by Anne Brooke
And while I’m doing that, I can think about tonight and Dominic.
He phoned me this morning. At home. The shiver of his voice on the line made everything around me glitter, in spite of all my doubts. Even now, I can almost taste his words again.
‘Paul,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve noted your report, thank you, and I’d like to talk to you about it. Soon.’
Several uncounted seconds passed before I was able to answer.
‘Paul?’
‘Yes, yes. I’m here.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, of course. Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘In that case, I’d like us to meet today.’
‘Sure.’ I’d scrabbled like a child for my PDA, but it slipped out of my fingers and glided across the floor. ‘When? And where? I can be at your office any time.’
‘No. Not the office. Come to Islington. Come tonight. Cassie’s away and the children are on a sleepover at a friend’s. Be here by 7.’
Before I could take in what he was saying, he’d disconnected. I’d stayed kneeling on the floor for several minutes, phone in one hand and PDA in the other. What did he want, and what would I be prepared to give him?
Sitting in my car now and staring at my subject’s house, I’m no nearer resolving either question, and it worries me that I haven’t told Jade about the conversation. Or about seeing Dominic on his home ground tonight. Rule Eleven of PI work: Always keep your colleagues up-to-date with events as they happen.
Today I haven’t done that. And because of it, there’s going to be trouble.
Don’t obsess, Paul, it’s never got you anywhere. Look at the house, wait for your client’s wife’s lover to appear and just do the job.
Where I’m parked isn’t too far from where Dominic lives, in Islington. I could just drive there and...stop it, stop it, for God’s sake. Concentrate on the task in hand: glance; wait; read two paragraphs of the latest Bosch novel — wish I had some of his luck, though I could do without the action sequences, I have enough of my own — glance again; and so on and so on until my brain pauses and then I’m there. I’m into auto-pilot when sensation stops and I’m nothing but an eye watching and someone who waits. And waits.
Two hours and forty-seven minutes of nothing creep by, alleviated only by nine minutes of the subject pottering around the garden staring at borders. I’ve almost given up hope when a maroon four-wheel drive glides to a halt in front of the house. At once, I snap the book shut, shove it into the glove compartment — I hate the thought of Bosch getting messy — and slide down into my seat so no-one can see me.
A tall, dark-haired man leaps out of the car, glances once to the left and again to the right, and strides down the pathway to the front door of Number 57. He’s good-looking, mid-forties, I’d judge, so younger than my client by at least ten years. What I wouldn’t do for an energetic, twenty-year-old bloke eager to learn.
Steady, Paul, keep your mind on the job. The last thing you want is a hard-on.
I wait for twenty-one minutes, then, taking my Nikon from the floor, I put on my sunglasses and stroll out into sunshine, which holds within it a hint of autumn. Nobody is around to see me, nobody cares.
It doesn’t take long to get inside Number 57. When I’m in, I see the walls could do with a spot of decorating and the paper is peeling at the top corners here and there. But there’s some pleasant, modern artwork, including two watercolour portraits of my client and his wife.
The groaning that greeted me in the hallway when I first sneaked in is reaching a crescendo, and I, like them, need to strike now before the moment is lost.
A quick peak through the half-open living room door shows me a white leather sofa nestling on a beige carpet. On this and next to the sofa rather than on it, a naked and sinewy back is pumping away in a rhythm all its own on top of what I once heard described as a fine pair of lungs. Straight sex has never turned me on. Still, I can’t help but admire the bloke’s smooth arse for a second or two.
Then I cough.
As always, it does the trick.
Three seconds later, I have a clear picture of two entwined bodies and two startled expressions, enough of each to aid identity, from whichever angle.
I stay long enough to say thank you on the grounds that politeness is free. Then I scarper before lover boy can blush and reach for his boxers and my client’s wife can even think about forming a scream.
Outside, I accelerate away, leaving behind me a cloud of late summer dust and discovered guilt.
