Sins of the Father

by David Harrison

  “Why don’t you sit down?”

  “Nah, I gotta go to Portsmouth to look at a couple of reconditioned engines.”

  “All right. I’ll review all the claims paperwork and make sure it’s watertight.” He heard a thump from upstairs and moved across the room, prompting Kevin to head for the door. “And tell Lauren not to worry.”

  “I ain’t telling her that.” He snickered. “Anyway, she’s still making up for it.”

  To you, maybe, Roger thought. “Obviously, if this Randall contacts her again…”

  “Keep her fucking mouth shut. She knows.”

  Roger reached for the handle just as the door opened. Caitlin stood in the doorway, blonde hair awry, holding a robe tightly at her chin.

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Gotta be going,” Kevin said.

  Caitlin smiled politely. She had been addressing Roger, and Kevin knew it.

  “Love some,” said Roger. Caitlin started to go but he put his arm around her. She succumbed to the embrace, smiling to hide her reluctance.

  “I need to borrow the Range Rover,” Kevin said.

  “Why?” asked Caitlin.

  Kevin kept his eyes on Roger and spoke as if he hadn’t heard her. “If the recons are all right I’ll bring one of ‘em back with me.”

  Roger dug out his keys and threw them to Kevin. Caitlin used the opportunity to break away and strode towards the kitchen without a word to either of them.

  Kevin was amused. “Having a domestic?”

  “Not really.”

  “Thought you got enough earache last time round. Heh heh heh.”

  Roger ignored him. He couldn’t imagine a day when he would need to discuss relationship issues with Doyle.

  “What we gonna do about this Randall, then?” Kevin said when he reached the front door.

  “Nothing. For the time being.”

  “I could scare him off.”

  “Nothing,” Roger repeated. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Kevin shrugged. “You take care of it,” he said, “and then I’ll scare him off.”

  He sauntered across the wide gravel drive to where Roger’s new Range Rover was parked, tossing the keys high in the air and catching them with a swipe of his meaty fist. For a moment Roger imagined the keys were a bird, plucked from the air and crushed to death. Knowing Kevin as he did, it wasn’t an unlikely metaphor.

  A hand brushed against his neck and he jumped. It was Caitlin. They watched Kevin start the Range Rover and gun the engine for their benefit.

  “He’s a nasty piece of work,” she said.

  “He is.”

  “You shouldn’t have given him the Range Rover.”

  “It’s a company vehicle. He needs it for business.”

  “Business,” she repeated as though it were a dirty word. Closing the door, Roger wondered if perhaps, in his case, it was.

  S IX

  Morag Strutton had an infectious laugh, which she failed to suppress as Nick recounted how he’d been forcibly ejected from the Doyle house.

  “You think it’s funny?” He tried to sound indignant, but found himself grinning.

  “The way you’re telling it, I do.” She shook her head. “In my book it’s front page news: Nick Randall’s charm fails to win the day!”

  “I could have been badly hurt.”

  “Aww. Don’t look so forlorn. What do you want, a wee hug and a kiss?”

  Her Highlands accent, softened by more than a decade in Sussex, still pronounced it as “kuss”, and the sound gave Nick a shiver of guilty pleasure. He looked away, remembering their night together during a training course in Birmingham, three years ago. It was in the aftermath of his mother’s death, but with hindsight that seemed like a feeble justification. Either way, they had agreed afterwards that it must never happen again.

  Morag lifted the file on her desk and dropped it with an emphatic thud. “So I’m guessing you’ll want to go to work on Mrs Doyle and her delightful husband?”

  “Aha. I’d recommend thorough checks on all the participants.”

  “Should have been done already, but I’ll make sure.”

  “I’d also put a note on the file, warning anyone who might take a call on it.”

  She regarded him sternly. “Eggs, grandmothers and all that.”

  “Sorry. Old habits.”

  “Most of your old habits are best disregarded.”

  “I was a damn good claims handler in my time.”

