“Who called the ambulance?”
“Sorry? Well, John. Why do you ask?”
“Your son?”
“Yes.” She was frowning. “Why does it matter?”
“He was with you?”
“Yes. We were all here—me, Max and John.”
A noise came from upstairs. It had sounded as if something—a book perhaps—had been dropped.
“The cleaner,” she said with a rueful smile.
A remarkably quiet cleaner. One who hadn’t made a sound until that point.
“Getting back to your accident, you didn’t see the car or the driver?”
“No. Like I said, I’d been drinking. It was all my own fault.”
“Rumour has it that you were planning to leave Max. Is that true?”
“Of course not. Why would I?”
Dylan could give her a dozen valid reasons, number one being that the bloke was a homicidal maniac. “Rumour also has it that Max was driving the car that put you in hospital.”
She gave a scoffing laugh. “People love to gossip, don’t they? What Max did was travel with me in the ambulance and hold my hand. Not that I knew about that at the time, of course.”
“And it was—how long before Max and King were arrested? A month?”
“A little less. But what does any of this have to do with the book you’re writing?”
“Nothing really. I’m merely trying to sort the facts from the rumours. Anyway, I won’t keep you any longer. At least I know the truth about your accident, although, as you say, it’s not pertinent to the story.”
She showed him out and seemed relieved to see him go.
He didn’t go far. He crept around the side of the house and stood close to one of those open windows. That cleaner had been far too quiet for Dylan’s liking.
He heard Sarah’s voice, but it was coming from the hallway and was a little indistinct. It sounded something like “You can come out now.”
Two voices now, Sarah Rickman’s and a male. They became clearer as the two walked into the living room.
“He knows, Lenny,” Sarah Rickman said. “He knows everything—about the accident—everything.”
Well, well, well. Call Dylan a bluff old cynic but he couldn’t imagine King being too hot with a vacuum cleaner.
“Of course he doesn’t. He can’t,” King said.
“Idiot that I am, I told him John phoned for the ambulance. The question took me by surprise and I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“So what? He knows nothing.”
“Christ, what a mess. What are we going to do?”
“I’ve told you what we have to do.”
“How the hell can we?” Her voice was filled with despair. And fear. “If anything happens to Max—”
“It’s him or us.”
“Don’t be such a bloody fool, Lenny. Whatever happens, it’s going to be us. If anything happens to him, we’re dead, and if—”
“Not if it looks like natural causes. Suicide, perhaps. Or a heart attack. Yeah, a heart attack will be best.”
“It’ll never work.”
“It will. Trust me.”
“I’m scared,” she said, her voice so soft that Dylan struggled to hear.
“There’s no need,” King said. “Trust me.”
“No, it’s no use. When he comes out, I’ll have to carry on playing the devoted wife. I won’t see you, Lenny. I won’t be able to.”
“Trust me.”
There were muffled sounds, then King’s voice came loud and clear. “I have to go, sweetheart. I’ll call you later, okay?”
Dylan needed to go too. He ducked down and walked to the back of the house, where he was better hidden and where anyone leaving the property wouldn’t see him.
It was a stupid idea as King left by the back door. Dylan dashed back to the side and breathed a sigh of relief as King went on his way, looking as furtive as ever.
* * *
When Dylan walked into his house, the first thing he saw was a small suitcase at the bottom of the stairs. Damn. He’d forgotten Frank was having to return to Lancashire.
He walked into the kitchen and found Bev and Frank laughing about something over a coffee. It shocked him to see Bev carrying on as if everything were normal, and it was impossible to reciprocate.
He bent to kiss the top of her head. “Good day?”
“Lazy,” she said. “Do you want a coffee? Frank and I are deciding what we’d do if we could be prime minister for the day.”
“My first job would be to print some money.” Dylan made himself a coffee. “Then I’d start sorting out the mess that this country’s in. I can’t see that it would take above an hour either.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Frank said. “All it needs is someone with some common sense—something that’s sorely lacking in our politicians.”
“They’re too greedy. Which reminds me,” Dylan said, “I’ve booked your car in for a service tomorrow, Bev. It’ll be interesting to see how much that robbing mechanic charges this time.”
“About half what he’d charge me,” Bev said with amusement.
“True. What time does your train leave, Frank? Do you want a lift to the Tube station?”
“It’s all sorted, thanks, mate. The taxi’s booked. I’ll be back late on Friday, if that’s okay.”
“Of course it is,” Bev said. “It’s lovely having you around. Who knows, perhaps some of your good manners will rub off on Dylan.”
“Sorry, Bev, but I think that’s a lost cause.”
They chatted about the mundane, and Dylan didn’t get chance to update Frank on his day because the taxi arrived and he was gone.
Not that there was much to update him on. Sarah Rickman had been convinced he “knew.” She was kidding herself there because Dylan hadn’t a clue what she meant. He was still reeling from the shock of King being in the house, King calling her sweetheart...
And why was she so upset that she’d told Dylan that it was her son who’d called the ambulance?
