‘Well, I’m not here for your tea.’ Mendel made a face and put down the mug. ‘No wonder you drink coffee.’
Harland looked at his friend and nodded slowly.
‘I appreciate it,’ he said. ‘You’ve not been round here for ages . . .’
There was an awkward silence, as they both recalled that last time, shortly after Alice had died. Mendel finally spoke.
‘So, what’ve you been up to?’
Harland started to say something, to answer without thinking, but the words wouldn’t come. He floundered for a moment, then looked away.
‘You all right, Graham?’ Mendel leaned forward in sudden concern.
‘Yeah.’ He had been caught off guard, thinking about her, but he gathered himself now, speaking tentatively, testing each sentence before trusting his weight to it. ‘I’m just not used to so much free time . . . so much time at home. This is the first proper leave I’ve taken since . . . Alice.’
Managed to say her name. Good.
Mendel nodded at him.
‘It must be tough,’ he said. ‘But you’re keeping yourself busy?’
‘Yeah, just catching up on a few things, you know . . .’ Harland trailed off, bowing his head. ‘Went to the cemetery – first time in a long time. Did some thinking . . .’
Again, words failed him, but once again Mendel didn’t.
‘I still don’t know how you scored someone like Alice,’ he said, lifting his mug and studying it.
Harland, jolted out of silence, looked up at him.
‘What?’
‘Well,’ Mendel reflected, ‘she was way too good for the likes of you. Thought that the first time I met her.’
A wry smile spread across Harland’s face.
‘Thanks for that,’ he said.
Mendel glanced up from his mug.
‘Be honest, though,’ he said. ‘You were lucky there.’
Harland nodded for a moment but his smile had become hollow.
‘Not so lucky now though,’ he said, looking down.
Mendel frowned at him.
‘How can you say that?’ he asked. ‘How can you possibly say something like that?’
Harland’s head snapped up sharply. Wasn’t it obvious how much he was suffering? How much her loss hurt him?
‘Would you rather you’d never met?’ Mendel pressed him. ‘Would that have been better?’
Harland stared at him for a moment, then gently shook his head.
‘No,’ he said softly.
‘I should think not,’ Mendel sighed. ‘Tell you what, Graham – for a clever bloke, you do say some stupid things.’
They ordered a pizza and watched the rest of the movie. Afterwards, Mendel agreed to one more cup of tea before he left, but insisted on making it himself.
‘You need to give it a chance to infuse properly,’ he explained, mashing the tea bag against the side of the mug with a spoon. ‘Otherwise there’s no flavour.’
Leaning against the kitchen counter, Harland watched him doubtfully.
‘I’ll stick to coffee,’ he said. ‘Anything that strong would probably keep me awake.’
‘Your loss,’ Mendel shrugged.
Opening the back door, Harland moved outside and stood on the step while he lit a final cigarette.
‘So what about the Severn Beach thing?’ he asked. ‘I guess by the fact you haven’t mentioned it that there’s not been much progress.’
Mendel came over to stand beside him, his large silhouette framed in the light of the doorway.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Shame about that one.’
‘Shame?’
‘Well . . .’ Mendel lifted his mug, inhaling the steam. ‘It’s all over, isn’t it?’
Harland looked at him, then nodded slowly.
‘I suppose so,’ he said. There was nothing more they could do unless they got a hit on that mobile phone. ‘At least until he kills another one.’
45
Saturday, 8 September
Painting the little soldiers was difficult. He dipped the thin brush – just a few fine hairs in a tight point – into the small pot of black gloss, then carefully applied the glistening paint to the infantryman’s tiny rifle. He held his breath as he worked, not blinking, not moving, except for his brush hand. When it was done, he exhaled, and held up the soldier to survey the finished figure.
Perfect.
He set the soldier down on the window sill, beside the others, then crouched in close to see them at eye level. A whole box of them, twenty-four German infantrymen, all painted. He wished they didn’t take quite so long to dry, but his father said it was good for him – that it would teach him patience.