Back at the office, Jade glances up at me for a second before returning her gaze to her computer.
‘The lover arrived later than I’d thought,’ I say.
‘Whose lover? The subject’s or yours?’
‘Yeah, yeah. How’s your stuff going?’
‘Still not as well as I’d like it to be,’ she says. ‘I can’t seem to get to the level of information we need. The Met must have upgraded their security system, if only for this case, and it’ll mean everything will take longer, if I’m going to get in and out of there without leaving footprints.’
‘Okay, no problem. You can only do what you can, but it’s past hours now. Why don’t you leave it ’til tomorrow?’
She shakes her head. ‘No, I’d like to know I can do this first. After this morning’s pep talk, I’m not going to let it beat me. After all, I’m the best, aren’t I?’
‘You certainly are, but don’t stay too late. I’d keep you company and get my report on this afternoon done, but I’m...’ I’ve done well so far in my attempts to seem cool, but the heat on my skin must be affecting my voice, ‘...I’m...out this evening.’
‘Good for you,’ she says, still tapping away on the keyboard. ‘Anywhere nice?’
‘Actually,’ I pick up the papers on the adultery case, left in a neat pile at the edge of my desk, and begin checking they’re in date order. They are. ‘Actually, I’m meeting Dominic.’
The keyboard falls silent, but Jade doesn’t move. ‘At his office?’
‘No, not exactly. I’m seeing him at home.’
‘Your home?’
‘His.’
‘Is that wise?’
I hesitate. The simple answer is I don’t know, but I’m going to go anyway. Everything in my body and mind is straining after the fact that tonight, at 7pm, I’ll be alone with Dominic again. Anything that might happen after that is nothing but a haze.
‘Don’t fuss, Jade. It’s not going to be a problem, it’s a business meeting, that’s all.’
‘Where are his wife and children?’
‘All we’ll do is discuss the case. I’ll give him the latest information and grab the chance to find out what he really knows. After that, I’ll head home, pour myself one whisky too many, watch crap TV, and go to bed. So there’ll be no difference to what I usually do when I’m not with you, and my private life will carry on in the way it always has done since...since whenever. So please don’t go on about it, I’ll be fine. Anyway, why do you have to be so Baptist about everything? As your mother reminded us, you’re not the best chapel-goer in the world.’
By the time I’ve finished this little speech, I’m standing, fists clenched at my sides. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jade ups and punches me. I wouldn’t blame her if she did, but it’s not her style and she just doesn’t respond, although her eyes widen as she glares at me.
‘God, that was a low jibe, even by my standards. I’m sorry.’
She shrugs. ‘Apology accepted. Would you like a hot chocolate?’
I shake my head, and she returns to her work. For a while, nothing more is said. She’s seen the worst of me, both after Dominic and long before. She’s seen me drunk, sick, crying, high on drugs, and shaking with frustration and grief. And anger, yes, don’t let’s forget the anger. She’s seen that, too. Not to mention the long haul upwards, step by slow step, into something approaching what sanity might be. If it wasn’t for Jade, I’d be dead at least twice over. And
all I can do is slag her off, put the knife in at the place it will hurt her most. All I can do is get at the religion I know she still sets such store by, even though I can never understand it. Great move, Paul. What sort of a friend am I?
I ought to get out before I do any more damage.
‘Look,’ I say, dragging one hand through my hair. ‘I need to go if I’m going to...be ready in time. Sorry again about what I said, and I promise things will seem better tomorrow. Thanks for all your hard work today, and don’t stay too late, will you?’
She shakes her head. ‘I won’t. See you tomorrow then. Just promise me one thing.’
‘Sure. What’s that?’
‘If — no, when — Mr. Allen asks if you’d like to see ’round the house, whatever you do, don’t go into his damn bedroom.’
‘What do you mean? I—’
‘Promise me?’
‘Okay, okay.’ I hold up my hands in mock defeat, but by now I’m hardly listening. ‘I promise, but you’re a hard taskmistress. I’ll see you in the morning.’