He had no idea.
Luke spent most of the evening chatting to his friends on Facebook. Why he gained pleasure from that when he’d see them in the morning, Dylan didn’t know. Freya, after a sleepless night, was catching up on her beauty sleep.
Luke finally went to bed and Dylan knew the time had come for The Conversation.
“Do you want a glass of wine?” he asked Bev.
“Yes, why not? Thanks, love.”
It took him far longer than necessary to pour Bev a glass of wine and fix a whisky with ice for himself. He carried their drinks into the lounge.
“Thanks,” she said.
She looked brighter, had more colour in her face, but that was the drugs at work. Powerful drugs that she seemed to take on an hourly basis.
“So,” he said.
She looked up. “So?”
“I’ve made an appointment for you to see a specialist. An expert.” That hadn’t been too difficult. “Wednesday morning. Ten o’clock.”
“Why?”
Twice he started to speak, and twice the words lodged behind a huge lump in his throat.
“I know, Bev,” he said at last. “I was at the hospital and I overheard you saying to Mum that you didn’t want me told.”
“Oh, Christ.”
“You’re right, of course. I am bloody useless, but—”
She clasped his hand in hers and her grip was surprisingly firm. “I did want you to know, of course I did, but I thought the shock—you know. I thought I could build up to it gradually. Sorry.”
“It’s—” He shrugged it off. “We’ll see what this other chap has to say, and then talk about it, okay?”
Her smile was the sad
dest thing he’d ever seen. “There’s not a lot he’ll be able to say, Dylan. The cancer has spread. It was on the scan for all to see. Your specialist can’t change that, can he?”
“We don’t know what he can do. We’ll talk about it then, okay?”
“Okay.” She was humouring him. “It’s all right. Really. There’s nothing to panic about. It’s not as if I’m going to die tonight, or tomorrow. Heck, I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. Or you could. I could outlive you still.”
“I know that.”
“I’m not going to let it rule whatever time I’ve got left. What would be the point of that?”
But it would rule that life. Dylan knew all about living each day as if it were your last, but that was crap. How could you? How could you be happy, really happy, when you knew your days were numbered? How could he be happy? How could he pretend that he wasn’t scared shitless? He couldn’t.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. “When it’s sunk in a bit more, then we’ll talk.”
“And when we’ve seen the specialist. He’s good, Bev. The best...”
Chapter Thirty-Three
As Luke closed the door behind him, Bev felt a rising of her spirits. Dylan had already gone, taking her car to be serviced and then doing whatever he was currently working on, Frank was in Lancashire, and Luke was at school. It was just her and Freya, and even that wouldn’t last long because her daughter had plans for the day.
Right on cue, the back door opened and Vicky stepped inside.
“Hello, love.” Vicky immediately picked up Freya and swung her around. “Well, don’t you look gorgeous? We’ll have a wonderful time, sweetheart. Ooh, I’ll enjoy showing you off.”
Bev couldn’t help laughing. “How old are your friend’s grandchildren?”
“Three. Twin girls.” She kissed Freya on the forehead. “And I bet they’re nowhere near as pretty as you.”
“Have you ever thought you’re a little biased, Vicky?”
“Not once.” Vicky sat at the table bouncing Freya on her lap. “So how’s things?”
How to answer that. “Okay. Except Dylan knows.”
Vicky nodded. “He called to see me yesterday. I expect it’s for the best.”
“Maybe. He’s made me an appointment with some specialist or other, so of course he’s convinced himself that the man can work miracles. It’ll be impossible to tell him there isn’t going to be a miracle.”
“You never know, love. Best to keep an open mind, eh? We all need to stay positive.”
“Yes. Yes, you’re right.”
“So what are you intending to do today?”
“Enjoy my freedom.” Bev laughed. “I love my family dearly, and it’s been great having Frank here, he’s a true gent, but I am so going to savour a whole day alone. Don’t rush back, will you?”
She’d told Dylan she was going with Vicky and Freya simply because he was constantly fussing these days. If she’d so much as hinted at spending the day alone, he would probably have insisted on staying at home with her. She couldn’t bear the fussing. She wanted a day that was—normal.
“We’ll be back early evening,” Vicky said. “About six. Is that okay?”
“Perfect.”
When Freya was strapped into her buggy, and they’d checked and double-checked the contents of her bag—Freya always needed enough supplies for an expedition—Vicky hugged Bev tight and set off.
Bev made herself a coffee and relished the silence. No husband, no kids, no guests—no responsibilities. The day was hers and hers alone. It was such an unexpected luxury that she couldn’t decide how to spend it. There were plenty of chores that needed doing but they could wait. She refused to squander a single minute of her day.
She’d go out somewhere. The destination wasn’t important, but behaving as if she were young, free and single was. She’d drive out—
And then she remembered that she was carless for the day. Typical.
It didn’t matter, she could take a taxi. She had no idea where she wanted to go, but she’d simply ask the driver to keep going until she decided. To hell with the cost.
