meeting breaks up. Watkins says to Buzz and me, ‘Good work, well done.’
Buzz says something. I nod and look like a Keen Young Detective.
In the street outside afterward, Buzz says, ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll be okay, driving?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not too fast, all right?’
‘All right.’
‘Back to mine?’
‘Yes.’
I don’t know why I’m talking like everyone’s favourite village idiot, but it doesn’t bother me and Buzz is used to it.
We go back to his place. I don’t speed. I park neatly. We go up to his flat. He has a glass of wine. I walk around the flat fiddling with light switches and being annoying. Then Buzz lifts me up, carries me over to the bedroom. I’m not quite in a head space for sex, but I pretend that I am. I fake it. Fake the moves, the noises. I TV-movie my way into a performance of some kind, and at some point the hormones take over and I do start to feel things. The TV-acting falls away and I become a bit more me again. When we’re done, I say, ‘Mmm. Thank you.’
He says, ‘You’re very welcome.’ He’s quite pleased with his sexual performance, is Mr David Brydon, but that’s allowed.
‘Do you think your dad was for real earlier?’ he asks.
‘I assume so. He seemed pretty angry.’
‘I thought he was going to rip Jordan’s head off.’
‘Yeah, well, the old Dad might have.’
I’m lying. I’m pretty sure the whole thing was a show.
I think Dad knew from the very beginning of the original investigation that Langton had worked in his club. When the leg showed up in Cyncoed, he was aware of the possibility that the leg would turn out to be hers. That’s why he changed my word ‘Llanishen’ to ‘Cyncoed’ on the phone that first night. His way of saying that he knew what he needed to know.
I don’t, in fact, think that Dad has anything to hide, but if there had been any risks to his business, he would have known about them long before Watkins did. Known about them and dealt with them.
As it was, I assume Emrys spoke to Dad. They both spoke to Jordan. Checked the cash-books with Colin. Discussed possible risks to the business. Decided any risks could be controlled, so put on the entire play for our benefit. Yes, there might have been some minor tax issues arising from the way the business was run, but cops on a murder enquiry are hardly tax specialists, and if people give us good-quality information we’ll overlook minor misdemeanours. I think the whole Dad-’n’-Jordan show was aimed at ensuring that Dad was clean as clean in the eyes of the law.
Once again I’m awed by my father’s dangerous competence.
I don’t say any of this, however. But I do come in for some stick from Brydon for my Mortimer theory. He says, ‘Looks like that one might get laid to rest.’
I don’t feel like talking about that now, so I just say, ‘Did you say “get laid”?’ and I run my hand down his stomach until I’m all out of stomach.
He keeps my hand where it is and we fall asleep like that. Lights off. Listening to the city being the city.
But I can still feel that prickling feeling from before. That sense of something hidden.
And when I started to investigate Mark Mortimer, two men became overinterested in where I was and what I was doing. When I put one of them in hospital, he gave a false name and address and walked out as soon as he could.
As far as I’m concerned, the Mortimer connection is still live.
19
Next morning, a Saturday, I sleep in until Buzz wakes me. Back from a run, sweaty T-shirt off, shorts still on. He looks yummy, in a rough-and-tumble kind of way. I watch him getting into the shower, then watch him more as he gets out. He knows I’m watching, makes the most of it. Sits on the bed naked and lets me bite him on the back of his neck, which is both salty and soapy.
When we’re done fooling around, he tells me that there’s fresh juice, bacon, eggs, everything in the fridge. He’s already eaten.
‘You’re off already?’ I remember he has some family shindig today, but thought it wasn’t till later.
He gives me a crooked smile. ‘Watkins. She wants to work this angle. She’s got me, Konchesky, couple of others coming in today.’
The news surprises me, then bothers me. As far as Watkins is concerned, the glory of the Rhys Jordan breakthrough belongs equally to me and Buzz. As far as reality is concerned, of course, the glory is shared between a triumvirate of me, Emrys, and Dad. But by ordinary police logic, Watkins ought at least to have offered me the chance to join the inner team. That’s surely what yesterday was about.
I know why I’m being ditched. Watkins the Badge has an icily tedious adherence to the rules. My father owns the club where Mary Langton might or might not have met Ali el-Khalifi in the months before her death. If that connection turns out to have a bearing on the case, I may have to appear as a witness in court. A defence lawyer could make merry play of some potential conflict of interest between me, my father, and the police investigation, so Watkins is keeping me well away from the epicentre. That strikes me as wildly unfair, though I also know that Watkins is making the right call.
Dammit.
‘Lucky you,’ I say, trying not to let my
feelings show. ‘A Saturday love-in with Watkins. Every girl’s dream.’