And then, head full of the problem of what I should wear tonight and which aftershave to use, and running away from the real problem of my not-quite-over argument with Jade, I’m gone.
Chapter Nine
I’m exactly four minutes behind schedule. Before arriving at Dominic’s city home, I’ve changed my clothes three times and am still unhappy with the way I look. I decide I don’t want to arrive late but know it will be worse if I arrive early. Much, much worse.
By the time I’ve found a parking space, I’m struggling to remember the reasons for being here. The case, I think, the case, I have to focus. There are facts I should tell him and facts I have to find out. If only Jade had managed to hack into the records I’d wanted to see, then I might know if I had any evidence at all, rather than speculation, suspicion, and gut instinct. I should run, on two counts: this case and Dominic.
Obstinacy and the need to know make sure I don’t.
So instead of taking the sensible course, which would probably involve booking a one-way ticket to Brazil leaving a cryptic note for Jade to follow me, I get out of the car, clutching a file of papers. The air is heavy and there’s a smell of mown grass and late roses. The end of summer.
Dominic’s house sparkles in the evening light. There are pillars on either side of an elegant, white stone porch with a set of four steps leading up to a cream front door with an acorn-shaped brass handle. On either side of the façade, the house itself unfolds outwards, revealing a richer cream, mock-Georgian piece of pure money. God alone knows what this man was ever doing with someone like me.
Each step nearer the elegant front door brings with it a range of emotions I can’t name. Even the thought of Jade slips into free-fall. It’s as if there’s nobody in this road, or Islington, Hackney, or Stratford, nobody in the whole of London or perhaps for this moment in the world but me and the man behind the door.
I want to run.
I don’t. My feet keep moving onward, and my hand is raised to knock, but before I can, the door is opened.
‘Paul.’ It’s a statement, he’s had no doubt of me, when all I have for him is uncertainty. And need. Then he makes a slight movement towards me but cuts it off and says, ‘What have you done to your eye?’
‘Car accident,’ I reply with a shrug. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘I see. Come in.’
As he stands aside to let me pass, I enter a long hallway carpeted in blue, with a lighter shade of the same colour on the walls. There are tall mirrors framed in silver, two Vettrianos, possibly originals, and a dazzle of sunlight from a distant window. As he clicks the door shut behind me, I look at Dominic.
He’s opted for smart casual tonight, wearing chinos, something I’ve never seen him in before, and a silk shirt, white, that sets off his understated tan. His sleeves are rolled up so the light catches the golden hairs on his arms, and as he passes me there’s a hint of spices and lime. His feet are bare.
‘Please,’ he says again, ‘come through.’
I follow him down the hallway and then left into what I imagine is the living room. I’ve never been here before. He gestures at the nearest chair.
‘Sit down. I’ll get you a drink. Beer or wine? I assume not being at home you won’t want whisky.’
‘Beer’s fine.’ I want to keep a clear head tonight.
When he’s gone, I don’t sit down. So far, the interior of Dominic’s house is everything I’ve imagined it to be. But being here tonight is still like something out of time, and I try to tell myself not to be fooled. He’s not for me, no matter how much I might want it, and I have to remember what I’m here for.
Standing in the middle of this room, I can’t help luxuriating in the deep cream carpet, and I wish my feet too were bare. There’s more mirror glitter, two Art Nouveau pieces, and on my right crystal glints in the display cabinet. Not for the first time, I wonder what his wife, Cassandra, is like, not just in appearance but inside, where it matters.