She picked up the phone and was about to check the local taxi firm’s number when she spotted the keys to Dylan’s Morgan lying next to the fruit bowl. He was so attached to that car, she was surprised he didn’t sleep with the keys.
She returned the phone to the cradle. There was nothing to stop her taking the Morgan. He didn’t like her driving it, mainly because once, just once, she’d reversed it into a wheelie bin. But hadn’t he bestowed all his worldly goods upon her? Of course he had. Besides, she’d be home before him. He’d never know.
She picked up the keys, grabbed her handbag and left the house before she could change her mind. She was free to pass the day as she chose and she couldn’t wait.
Sadly, it wasn’t possible to leave the hateful disease behind, but she was damned if she was going to let it spoil her day.
She managed to force the Morgan into gear—eventually—and set off.
Why Dylan was so besotted with the car, she had no idea. It drew plenty of admiring glances, but it wasn’t as comfortable as hers and the gearbox had a mind of its own.
The sense of freedom was bliss though and, without conscious thought, she drove to Hampstead Heath.
It was one of her favourite places, and the fact that this oasis of countryside existed in the City never failed to amaze her. In the early days of their marriage, she and Dylan had spent many happy days here. She could picture them, lying on their backs, gazing up at a blue sky not unlike this one, and planning their future together. Dylan had talked of being a great detective, and she’d seen herself as head teacher of a school where the children came from good families and had been born with a thirst for knowledge.
Then Luke had come along and, of course, they’d brought him here. One of her strongest memories was of bringing him here to fly his kite. The day had been going so well until Luke let go of his kite and they watched, Luke in horror, as it flew high into the sky. He’d cried and cried, all the way home, for the loss of that bright red kite. They’d soon bought him another, of course, but it had never been the same.
She ambled around, enjoying the peace and watching people running, rollerblading, walking dogs, flying kites or, like her, simply enjoying the magic of the Heath. Perhaps, like she’d once done, they were mapping out the rest of their lives.
She felt more relaxed, and more able to cope with whatever the future decided to throw at her, when she made her way back to the car park.
Even the Morgan’s gearbox seemed to be in a better mood.
She was less than two miles from home, sitting in a slow-moving line of traffic when, out of nowhere, came a dark grey car. It wasn’t driving at speed. In fact, the whole incident seemed to take place in slow motion. Bev even had time to utter a pleading “No!”
It didn’t help. The car, being reversed out of a tight parking spot, slammed into the side of the Morgan.
Later, she wondered if her nerves had been as soothed by her wonderful day as she’d thought because her first reaction was to burst into tears.
There was a tap on the window, then her door was opened.
“I am so sorry. Really sorry. Are you okay?”
Feeling like Luke when he lost his kite to the Heath’s breeze all those years ago, she brushed furiously at her tears, no doubt rubbing her makeup into attractive streaks, and nodded. “I’m fine.”
It had to be done. She climbed out and prayed that the damage to the Morgan wasn’t noticeable. Oh, God. The dent was fairly small, but a long scratch drew the eye. No way would Dylan miss that.
“I’m sorry,” the driver said again.
Car horns tooted behind them as drivers became irate at the delay.
“Look, I’
ll park up again. If you grab that space there—” He pointed two cars’ lengths away. “Park there and we can sort this out. I’ll give you my insurance details.”
A furious blast on the horn from a taxi driver spurred Bev into action.
Only as she started the engine and moved off did she call herself all sorts of a fool. All the chap had to do was drive away. She was amazed that he didn’t.
By the time she’d parked the Morgan, he was there to open the door for her. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked. “You look so upset. I feel awful.”
“I’m fine. It’s just that it’s my husband’s car.”
“Ah.” She could see that he understood. “Well, it’s not as bad as it looks. It is a lovely car though, and worth a pretty penny, so I can understand your concerns.”
He reached into his pocket, then noticed the coffee bar a few doors away. “Let me buy you a coffee. You look shaken, and a few minutes to relax will do you good. There’s no point driving away in a state, is there? I’ll feel awful. We can exchange insurance details over coffee.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
As she locked the Morgan and walked the short distance to the coffee bar, it struck her that the Morgan had been damaged by what was quite probably the most handsome man in London. His tall, beautiful body was encased in blue chinos and pale blue shirt. His eyes were also blue, and were framed by long, dark lashes that Bev would kill for. God, but he was gorgeous. If it hadn’t been for the thought of explaining to Dylan that his pride and joy was looking more than a little sorry for itself, she might have enjoyed the prospect of a few minutes in this man’s company.
The coffee bar was crowded, and they grabbed the only available seats. They had to share a table with a young mother and her child.
While they waited for the coffees to be brought over, he asked her three times if she was sure she was all right.
“My fault entirely,” he said. “I was reversing when my phone rang. Instead of ignoring it as I should have, I tried to find it—it had fallen off the passenger seat. I reached to get it and—” He threw up his hands in apology.
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