“You’re not the only one who’s been waiting,” she said, thrusting herself against him. They kissed again, and he could feel her fumbling with his trousers. She unzipped his fly and he felt his body go tense. A moment later he heard her surprise: “Oh!”
“I’m tired, that’s all. Busy day.” He knew it should turn him on when she took the lead, and yet somehow he always felt a bit… intimidated. And he wasn’t a young man anymore, not that he would admit it. He’d told Lindsay he was forty-eight, though in fact he was fifty-three. “It doesn’t happen often,” he added, somewhat lamely.
“Don’t worry.” She gave him a quick kiss, then jumped to her feet. “Mind if I throw a sandwich together?”
By the time he’d restored his dignity and joined her in the kitchen, she was spreading butter on to three slices of granary bread. Somehow she seemed to combine a normal appetite with a superb figure, something that few of Howard’s other girlfriends ever managed. And at thirty-nine, Lindsay was actually the oldest partner he’d ever had, perhaps a sign that he was finally ready for a long-term relationship.
Her unabashed enthusiasm for sex certainly helped, as did her vow never to have children. “I heard my body clock start and I threw it across the room,” she had told him.
He watched her slicing a tomato with expert precision. She’d worked in restaurants while travelling the world in her early twenties. Both her parents had worked in the movie industry, and her childhood had been divided between New York state, California and Hertfordshire. Ten years ago she’d elected to live in England, and she was now practice manager for a large firm of commercial lawyers based in the City. They’d been seeing each other for nearly three months, but in that time he’d not even been invited to her flat. All she would say is that it compared very poorly with his own house.
“Good day?” he asked, when it became clear that she wasn’t about to initiate a conversation.
“I’d say so. You?”
“The book’s coming on a treat,” he said, brightening up. “I really think I’m on to something, thanks to you.”
She shrugged. “Don’t mention it.” Her mother had worked at the studios in Borehamwood where Eddie Randall made half a dozen features. She’d had a brief romance with him in the late sixties, and later told her daughter about some of his more unpalatable proclivities. Lindsay had contacted Howard after reading a newspaper article about his proposed biography. His request for an interview had been followed by dinner at the Ivy, and then a thrilling sexual encounter in the back seat of his Lexus.
While Lindsay constructed her double-decker cheese salad sandwich, Howard outlined the approach he intended to take with the book.
“The mob angle should really rack up the sales,” he told her gleefully. “I’m going to claim that Eddie got into bed with some serious villains.”
“You mean the ones that took out this Larry Jones guy?”
“Leslie. Yes. He was killed in October ‘68, and you know what’s wonderful?”
“What?” she asked flatly, not looking up from the sandwich.
“Randall had a heart attack in December, two months later. Isn’t that perfect?”
“You think the two things are linked?”
“I haven’t a clue, but it’ll seem like it by the time I’m finished. Under the burden of almost unimaginable guilt, Eddie Randall wishes himself dead and almost succeeds.”
Lindsay began to speak but he raised his hand for silence while he committed the sentence to memory.
“And what if his family take you to court?” she said through gritted teeth.
“More publicity. More sales. Anyway, I’ve given them every chance to tell me their side of the story.”
“They don’t seem too interested so far.”
“Oh, they’ll come round. I only need one of them to break.”
She looked at him sharply, and he met her disapproval with a brazen smile.
“You think you can break one of them?”
“My dear, I was tabloid journalist for fifteen years. It’s practically second nature.”
FO UR
Having lain awake half the night, Nick was sound asleep when the alarm went off at seven. He was sprawled almost sideways across the double bed, a leg draped over one side, a hand gripping the mattress on the other. And it hadn’t been a dream. She was gone.
He rolled on to his back and rubbed his eyes. A Springsteen song was running through his head: You’re Missing.
The face in the bathroom mirror looked a little more middle-aged than it had the day before, and again he thought of Dad in End of the Peer, full of vitality, only forty-one. All Nick saw were bags under his eyes and lines taking hold on his forehead. He forced a smile, narrowing his eyes until the ghost of his father appeared.
Eddie Randall had been fifty-eight when he died. It was the famously hot summer of 1976, a few days after Wimbledon, where Eddie had watched Bjorn Borg take the men’s singles title. They were preparing to set off for a holiday in the South of France, and nine-year-old Nick had a clear memory of his father struggling to lift a suitcase into the boot of their Rolls Royce. “No need to be going away, it’s so bloody hot here,” he’d said. Mopping his brow, he’d gone inside to fetch another case and promptly collapsed in the hall.
Nick’s world had fallen apart overnight. The tabloids raked up stories of gambling and rampant womanising, while his mother – Eddie’s second wife – discovered that they’d been living on fresh air for the past two years. She was forced to sell the large house in the village of Alfriston, while Nick and his sister were wrenched from their exclusive private school in Seaford and sent to the local comprehensive – to the delight of every thug in the school. Nick still bore a scar from the beating he’d received on the first day.
He ate a bowl of cereal, gulped down some coffee and rang Sarah’s mobile. He had spent half the night composing the message, but when the moment came every word vanished.