  “I didn’t mean professionally.” She paused, then asked softly, “How’s Sarah these days?”

  “She’s, er… we’re not actually together right now.”

  Morag nodded. “Thought so. You look bloody awful.”

  “It only happened yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe you should take a few days off?”

  “I probably will, when she agrees to see me.”

  “It’s like that, is it?”

  He nodded. “In the meantime I’d prefer to keep busy.”

  “At our expense.”

  “If I’m right, I’m going to save you about thirty grand.”

  “If you can prove it,” Morag reminded him. “I’m under a lot of pressure from Head Office to cut my budget. The cost of assessors is high on the hit list.”

  Nick snorted. More good news.

  “I can authorise another five hundred pounds, maximum.”

  “Morag, this could be a major fraud I’ve uncovered here.”

  “Then you’ll have no trouble bringing me some evidence. Whereupon I’ll be happy to consider releasing more funds.”

  He pretended to be disgusted. “I never had you down as a stingy Scot.”

  “It’s not my heritage you should worry about, darling. I’ve worked in claims all my career and I don’t pay out good money unless it’s justified.” She closed the file and tossed it into a tray, effectively marking the end of negotiations.

  He stood and brushed non-existent lint from his tie.

  Without looking up, she said, “Oh, and if you’ve any other calls today, you’ll want to know there’s blood on your collar.”

  He twisted his neck to see. “Is there? Bugger.” He’d shaved in a daze, replaying the clumsy phone message over and over in his head.

  She walked him to the lobby and gave his arm a quick squeeze just before he stepped into the lift, allowing him no time to respond. “Take care of yourself,” she said.

  As the doors closed he felt a sudden rush of hopelessness. Was this the future, slowly becoming an object of pity?

  The CBA building was a characterless concrete pile in the heart of what had once been Brighton’s financial district, before the banks turned into wine bars and offices into apartments. Parking was almost impossible, but Nick had squeezed into a gap between Morag’s car and the Renault Laguna next to it.

  The Laguna’s owner, a tall bearded motor engineer called John Folsom, was sitting on the bonnet of Nick’s car, smoking with evident pleasure.

  “Sorry, John. Are you off somewhere?”

  “Inspection in Bexhill. No hurry.” He fished out the packet and offered it to Nick, who shook his head.

  “Gave up years ago. Bad for your health.”

  “Hmm. Don’t believe it myself.”

  They exchanged small talk for a minute or two, and then something occurred to Nick. “I don’t suppose you inspected an L-reg Escort, written off a couple of weeks ago? Name of Doyle.”

  Folsom took a long drag on his cigarette. “Whereabouts?”

  “The accident happened near Crawley. Supposedly.”

  “Hmm.” He pulled a face. “Yes. In a breakers’ yard. A heap of shit, if memory serves.”

  “The car or the yard?”

  Folsom snorted. “Both.”

  “What was this place called, can you remember?”

  “Yeah. Griffin Farm Breakers. No more than a glorified scrapyard.” He dropped his cigarette butt on to the ground and trod it down. “On to s
omething, are you?”

  “Maybe. How do I find this place?”

  “It’s not easy. Little country lane near Rusper.” He rattled off directions and added, “You’ll need your welly boots. Place is a mudbath.”

  As Nick opened his car door, Folsom added, “In fact, the Escort was filthy. Looked like it had been in the yard for weeks.”

  ***

  Howard Franks’s study was his pride and joy: the fulfilment of the dream that had sustained him through six years as a put-upon reporter for a ghastly local rag covering the Lincolnshire coast, then more than fifteen as a hack on a national tabloid.

  He’d knocked through two bedrooms to create a room that ran the length of the house and combined an office with a den, entertainment suite and media centre. There were two desks, one of contemporary design with a £2000 ergonomic chair, the other a reproduction mahogany pedestal desk with a captain’s chair in green leather. He had a top of the range Dell PC on the former, and on the latter a 1920s Underwood Number 5 typewriter that he never used but which looked splendid.

