‘I’ll be fine.’
‘So I should hope. But go away and sleep. I’ll see you this evening, and we can talk again tomorrow when I’ve had a chance to review your files.’
Trish didn’t like it, but there was nothing she could do except smile and agree that she would see him for dinner. She tidied her room, slung her jacket round her shoulders and went home.
But there was no chance to rest because her cleaner was there, ferociously polishing the floor. The scent of beeswax had flooded the flat, which was fine, but the polisher was heavy and electric and made the most awful screeching noise. Maria switched it off as she saw Trish picking her way carefully over the unpolished bits of the floor on her way to the spiral staircase.
‘The man from the company just left,’ she said, leaning on the handle of the polisher.
‘What man? What company?’
‘The man to see the dilapidations, he called them.’
Trish thought about the rotting window sills and frowned. She hadn’t got round to phoning the freeholders, or the managing agents. Could one of the other leasees have pre-empted her?
‘Which dilapidations?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, where did he look?’
‘He didn’t. You didn’t tell me anyone was coming. He didn’t have identification, so I didn’t let him in.’
Trish bit back her irritation. Maria couldn’t know how worried she’d been about the window sills.
‘Thanks. That was sensible. I’ll find out what it’s about. Will I be in your way?’
‘Not if you stay upstairs.’ There was an order in that as well as an answer to the question. Trish was tempted to salute, but Maria might have misunderstood.
‘Fine.’ Trish tried to avoid smearing the new polish as she got to the staircase.
Upstairs, she used the phone by her bed. Neither the managing agents nor the freeholder knew anything about a man coming to look at the building. Fighting a sudden whoosh of panic, Trish reported the rotting window sills and asked them to get someone round as soon as possible.
‘Maria?’ she called from halfway down the spiral staircase.
‘Yes?’ She looked irritated as she switched off the machine again.
‘What did he look like, the man who came about the dilapidations?’
‘I don’t know. Fair hair. Tidy. Clean. Respectable.’
‘Tall, short, English, foreign, white, black, what?’
‘English, I think. Ordinary. Polite. Small. And white, which is why he had fair hair.’
‘He could have been a bottle blonde.’
Maria smiled reluctantly. ‘No. It was natural. He looked so small and tidy – very clean, too – I nearly let him in. But he had no ID.’
Small, tidy and clean, Trish thought, suddenly remembering the young man who’d called off her infant tormentors on the Mull Estate. She’d been grateful to him for that, but he hadn’t been altogether benign. At one moment it had looked as though he might bar her way down from the flat that had once been Jeannie Nest’s. And he’d denied all knowledge of Jeannie, even though what she’d done must have been common knowledge around the estate. He might not have lived there at the time of the murder, but it didn’t seem possible that he hadn’t heard anything about it or the way she’d tried to intervene and then given evidence for the prosecution. So why had he lied? Trish felt as though icy water was trickling down through her spine.
Oh, grow up, she thought. There must be millions of men in the country, hundreds even in Southwark, who are small, fair, clean and tidy.
‘Great, thanks,’ she said aloud, disobeying Maria’s instructions in order to pick up the day’s mail from her long desk.
‘I try to clean your desk, Trish. But it’s impossible. You must tidy it first. How you ever find anything, I don’t know.’
‘Yes, thank you, Maria. I promise I will sort it. I’ll move all the papers one day, so you can swab it down. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. I have finished now. I have to go. Thank you for the money.’
While Maria packed up to leave, Trish wished she’d got home earlier. If she’d been here when the man had come knocking on her door, she’d know for certain that he had nothing to do with the one who’d professed ignorance of Jeannie Nest. As it was, she couldn’t stop herself inventing all sorts of ludicrous reasons why that man might be coming after her. She put the chain across the door and double-checked the locks on all the windows.