As if on cue, the photographs catch my eye. Family shots, on show on an intricately carved sideboard. Something in me is glad he hasn’t removed them. I put down my notes and pick up the first one, admiring the delicate, dark-haired beauty of Dominic’s wife and the strength behind her eyes that can’t be hidden even at one remove. Cassandra Allen. The echo of her name in my head makes everything blur for a second or two, and for some reason I think of Jade so I return Cassandra to the ebony surface, a little back from her original position. The next photograph I look at shows Dominic’s children. From the newspaper articles I’ve collected, I know his son, Henry, is thirteen and his daughter, Judith, eleven, but, apart from those basic facts, anything else is hazy. Dominic works hard to keep his children out of the media, and for that I admire him. Now I find myself looking at a slim, laughing boy with the same cheekbones and dark hair as his mother. He’s holding a skateboard and standing near pink roses, with the house in the background suffused in sunlight. By his side is a girl, almost as tall as her brother, but fair-haired and with a face that will one day grow into the likeness of her father’s. Even so young, Judith has no need for props; hands by her sides, open, confident, she smiles at the camera, waiting for the moment of decision when the shutter will click and what she is then will be recorded for all eternity. It’s the pinnacle of summer, and the family is basking in its own particular glory.
It strikes me that Dominic has brought up his children well. My ex-lover has a life I have never explored, or wanted to. What am I to him? I half-drop the photograph, and it lands with a thump face-down, and I’m in the process of setting it up again when Dominic re-enters the room.
‘Beer, the way you prefer it.’
When I spin round, he’s holding a tray on which are standing a glass of deep red wine, a bottle of Waggledance beer, and another glass. I take the bottle, and it’s room temperature.
‘You remembered,’ I mutter.
‘Of course.’ Placing the tray on the gilded coffee table, he takes his children’s photograph and returns it to the correct position. ‘What were you doing with these?’
‘I was just curious.’
He smiles. By now he’s so close to me I could, if I had the courage, reach out and touch him.
‘It’s a good picture, I think. Of both of them. Do you like it?’
‘No.’
For a moment his face spasms as if I’ve punched him. ‘Oh? Why not?’
‘Why do you think?’ When he takes a step back and turns away, I regret my harshness. ‘Look, they’re beautiful children, you’re very lucky, but you don’t need me to tell you that.’
‘I love them, Paul.’
There’s nothing I can say. It’s as if he’s given me a gift I don’t know how to accept or a warning I can’t interpret. After a second or two, he picks up his glass, sips his wine, and sits down on the chocolate-brown sofa, stretching out his arms across the back like a lion in control of its prey. I grab my beer, ignore the glass, and swig
it straight from the bottle. It helps to ease the dustiness and fear under my skin.
As I take the seat opposite him, something occurs to me.
‘Don’t you smoke at home? There are no...signs of anything.’
‘You mean why are there no ashtrays, and why doesn’t the house smell of nicotine?’ he says with a short laugh. ‘Simple. I don’t smoke inside while my children are here. Let them make that choice when they’re old enough. I won’t force it on them now.’
I nod. If I was a parent, I suppose I wouldn’t even have had to ask that, but I’ve never had the experience to think in those terms. I’ve never wanted it. The fact of Dominic’s fatherhood is being made clear to me for the first time and in a place I never expected it. What am I doing here, with him?
The question jolts me out of the slow sparkling river we are somehow travelling on together, and I remember the reason I have come.
‘The case, Dominic, I need to ask you—’
He holds up his hand, and I fall silent, cursing the habit of obedience he can ignite in me even now.
‘Please,’ he says. ‘It can wait ’til later. There’ll be plenty of time for business then. Let’s finish our drinks first.’
For an answer, I take up the beer, holding Dominic’s gaze as I do so, and drain it dry. ‘Done. Finished.’
He smiles, ‘But I haven’t. Not yet. And we have business to discuss.’
‘For God’s sake, Dominic, then let’s discuss it. I’m too old to play games any more.’
‘All right,’ he says, and I sit back into my chair. ‘All right. Business it is, but first let’s eat.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘I don’t believe you, you’ve always been hungry. In many ways. But I’m not asking you for anything. I simply want to enjoy your company on an evening when I find myself able to do so. If you want to drink, then drink; if you want to eat, then eat. I don’t mind what you do, but I’d like you to stay.’