  There was a huge plasma TV mounted on the wall, linked to a digital camcorder trained on a couple of easy chairs. It was here he liked to practise his interviewing technique, fending off imaginary questions with an aplomb he could rarely muster in real life. In his loftier moments he liked to imagine himself a guest on Leno or Letterman. Usually he had to make do with the lesser shows, the breakfast slots, the pre-filmed segments, but he was determined to change all that one day.

  Not with his present subject, if he was realistic. Eddie Randall’s story might just swing him a slot on Parky or Jonathan Ross, but he wasn’t counting on much foreign interest. What he needed from this book was enough attention in the UK to justify an A-list commission: a movie actor or an international sports star.

  For now, though, he had to make do with dear old Eddie. After months of research, Howard had a sneaking admiration for his subject. On the surface Randall had maintained a fairly clean image, certainly by the standards of his day, when actors could openly visit disreputable nightclubs and mingle with underworld figures. But dig a little deeper and you found, as with many of his peers, Eddie ran the gamut of vices: alcohol, drugs, gambling and sex. And it was the sex Howard needed to focus on. It was sex that would get his book off the shelves.

  And while on the subject, it was sex he was in need of himself. Unfortunately Lindsay had risen horrendously early and seemed eager to get to work. While she showered he spent some time nurturing an erection, and when she returned he threw back the duvet to display the result.

  “Very impressive,” she said. “What do you want me to do with it?”

  “You mean you have to ask?”

  “Sorry. Duty calls.”

  “Forget the office for a while. Go in late.”

  “Unlike some of us, I can’t choose how many hours I work.”

  Indignantly he flipped the duvet back over his body. “You know mornings are the best time.”

  “They’re the best time for lots of things, not just throttling that little worm.” She saw how offended he was, and chuckled. “Maybe tonight, okay? Now go back to sleep.”

  He’d taken her advice and woke at nine feeling thick-headed and lethargic. Now another hour had passed and he’d done nothing except sit at his computer and daydream, a Jamie Cullen CD on the hi-fi and an Eddie Randall comedy running silently on the TV.

  He needed action today, he realised. Best to get out and do something, however minor, that progressed the book in some way.

  Pay the darling Randall children a visit, he thought suddenly. Keep the pressure on. They’d send him packing, but so what? Working on a tabloid had given him a skin like armour-plating.

  And tonight, if Lindsay wasn’t able or willing to satisfy him, he’d find someone else who was.

  ***

  In Alex’s car, heading out of Eastbourne, Sarah realised she was beginning to count down the minutes until she could be alone again. She vowed that if Alex suggested any more excursions, she’d have an excuse ready.

  At her first sight of the Arndale Center, Alex had said, “So where are the designer shops?”

  “I don’t think there are any. Eastbourne’s more of a retirement resort.”

  “The last resort, more like. You’d have to drag me kicking and screaming to live somewhere like this.”

  “I think it’s quite charming. Not so raucous and in-your-face as Brighton.”

  “At least Brighton has some decent boutiques.”

  “I’m not interested in a flashy outfit.”

  “Something practical, then. Just make the bastard pay.”

  Sarah stopped abruptly. “Don’t talk about Nick like that. You don’t know him.”

  Alex seemed slightly amused, and Sarah felt patronised. That’s right, she thought. The little woman’s not afraid to defend her philandering husband. Well, fuck you, Alex.

  But she didn’t say any of that. She stared at the ground and muttered, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to snap.”

  In Next, Alex accompanied her into the cubicle, ostensibly to try on a dress she’d noticed, although Sarah couldn’t rid herself of the impression that Alex didn’t want to let her out of her sight. As she undressed she could feel Alex’s gaze on her, as hot and heavy as a spotlight. It reminded her of the supermarket job she’d had at college, the manager notorious for his wandering hands.

  She had met Alex a couple of months ago at her local gym, which Alex used when her job as a pharmaceutical rep brought her to Brighton. Sarah hadn’t felt anything untoward at the time, but then she probably hadn’t been looking out for such things. Or was it that Alex had kept her inclinations to herself until now, when Sarah was in a vulnerable position?