Lakeshaw was well in control, as he listened to DC Waylant repeating everything he’d already admitted about his dealings with the victim. She’d been paranoid, he said earnestly, always thinking people were following her or threatening her, but each time anyone had been round to her place to check it out, there was a simple explanation.
‘After what she’d been through,’ Lakeshaw said in a voice so calm he couldn’t believe it himself, ‘it’s hardly surprising that she was nervous.’
‘No.’ Waylant smiled suddenly, revealing a much less resentful personality. ‘But it made life tough for her kid, you know. He wasn’t allowed to play with anyone she didn’t know or visit friends unless she’d checked them out first. He wasn’t allowed out after dark unless she was with him all the time. And when she was scared, she’d scream at him. I could see him sometimes, worrying over what he might have done to annoy her. Poor little bastard. I used to try to get her to ease up a bit, let him live a normal life.’
‘That sounds as though you knew them well.’
‘Not well, but I was round there quite often.’ Waylant’s grin looked as if he was trying to seem confident, but it was a poor effort. ‘Had to be really, with all her barmy reports of people threatening her.’
‘But they were true, weren’t they? It’s the old story, isn’t it? Just because you’re paranoid it doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.’
Deep garnet-red colour flooded Waylant’s cheeks. He looked as though he was about to cry. ‘There’d never been anyone there when I checked, sir. Nor any evidence of anyone. I followed it all up, time after time, until that last one when we were so busy.’
‘I’ll need a full report of every call she made, and everything you did to check. OK?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Waylant turned to go.
‘Not yet,’ Lakeshaw said, watching the sag of Waylant’s shoulders. He turned back slowly, his face a mixture of sullen obstinacy and fear. ‘How did you know who she really was?’
Waylant’s face cleared, like a wiped table. ‘She told me herself, sir.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she was lonely?’ He let his voice rise at the end of the sentence. ‘She said she had to have someone to trust, and she elected me. Because of the job. She knew it would be safe.’
‘Did she though? OK, I see. And who did you tell?’
‘I’ve already told you, sir. I never passed on her name or address to anyone. And I never discussed the reasons why she was in the protection scheme. I’m not stupid. Once she’d told me who she was, I knew what a risk she’d taken by testifying.’
Lakeshaw looked at him, wishing there were some physical signs that could tell you when someone was lying. For his money, Waylant was lying about something in all this. The question was, what?
‘Sir?’
‘Yes?’
‘I … oh, nothing. I just wish we hadn’t been so busy that night, that’s all.’
Lakeshaw looked away, concentrating on one of the notes in front of him. If Waylant couldn’t come up with something better than that, he was a hopeless liar as well as a professional failure. And if he was that pathetic, he’d soon confess whatever it was that was making him feel so guilty. He’d have to because he’d be longing to be told he wasn’t as bad as he feared. The less encouragement he got now, the quicker he’d talk.
Chapter 11
Trish couldn’t obey Antony’s instructions to get some sleep. As soon as she closed her eyes, her brain started throwing up lurid pictures of what the small
, clean man had wanted in her flat and what he might do now that he’d been frustrated. The only way to stop that was to work, so she got up again to sort out her papers for tomorrow’s case in Maidstone. Then she phoned the social worker who would be in court with her. When they’d discussed the few points Trish needed to clarify, she said, ‘Sally, I’ve just heard that a child has run away from the Brakelys in Staplehurst. Do you know if—’
‘It’s not Gavin, if that’s what’s worrying you,’ the social worker said quickly. ‘He’s doing really well, Trish.’
‘Oh, I am glad. But are you sure he’s not at risk there?’
‘Absolutely. You know, you’re almost the only lawyer I’ve ever come across who cares enough to remember a client like that after so long.’
‘To be honest, I’ve hardly given him a thought since the case. But I came across the news in a quite different context, and it reminded me.’