Reaching down, he retrieved a jam jar filled with paint thinner and placed it on the old newspaper that protected the top of his bedside cabinet. Carefully, he lowered the tip of the brush into it, watching as little swirls of black bloomed out like upside-down smoke in the clear liquid. Then, checking his hands to make sure they were free from paint, he lay back on his bed and stared up at the patterned plaster ceiling, inhaling the delicious smell of the gloss and the thinners.
It was his room now. There were still two beds, but he didn’t have to share any more. He could do whatever he wanted, wherever he wanted, which was brilliant. Nobody moaned about the fumes from his paints, nobody told him to move his things back to his own side of the floor. In fact, he could even use Gary’s things, as long as he was careful with them and put them back before his mother noticed.
He sat up and glanced across at the empty bed opposite him, frowning for a moment. Sometimes, when he was pretending to be asleep, she would come in and sit there, just running her hand across the cold bedspread or gently stroking the unused pillow in the dark. He reached out, his fingertips brushing across his own pillow. She wouldn’t pack away any of his brother’s stuff, even after all this time. He wished she wasn’t so sad. If only he could tell her . . .
But it really wasn’t so bad. And he had discovered another, even greater advantage. He didn’t have to share her any more either. She held him for longer now; she loved him more than she had before. He smiled and got to his feet. Things were better now, he was sure of it.
Naysmith woke with a start. Glancing around the bedroom, it took him a few seconds to get his bearings before he sank back into the soft pillows and exhaled slowly. He stretched out his arm, caressing the bulging duvet, but it crumpled under his hand. Kim must be downstairs. Fumbling on the bedside table for his watch, he focused on the time – 9.37 a.m. He frowned for a moment then remembered it was Saturday.
Yawning, he stretched and kicked off the duvet, letting his feet drop to the floor and sitting for a weary moment. The light coming from between the curtains was dull and without warmth. He shook his head – another overcast Saturday. Rubbing his eyes, he got slowly to his feet and padded through to the bathroom.
The kitchen smelled of coffee and toast when he came down. Kim was sitting at the large wooden table reading a book.
‘Morning, sleepyhead.’ She smiled up at him as he wandered over to the fridge. ‘I did make you some toast . . . but then I ate it.’
‘It’s the thought that counts,’ Naysmith murmured, pouring himself an orange juice. ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’
‘You looked so peaceful, it seemed a shame to disturb you,’ Kim said. ‘Plus, when I tried shaking you, you didn’t respond.’
‘I’m still asleep now.’
‘Sit down and I’ll make you some coffee.’
‘Thanks.’
She got up and tousled his hair as she went over to the counter.
‘Do you remember Javier? From Sam and Dave’s barbecue?’
Naysmith lifted his head and shot her a bleary frown.
‘Wasn’t he a photographer or something?’
‘That’s right.’ Kim glanced over her shoulder. ‘He’s got an exhibition in Bristol. Sam asked me if we wanted to go with them.’
‘Sure.’ Naysmith rested his head on his
hands. ‘When is it?’
‘Next Sunday evening.’
Her voice continued but Naysmith barely heard her, his mind suddenly racing.
‘I thought you were going out next Sunday?’ he asked casually.
Not next weekend – any time but then. He’d spent too much time planning the climax of the current game, checking things, arranging things, all for a weekend when she was supposed to be busy . . .
‘No. Jane had to cancel. And this might be more interesting anyway.’
Shit. He sleepily rubbed his eyes to avoid looking at her.
‘Not sure if I can do Sunday night,’ he said carefully. ‘I’ve got a breakfast meeting on Monday and I told Ken I’d go up to town for a few drinks, then stay over.’
Kim said nothing. He glanced across at her but her face was unreadable.