  Alex stripped to her underwear without any inhibitions, chatting merrily the whole time. Once down to a black bra and matching high-cut knickers, she seemed in no hurry to put on the dress. Instead she held it to her body and said, “What do you think?”

  “Very nice,” said Sarah, risking the briefest of glances.

  “Sure?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I hadn’t pictured you as someone who’d wear skimpy dresses.”

  “Part of my secret personality,” Alex said slyly. “For special occasions.”

  In the end she didn’t buy it, but she did encourage Sarah to get some trousers and a couple of tops. Afterwards they decided to have lunch at a pizza place, though neither of them was very hungry. Both ordered salads and consumed them with little enthusiasm.

  “You look deep in thought,” Alex murmured as they waited for the bill.

  “Sorry. Tired, I think.”

  “We could go back to the hotel if you like?”

  A vision of Alex slipping into bed beside her, the lacy underwear discarded, made Sarah gulp. Last night, Alex’s kiss had thrilled her, but today she was another person: brittle and immune to affection.

  “No,” she said. “Let’s have a walk.”

  They drove out along the clifftop road and parked at Birling Gap, in the midst of the famous chalk cliffs known as the Seven Sisters. As they joined the well-worn path up the hill, Alex linked arms with Sarah and snuggled against her for a moment. Sarah instinctively tensed, then forced herself to relax, never suspecting she’d just missed the last chance to save herself.

  SE VEN

  After speaking to CBA’s motor engineer, Nick was keen to find out more about the salvage company that had collected Lauren Doyle’s car. Unfortunately he had two other calls to make that morning, so a drive out to West Sussex would have to wait.

  The first task was a locus report: preparing a detailed plan of an accident location to help determine liability. Then he took a statement on a car theft from an elderly Latvian refugee who allegedly spoke no English. Translations were provided by his son, a shady-looking character who had almost certainly owned the car in question. All Nick could do was make his observations. The insurers would have to decide whether to pay out.

  By the time he’
d finished his stomach was rumbling. He parked in the High Street and was buying a chicken salad sandwich when his mobile rang. His first thought was Sarah, but it was his sister.

  “Nick! Thank God your phone’s on.”

  His heart started thumping. “What is it?”

  “Howard Franks,” she said, her voice shaky. “He’s outside.”

  ***

  They climbed the hill into a blustery wind, swirling and howling around them. Sarah had to keep pushing her hair back from her face. Alex, whose long hair was tucked inside her coat, produced a beanie hat from her pocket.

  “Have this.”

  Sarah laughed. “I’ll look an idiot in that.”

  “No you won’t. Keeps your ears warm as well.” Alex put the hat on and pulled it tight around her scalp. “See?”

  “I’m not convinced.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll wear it then.”

  They walked mostly in silence, saving their breath for the steep incline. At the top of the hill they paused by the Belle Tout lighthouse, which Sarah explained had been the subject of a groundbreaking engineering feat five years before, when the entire property had been moved seventy feet back from the cliff edge.

  Alex was mystified. “Why did they do that?”

  “To stop it falling into the sea. The cliffs are constantly eroding.”

  “But all they’ve done is postpone the end. What’s the point?”

  “That’s a very fatalistic view.”

  “I don’t believe in delaying the inevitable,” Alex declared. There was a distant look in her eyes. “Better to confront it.”

  Sarah waited for her to elaborate, but Alex was staring out to sea. I don’t know her, Sarah thought suddenly. She shivered.

  Alex noticed the movement and put her arm around Sarah’s shoulders, then suddenly kissed Sarah hard on the lips, her tongue pushing at Sarah’s mouth but finding resistance.

  Sarah’s stomach clenched with nausea. She pushed Alex away and wiped her mouth. “Don’t do that.”

  “You like it.”

  “No I don’t. I’m not interested in… whatever it is you want.”