‘Ah, right. Well, either way you needn’t worry. The boy who ran away is impossible. The Brakelys were saints to take him on, and they did it only because of his younger brother. He’s doing all right there, too, but David, the runaway, has real problems. Attention Deficit Disorder and then some. He’s utterly uncontrollable and spends whatever time is left after tormenting his brother, in torturing the cat or ripping up Mrs Brakely’s clothes. We’re doing everything we can to find him – of course we are – but his absence is giving everyone a much-needed break, particularly Gavin, I may say. How did you come across the story?’
‘There’s a small, dark-haired boy who turned up in London, looking for me, and—’
‘Not the one who was half-killed in a road accident? I had no idea you were involved in that.’
‘For my sins.’
‘Well, whoever he is, he’s not our David. Martha Weldon went up to London last Friday to identify him after everyone decided the photographs the police provided were too ambiguous. She said there was no real likeness at all. We’re still looking for our runaway.’
And the police didn’t bother to tell me? thought Trish. Bastards.
Sally’s story made her wonder how many people had come to stare at David while he lay in hospital, and how it must have felt. Like an animal in the zoo probably, or maybe the false Anastasia, who’d been poked and prodded by dozens of Romanov-lovers and -haters as she lay in a Berlin hospital. No wonder he wasn’t talking and preferred to lie with his eyes closed, shutting out everything and everyone.
‘I hope you find out who he is, Trish,’ Sally said comfortably. ‘I’m sure you will. Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow. Must go. Bye now.’
Trish ate some cottage cheese and grapes for an early lunch, then fetched her car from under the railway. It was warm enough to have the roof down as she drove to the hospital, and she took her usual childish pleasure in pressing the button on the dashboard and feeling the mechanism lift and fold back the roof.
The hospital friends’ shop was just closing when she got there, but she persuaded the volunteer to postpone her own break long enough to sell six individual cartons of apple juice.
Cradling them between her crooked arm and her ribs, Trish waited for the lift with a chattering family group, who were clearly on their way to visit a new baby. She felt the sharp corners of the cardboard digging into her arm and breast and stopped herself thinking of what might have been, shutting her ears to their excited discussion of possible names. She got out at the eighth floor and dropped half the juice cartons.
‘Hell!’
‘Hello,’ said one of the nurses who’d been particularly kind to David. ‘You again. Who are you here for this time?’
‘David.’
‘Didn’t they tell you? They’ve moved him. The police.’
Trish held in the much worse expletive that burst into her mind. Then all irritation disappeared in a wave of fear as she thought again of the small fair-haired man. Had he been here, too? Had she led him to David? Or had he been after David, seen her here and followed her home? Who the hell was he?
She saw the nurse looking curiously at her and quickly said, ‘Where have they taken him?’
‘I’ve no idea. It was done all of a hurry this morning, first thing. They should have told you.’
‘You’re damn right, they should. Could you use this juice for any of the others?’
‘I’m sure we could. Thank you.’
Trish left her, seething. Out in the car park, she tried to phone Caro to find out what could be going on, but her mobile was on divert to the message service. Trish dialled the number of Caro’s flat, only to be answered by her machine. Trish left a brisk message to say that she needed to talk urgently, then sat in the driving seat in the middle of the car park adding up the scraps of evidence she had and trying to make sense of them.
Suddenly the idea of driving an open car didn’t seem such a good one. She switched on the ignition and pressed the button to close the roof. The drive home took less than ten minutes. As she reached the car park, she decided to sweep past the flat to make sure no one was hanging about, waiting for her.
The street was absolutely clear, so she made a U-turn and parked in her expensive space. The great vaulted tunnel echoed to her footsteps. A pigeon burst out from behind a pillar with a noise like a machine gun. The shock made her sweat. Footsteps sounded at the far end of the long tunnel full of expensive cars. She bleeped her locks down and hurried to the entrance. The steps quickened behind her; then she heard another car bleeping and risked a glance over her shoulder. A wholly respectable middle-aged man was opening the door of a large maroon Rover. He raised a hand and nodded. Trish thought he looked vaguely familiar, so she smiled in return, telling herself not to be so sodding paranoid. She’d go mad if she started to hear something sinister every time there was someone running or walking behind her.