‘You said you were out that night,’ he shrugged.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Naysmith watched her as she took her book from the table and left the room. Changing his plans now would certainly be tiresome and might introduce unnecessary complications. He really didn’t want to risk it. Kim might be a little sulky for an hour or so, but she’d be okay. And he’d make it up to her, maybe take her somewhere nice for dinner . . .
He downed the last of his orange juice and sat for a moment before pushing back the chair and standing up.
‘I’m going to go and get the papers,’ he called as he moved through to the hallway. ‘Do you want anything?’
No answer. She must still be cross with him. He shook his head and reached for his jacket.
Outside, the village was dull and shadowless beneath an ugly grey sky. Pulling the front door shut behind him, Naysmith jammed his hands into his jacket pockets and walked briskly down the lane.
He stopped off at the bakery on the way back to buy a crusty loaf, then made his way home, tearing off little pieces of warm bread and eating them as he walked. The clouds were darker now, and he was glad to get back before it started to rain.
Entering the kitchen, he placed the loaf in the bread bin and dropped the papers on the table. Kim was probably still annoyed about her weekend plans and he thought it might be better to give her some space. He knew he had some emails to check so he went upstairs to the study and settled into his chair. Most of the mail was unimportant – follow-ups to meetings and a couple of conference calls to add to his calendar – but there was also a draft contract that he’d been waiting for and he decided to go through it now while he had the time. There were a couple of minor errors, but those were quickly fixed and, once satisfied, he hit the print button.
Nothing happened.
On the screen, a message flashed up: Out of paper.
‘Kim?’ he called, as his eyes searched the room. ‘Have we got any more printer paper?’
‘Is it on the shelf?’ Her voice came from the bedroom.
‘There’s none there.’
‘Then we must be out.’
He sighed and saved the file for later – it could wait if it had to. As he shut down the email program, he caught a movement at the edge of his vision. Turning his head, he saw Kim standing in the doorway, watching him.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
He held out his hand to her but she turned away and started down the stairs. Naysmith rubbed his eyes for a long moment, then reluctantly got to his feet and slowly followed her down to the kitchen. All this fuss over an exhibition for someone they barely knew – it was just getting silly now.
She had her back to him, standing at the sink and filling the kettle as he walked into the room.
‘Kim?’
She turned round, her eyes on him as she returned the kettle to its base and switched it on.
‘Yes?’
‘What’s bothering you?’ He realised that he had instinctively positioned himself directly between her and the doorway. He hadn’t meant to . . .
‘Who says anything’s bothering me?’ Her voice was measured, but she folded her arms as she spoke.
‘I do,’ he said softly. ‘Now what is it?’
The kettle began to steam and bubble on the counter. Naysmith waited patiently, his eyes locked on Kim until she finally raised her head and met his gaze.
‘Are you seeing someone else?’ she asked, quietly.
He had misread her. It wasn’t missing the exhibition that bothered her, it was the thought that he might be deceiving her. And he wasn’t, at least not in the way she thought . . .
‘No,’ he said, gently.
There was a long pause and Kim eventually lowered her head to stare at the floor. Didn’t she believe him?
‘Really no,’ he told her, more firmly.
Kim bit her lip and peered out at him between strands of hair that had tumbled down across her face.
‘Do you believe me?’ he asked.
She said nothing, absently toying with her hair as she stood with her back to the counter. Naysmith moved across the room and took her hand.
‘Do you believe me, Kim?’
She hesitated for a moment, then nodded slightly. ‘Yes.’
He moved closer, putting his arms around her shoulders. She remained still, passive, as he leaned forward, gently kissing her cheek, nuzzling her neck, loving the smell of her hair.
‘Rob?’ Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. ‘Are you keeping something from me?’
He paused, just for a heartbeat, and kissed her neck. Straightening up, he gazed down into her large eyes. So beautiful, so vulnerable.
‘Does it matter?’ He reached up and began slowly to unbutton her blouse, gradually revealing her smooth, pale skin. Her breathing was quicker now, her exposed chest rising and falling beneath his hands.