‘What have you got on today?’
Buzz, the sweet foolish man, has this delusional belief that if he speaks to me evenly and chirpily, I’m suddenly going to turn normal on him. That one day, I’ll suddenly want to fill my life with trips to the shops, visits to friends, and a little light home decoration. I honestly think that his joy will only be complete when one day he returns from a hockey match to find that I’ve baked a new kind of pudding and have bought an Interesting China Ornament for the flat.
I blink at him, instead of answering. I don’t know what to say.
He does a thing with his face which is hard to interpret exactly, but is his way of nudging me to give an answer that’s more complete than just blinking.
So I say, ‘I’m over to my family for a late brunch, then probably go shopping with Kay.’
He says, ‘Brilliant. That sounds really nice.’
Most men saying that would sound sarcastic, but Buzz just sounds like Buzz. First he waits for me to get out of bed, so I can kiss him off at the door, then he realises that I’m not getting out of bed, so he kisses me where I am.
‘Have a good day,’ I say. ‘Don’t let Watkins pinch your bum.’
He goes.
The flat is empty. His flat.
I do get out of bed now and fidget around, getting dressed slowly. I swing open the fridge door. It’s full of lovely food, very little of which I had any hand in acquiring and almost none of which is covered in interesting colours of mould. I don’t eat anything, just poke the packet of bacon, then swing the door shut.
We don’t have a mantelpiece, because the flat is too modern to have a fireplace, but there is a cupboard-cum-display-unit which could probably bear the weight of an Interesting China Ornament. Buzz has some photos there. Framed. A couple of us. Some of his family. One of him in his paratrooper’s uniform. He looks the same, but younger. I shift the photos around a bit, then move them back again.
When I’m dressed, I leave the flat and drive over to my mam and dad’s. No reason to, except I said to Buzz that that’s what I would do, so doing it seems easier than anything else.
I get there not long after nine. Mam is already up, dressed, hair done, fussing. My younger sister, Ant-short-for-Antonia, is hanging over the kitchen counter protesting against some familial injustice or another. Dad’s still sleeping. Kay’s not downstairs yet, but I can hear her padding around upstairs and she yells down a greeting.
I arbitrate the Ant–Mam dispute, by telling Mam it’s a special occasion because I’m there, so Ant should be allowed to have her way. Ant accepts that gleefully and I get a special hug. Mam accepts it with a sigh and a headshake.
She asks me if I’ve eaten and I say yes and so she only gives me orange juice and a croissant, taken from a packet and heated in a microwave.
Ant tells me about school.
Mam says have I heard, it’s going to get cold, and I tell her yes, I’ve heard.
Kay comes downstairs, gets breakfast. She’s tall and skinny and has a way of dressing that looks completely casual but hopelessly sexy. Today, a chunky jumper over leggings and boots, which doesn’t sound like much, but it’s the way she wears it.
She asks me what I’m up to. I say we could go shopping if she likes. She says yes. Ant asks to come too and we say no, but say it nicely.
There’s a bit more hubbub. Clamorous, intimate family stuff. Somewhere along the way, Dad gets woken up and he comes downstairs in his dressing gown, looking like a bear with its hair fluffed up. I give him a kiss and fluff his hair up some more.
Tea, coffee, more juice, more croissants. Bacon and egg for Dad. Everyone talks and everyone at least half-listens.
Dad says, ‘Was it all okay yesterday?’
I say, ‘Yes, there’ll be more interviewing today, but no one’s worried about a few cash payments here and there.’
Dad nods, changes the subject.
Then Kay and I really do go shopping.
We drive. Kay likes it when I drive fast, but there’s too much traffic for any real speed. It’s too cold for us to have the top down, which she also likes. We leave the car in a car park on Dumfries Place.
‘Where do you want to go?’ says Kay.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Maybe Gap.’
That’s what I always say. Sometimes Gap. Sometimes Next. Sometimes if I’m feeling really unsure of myself I say M&S.
She makes a face at me, but that’s okay. We go to Gap, the one in Saint David’s. I stand in the middle of the shopping floor, surrounded by beige things.
I think of Mary Langton’s head. The feel of it in my hands. The look of it, as it rose grinning from the oil barrel. The large round pebble in its mouth. The sound of that pebble as it moved against Langton’s teeth: an oily clacking.
‘What do you want?’ asks Kay. I wouldn’t say that she’s patient with me, exactly, but she’s tolerant. Good enough.
‘I don’t know. Not this anyway.’
‘What kind of things? Office wear? Casual? Or you know it’s going to be Christmas soon. Do you even have any party dresses?’