“Sarah, uh, Sarah, look. We have to talk about this, er, please? I know, I know I’m in the wrong, and if I could turn back the clock, I’d never… well, you’re not going to believe that, and I wouldn’t really blame you. But, anyway, I don’t think we should just throw it all away without at least… you know, exploring the possibilities. So, um, well, if you can find it in your heart to… ring me, at least. Not forgive me, not yet. But ring me. Let’s talk, please.”
He cut the connection and yelled “Fuck!” so loudly the sound reverberated around the house. He imagined her listening with utter contempt.
“You’re a mess, Nick Randall,” he declared. “A total bloody mess.”
***
Sarah had fared little better. The businessmen she’d been so keen to avoid had spent most of the night tramping on the stairs, slamming doors and flushing toilets. When morning finally came it was only the sad jumbled images of her dreams that convinced her she had slept at all.
She lay in the centre of the spongy double bed and checked her phone. A couple of texts from friends, and then Nick’s garbled plea for her to get in touch. She listened to it twice and felt the tears welling up.
She nearly rang him right then. Got as far as resting her finger lightly on the ‘call’ button. But then the old fears came creeping back. He’d cheated on her. Could he honestly guarantee that he’d never do it again? More to the point, could she believe him?
She switched off her phone.
***
Hurtling down the M23 in her 2 litre Ford Focus, Alex felt that life couldn’t get any better. Last night had been tremendous, a real breakthrough, and today she would consolidate her position.
It was seven-thirty, and the southbound traffic was relatively light. Alex was approaching Handcross Hill, a steep descent into a wooded valley where the road twists to the right and rises just as sharply into the Sussex Weald. Cruising at eighty, she had the outside lane to herself. Light traffic in the inside lane: nothing bunched up. It should have been a clear run.
The van though
t differently. A white Transit, six years old, Clean me daubed in the grime on the rear panel. It let her get within a hundred feet and then whipped into her path, doing fifty at best and making no effort to accelerate.
“Cocksucking bastard!” Alex hit the brake and felt the pedal pulsate as the ABS did its work. She couldn’t move to the left until she’d passed an old Astra, and the van seemed to be deliberately slowing. She was almost touching its bumper when she cut across to the inside, where a Skoda was ambling along just a few hundred feet in front. She put her foot down to take the van on the inside but the driver had anticipated that and accelerated alongside her.
She risked a quick look and saw the driver’s mate leering from the passenger window: shaved head, tattoo on his forehead – or maybe that was the lobotomy scar. He looked shocked, though. He had assumed it was a man behind the wheel.
There was still time to slow down, let them have their tiny victory, but that wasn’t in her nature. It never had been.
She stamped on the accelerator, watching the Skoda loom larger through the windscreen. A glance at the van. The driver was leaning forward, perhaps not believing that some bloody woman was taking them on. Both of them snarling, giving her the finger.
She flashed her lights, saw the Skoda driver check the mirror and do a startled doubletake. Alex raised her left hand and jabbed her fingers towards the outside lane: move over. Doing seventy-five now and rising, maybe four seconds from a collision.
Three. Two…
The Skoda obediently swerved across lanes, fishtailing as the driver struggled for control. Alex heard a squeal of brakes as the van tried to match the Skoda’s speed, but by then she was past them both, moving back out around a juggernaut, not knowing if the Skoda had been rear-ended by the van and not caring. All she could think about was the manic pumping of her heart and the knowledge of her own superiority.
She thought about Sarah, waiting for her. Thought about fucking her.
Thought about fucking with her.
***
By eight-thirty Nick had set up his laptop in the living room, but his mind was still on the message he’d left for Sarah. He’d rung twice more without success. Now he could only hope she was willing to resume contact.
In the meantime, he had work to do. Yesterday’s interview with Lauren Doyle was part of an investigation given to him by CBA Insurance, his former employers. Since going freelance two years ago, he’d been careful to stay on good terms with the claims manager, Morag Strutton, and instructions from CBA comprised nearly half of his workload. Today he had to persuade her to let him go on digging.
Leaving the house, he realised he’d done nothing about Howard Franks. The biographer had been pestering them for several months, and no doubt intended to resuscitate all the lurid stories which had so excited the media at the time of Eddie Randall’s death.
Nick still believed that the combination of the scandals and Eddie’s sudden death had caused his mother’s decline. Although Mary Randall had been twenty years younger than her husband, she had developed a drink problem which left Nick and his sister virtually bringing themselves up on their own. A series of strokes in her early fifties left her incapacitated, and she had died three years ago, aged just sixty-two.
At least his mother wouldn’t have to suffer all over again. Nick had a sudden irrational conviction that if only Franks had chosen another hapless celebrity victim to drag through the mud, his life would still be properly on track.
He certainly didn’t think things could get any worse.
FIVE
Breakfast had been a mistake, Sarah decided. Some foolish impulse had made her order the full English when tea and toast would have sufficed. Now she stood outside the hotel, gulping down the cool morning air and vowing that tomorrow she’d make other arrangements.