Back in the flat, she decided coffee would make her even jumpier, so she boiled the kettle and made some camomile tea. Maybe it would help her get a bit of rest. She knew it was supposed to induce sleep. It tasted of wet hay, but she drank most of it, lying back with the mug balanced against her chest. Her eyes felt heavy. She ought to be using the time to read, but she hadn’t the energy to move. The mug wobbled suddenly against her chest and she woke enough to get it safely to the floor before she dropped it.
Re-emerging into consciousness felt like pulling herself out of a quicksand. When she was on her feet again, she couldn’t believe the clock, which told her that it was already five-thirty. She’d been out for over three hours and she had to be at the Shelleys’, ready to charm and sparkle, by eight-fifteen. She phoned to book a mini-cab for seven-thirty. There was no point driving herself to a house where the wines were said to be sublime.
A hard, hot shower helped to drive the sleep out of her mind. Still dripping, she made some coffee. Jumpy or not, she had to wake up properly now. Taking it back upstairs, she picked up the hairdrier and thought about what she was going to wear. Some of the women at Antony’s dinners, so she’d heard, came in whatever they’d been wearing at work; others dressed in formal silk and sparkles. She gelled and dried her hair into its usual spiky style, which was the only one that didn’t make her look like a bird of prey pretending to be Red Riding Hood’s grandmother, and mentally flicked through her wardrobe.
By the time her hair was done, she’d decided on a compromise. There was a longish linen dress in a sludgy green that she’d bought at Monsoon a while ago, which would do. The subdued colour suited her skin, and she still had the kind of firm upper arms that made a sleeveless dress work. She’d add the barbaric necklace George had given her for her last birthday and hope that the mixture wouldn’t make her look too out of place, even if all the other women were dressed in suits or strapless silk. The necklace was made of chunks of dull gold and richly dark amber and it suited Trish far better than any of the delicate silver-wire-and-moonstone jewellery currently approved by the fashionistas.
She was not used to this kind of calculation and didn’t like having to make it. S
he was who she was and had never wanted to pretend to be anything else. But the Shelleys’ house was unfamiliar territory. To fix herself back into her own, she grabbed some time to plug in her modem and email a brief message to George. His name appeared in her in-box. She checked her watch and saw she had five minutes before the mini-cab was due and opened the message.
You’ll be just about off to the Shelleys’ for dinner by the time you read this. Or maybe you’re already back. It’s a real swizz that I’m missing it. People say their food is so devastating you’ll never want to eat anywhere else again, and as for the wine … Out of this world. Wasted on you, of course. You’d be just as happy with baked beans and supermarket plonk. But do your best to remember it all. I want all the details. None of that ‘all tastes like Ribena to me’ crap, Trish. I need the vicarious pleasure of a full account.
And I may get it sooner than we thought. My mother’s beginning to flag, I think. I don’t want to shortchange her, so I’m not going to suggest switching the air tickets until she’s ready, but I don’t think it’ll be long. I’ll let you know. Love, George.
Trish rarely let herself answer emails the moment she’d read them. The seductive ease of communication meant that you’d click on ‘send’, only to get ten more messages flooding in. By the time you’d sent your answers to those, the first lot would have written back and want something else. You could lose your mind that way. So she rationed herself. But this one from George had to be answered now, and honestly.
Fantastic news! I miss you so much. I’ve been wondering recently about the so-called joys of independence …
She deleted the last sentence, thinking it sounded far too clingy, then carried on, typing carelessly but fast:
And I wish you were here to come to the dinner tonight. I haven’t felt this twitchy for years. Mainly the case, of course. If I bog this … well, I can’t bog it. That’s all there is to it. Sorry. Weedy. Most unlike me. Can’t wait to see you. Love, Trish.
Out of the Dark Page 15