‘Please, Rob. Is there something?’
So perfect, her dark eyes shining, his brave little Kim.
‘Yes,’ he told her simply. At this moment, any other answer would have been unworthy of her, and unworthy of him.
Still gazing up at him, Kim blinked and sighed. It sounded almost like relief.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. Her arms crept up to encircle his neck and she buried her face in his shoulder. It was a curious reaction, and he was surprised how much this glimmer of honesty had meant to her.
She yielded to his kiss, her body arching in response as his hands caressed her back, then stood pensively as he hitched up her skirt and calmly slid her underwear down to her feet.
‘Rob?’
‘What is it?’ he asked as he undid his belt buckle.
‘Will you tell me?’
Naysmith put his hands on her hips and lifted her up to sit on the edge of the kitchen counter, then gazed thoughtfully into her eyes.
‘Not yet,’ he said softly.
Kim nodded hesitantly, reaching out to touch his arm.
‘But one day you will?’
‘Shhh.’ He gently put a finger to her lips and smiled kindly. She studied him for a moment and shyly smiled back.
He caressed her smooth legs, spreading them apart and moving between them. When had she become so important to him? The door was open now – only slightly, but it would be almost impossible to close. He moved forward, kissing her slender neck, closing his eyes as he nuzzled her hair. Her body felt warm against his, and suddenly he didn’t care – the desire for her swept aside the growing turmoil of emotions.
For now.
46
Sunday, 16 September
Harland pulled the front door closed behind him and dropped his keys in the bowl. The house was silent but somehow that didn’t matter just now. He rubbed his eyes as he walked through to the kitchen. It had been a quiet day but he felt strangely weary as he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over a chair. Opening the fridge, he took out a bottle of sparkling water and held it against the side of his face, relishing the invigorating cold on his skin.
Work had settled down again, back to a dull routine that was almost welcome aft
er the recent upsets and problems.
Almost welcome.
He’d spent an unrewarding afternoon behind a parade of shops on the Lawrence Weston Estate. There, between the commercial wheelie bins and the torn black refuse sacks, someone had noticed a pair of feet sticking out from under a piece of old cardboard. They’d called it in, and somehow it had fallen to Harland – perhaps as a punishment, perhaps because he didn’t have anything more important to do.
The worst of it was done by the time he got there, and it was outside, so the only real smell was the reek of the rubbish, but it wasn’t pleasant. There was nothing special about the body – a white male vagrant in his late forties – and he knew as soon as he arrived that it was just another miserable old soak, someone who’d finally lost his tenuous grip on life and slid into the dark. Tragic but meaningless. He knew that the investigation – and everything he was doing – wouldn’t really matter. When a person’s life had so little worth, his death didn’t seem to count.
He pierced the plastic covering on a pasta meal and put it in the microwave, setting the timer for three minutes.
At least these dregs jobs were keeping him away from Blake. He hadn’t seen the Superintendent since he’d returned to work, which was probably the way both of them wanted it. The less they said to each other the better. And Pope had been conspicuously absent too, first with the Shirehampton case, and then recently working on something ‘rather important’ over in Fishponds. Doubtless the little brown-noser was chasing the high-profile stuff, anything to get himself noticed, promoted. And good luck to the little bastard, just so long as it took him somewhere far away from here.
The microwave was beeping impatiently. Harland opened the door, removed the plastic tray carefully and sat down at the table to eat.
Later, when the washing-up was done, he clicked through the channels for a while, but there was nothing on TV. Switching the set off, he stood up and moved across to the bookcase. Head tilted, his eyes scanned the spines, looking for inspiration. So many books, each with its own associations and memories. Here was one he’d read by the pool in Italy a couple of years ago, and there was another that had been his companion when he’d been laid up in bed with the flu. They were both good, but he wanted something else, something he hadn’t read, something where he didn’t know the ending. Tracing a finger along the uneven books, he mouthed the titles silently to himself, until his hand paused.
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