Alex arrived promptly at eight-fifteen, speeding into the car park and executing a skilful but noisy turn that aligned the passenger door precisely in Sarah’s path. A couple of the hotel staff came to the window to see what had caused the commotion.
“Do you always drive like this?” Sarah said. “I hope I’m going to be safe.”
“Safe is boring,” Alex retorted.
She spun the wheels and Sarah squealed, grabbing her seatbelt for support.
“You didn’t have to wait outside,” Alex said.
“I needed the fresh air. Breakfast was a bit greasy.”
“You’re welcome to stay with me, you know.”
“Thanks. I’m not sure what to do about work.”
“Why not chuck the job as well? Make a new start.”
Sarah felt herself squirming. This was her father’s favourite tactic, unleashing a tidal wave of advice that she was powerless to stem.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
Alex smiled, her gaze a little too intense for Sarah’s liking. For a second her hand rested on Sarah’s thigh. “Bad night?”
“Not great.”
They drove in silence for a few minutes. Sarah thought about the message from Nick. It had been totally inept, but also rather touching. She opened her mouth to tell Alex about it, then stopped without quite knowing why.
“You don’t owe him anything, Sarah. He’s the one that went screwing around.”
Sarah stared at her. The woman was uncanny.
“The hardest thing now is fighting the impulse to return,” Alex went on. “I’ve been there myself. A couple of nights trying to sleep alone in an unfamiliar bed, and it’s so tempting to give in, go crawling back and let him win. It’s an easy mistake to make, but it’s a mistake all the same.”
Sarah said nothing. Suddenly she knew this wasn’t the kind of day she needed. Given the choice, she’d buy a book and walk on the seafront. Alone. But Alex had driven down from Surrey to be with her. Sarah could hardly change her mind now, could she?
***
Roger Knight lived in a large detached house with four acres of land between the villages of Clayton and Westmeston, at the very foot of the South Downs. Dominating the top floor, the master bedroom had windows to three sides of the property. To the north and west were magnificent views across the Sussex Weald, but it was the south window that inevitably drew Caitlin. On her free days, if Roger was at work, she liked to bring a mug of tea up to the bedroom and sit in the window seat, the imposing mass of Ditchling Beacon looming over her.
She was there when Kevin Doyle arrived. The previous night’s argument had been the fiercest yet, and Caitlin decided she’d stay in the bedroom until Roger went out. Now she watched Kevin climb from his flashy red BMW and glance at the house before tossing his cigarette butt over his shoulder. She could have sworn he’d seen her, and the single word he mouthed seemed to confirm it: bitch.
“Prick,” Caitlin spat in response, and turned away.
If Roger’s slavish capitulation to the demands of his ex-wife weren’t bad enough, last night he’d spoken to Lynn again and accepted an invitation to his daughter’s birthday party. An invitation for one, it turned out.
“I thought you wouldn’t want to come,” Roger had claimed. “They’ll all be there: her parents, her brothers…”
“Okay. Supposing I’m not afraid to face them?”
“Oh, Caitlin. It’s not like that. It’s… it’s a question of diplomacy.”
“Bollocks.”
They were treading familiar ground: Roger couldn’t break free from Lynn’s influence; Caitlin couldn’t understand how much Roger had to sacrifice for the sake of his children. And every time it ended with his simple declaration: “You haven’t got kids. You don’t know what it’s like.”
Which always worked. Funny really that he had never questioned its effectiveness. She had vowed one day to tell him about the miscarriage she’d had a month before her thirtieth birthday, but not until she felt sure this was the real thing. Lately she was beginning to doubt it.
From below she heard raised voices. Roger’s business was another area about which Caitlin felt increasi
ngly unsure. She knew he had interests in a vehicle repairer and a salvage company, which he assured her were all above board, nicely profitable and extremely dull. Now she was beginning to wonder just what kind of legitimate enterprise cared to employ a man like Doyle?
***
“I could’ve kicked his fucking head in. Smartarse wanker.”
“Will he go to the police?”
“I barely touched him. He can’t prove nothing.”
Roger sighed. “I don’t mean for assault. The sort of questions he was asking, you have to assume he was suspicious of the claim in the first place.”
“I been thinking about that. All these companies jumping up and down about fraud. Just another reason to put the fucking premiums up. Nearly a grand to insure the beamer.”
Despite the situation, Roger couldn’t help a snort of laughter. “Kevin, you pay your premium with money you’ve stolen from insurance companies.”
“Proves my point then,” said Kevin indignantly. “They get their fucking money back in the end.” He folded his meaty arms and flung Roger a look that said, Not so stupid after all, am I?
“The point is, we have to be careful. We’ve got to ensure that they don’t make the connections, particularly to me.”
“Oh, don’t worry. You’re in the clear. As always.”
Roger narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”
Kevin shrugged. His contempt for Roger was never far from the surface, but he wasn’t quite ready for direct confrontation with the man who paid his wages.
“What I mean, Kevin, is that our legitimate business is conducted primarily with insurance companies. If one whisper of this profitable little sideline gets out, we’ll be finished.”
Kevin made an incomprehensible noise of disgust and turned away.
Sins of the Father Page 4