I think of Khalifi’s grey lung bobbing on the last puddles of the Llanishen Reservoir. A Labrador retriever running over the grass with Khalifi’s liver slopping from its mouth.
The prickling I felt yesterday is back, but clearer, better than before.
‘Um, maybe I’ll just browse. Is there anything you want?’
This is our deal. Half the reason why Kay comes shopping with me. She puts up with me. I buy her stuff.
We leave Gap and go to Howells, the department store. The streets are November streets, not yet Christmas ones. Everyone’s bundled in jeans, boots, and warm anoraks. The coffee shops are standing room only.
In Howells, I hang back and watch Kay go at it. This is her territory. She understands shops the way I understand mortuaries. As I trail round after her, I see that Hobbs has an in-store concession – I hadn’t known – and I say, ‘Oh, look, Hobbs.’
She fastens onto that. ‘Hobbs? Okay then.’
That’s the other reason Kay shops with me. She likes the creativity of it. The challenge of turning me into someone who doesn’t just buy beige things from Gap. And she’s good. Mostly people want to turn you into someone who looks like them, only worse. Kay isn’t like that. I rely on her.
She shuffles through racks, holds clothes up against me, discards most, retains some. I try to play my part. Really try. Give it steady, focused thought. But I never know what I’m doing. After a while, Kay has found three things she wants me to try on. I’ve found one, a blue dress that I picked more or less at random.
She looks at my offering, says, ‘Mmm,’ but takes the plus-size item I’ve got in my hand and replaces it with the same thing, but in my size. ‘It’s a bit safe,’ she admonishes.
I try things on and each time walk out of the changing room, arms stuck out like a ten-year-old boy being good for his mam.
‘God’s sake!’ she mutters, plucking and tweaking me into shape. ‘What do you think?’ Before I can say, ‘I don’t know,’ she says something which is, in my view, an insight of staggering genius. ‘Don’t think about what you look like,’ she tells me. ‘Just imagine the person in the mirror is someone completely different. Someone you’re watching on a stakeout or whatever.’
We don’t have so many stakeouts in Cardiff. No guys with guns, pint bottles of bourbon, and dubious attitudes to police violence. But I know what Kay means. And she’s right. If I try to figure out whether I like something for me, I have no idea at all. I just see a woman with her arms stuck out like a ten-year-old. If I switch the question, detach myself completely from the person in the mirror, it becomes instantly simpler. I still don’t have a like-it/don’t-like-it response, but I can at least figure out what I’m looking at. For a wonderful five minutes, I feel something close to normal: a girl going shopping with her sister.
I try everyth
ing on. The star of the bunch is a dark grey suit. Woollen. Knee-length skirt. Jacket. It sounds super-safe – the sort of refuge clothing I usually buy – but working on the someone-completely-different principle, I see beyond that. The suit is sharp. Stylish.
‘It’s really good,’ says Kay. ‘Half sexy secretary, half woman of mystery.’
I don’t know that I want to be either of those things, but it feels like an excitingly bold idea that buying new clothes can make me into something that I wasn’t before. I wonder if that’s why other people shop.
The suit is screamingly expensive. A hundred quid for the skirt and almost two hundred for the jacket, but I buy them anyway. Dazed, but in a good way, I end up spending another £135 on stuff for Kay. She does a little skip of excitement as we leave the shop and says, emphatically, ‘Fab.’
She’s meeting friends in a coffee shop, so we part company there and I go back to the car. Put the Hobbs bag on the passenger seat. I doubt I’ll ever wear the clothes inside, but that’s not the point.
Buzz sometimes thinks I’m extravagant, but I’m not really. I hardly ever buy clothes, take vacations, or go out. I’m not even very good at buying the basics: food, cleaning stuff, anything at all. But when I do spend money, I’m rubbish at calibrating my purchases. I don’t have any sense of value. I just pick something up and pay for it. Mostly that’ll be some awful budget item from Lidl. Sometimes it’ll be something ridiculous from Hobbs. I don’t often run out of money and when I do I just eat muesli until my pay cheque comes in. I stay alive.
Meantime, Buzz and Watkins and Susan Konchesky are hunting for a connection between Khalifi and Mary Langton. A connection that I brought them.
But what’s their theory?
Khalifi could have met Mary Langton at the Unicorn and they could have had some sex thing that went wrong. But then what? He decides to chop her into pieces (but why?), deposits her in various freezers and outbuildings around Cyncoed (but why?), then lives happily for five years until someone decides to take revenge by chopping him into a thousand pieces and leaving his lung bobbing on a grey and empty lake surrounded by toads, slowworms, and waxcap fungi.
Love Story, With Murders Page 12
