Past Imperfect

by Michael Parker

  It didn’t take the police too long to pick Paul up. His car was well known in the area. They found him parked, illegally, along the edge of Southsea Common. He was covered in blood and offered no resistance when the two policemen cautioned and cuffed him. He was bundled into the back of the police car as a police breakdown wagon arrived to tow his car away.

  At the same time, about five miles away in the Queen Alexandra hospital, surgeons were fighting to save Michael’s life, as Kate and Victoria waited anxiously. Kate was in bits and unable to come to terms with this sudden, devastating change in their lives. She kept getting reassuring hugs from Victoria, but such was her pain and anguish, she felt no comfort at all from them. The wait seemed interminable as Kate kept praying for Michael. She prayed for Paul too even though she felt horror replacing the love she once had for him. She hoped that there would be a sensible explanation as to why he had knifed his own brother.

  Three hours after Michael had been wheeled into the operating theatre, one of the surgeons came through to where Kate and Victoria were waiting. He had been careful not to appear in his soiled theatre scrubs.

  ‘Mrs Kennett?’ he asked.

  Kate was already standing with Victoria holding her very tightly. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  The surgeon smiled. ‘Well, it’s good news, I’m happy to say.’ Kate almost fainted and he leapt forward to stop her from falling to the ground. She thanked him and protested that she was fine. He continued. ‘We’ve managed to repair the damage. Fortunately the knife pierced his stomach wall without puncturing any vital organs, and importantly, it missed the aorta.’

  ‘So he will be all right?’ Kate asked softly, her voice trembling.

  He smiled. ‘In good time, with the right care and nursing, your son should be home with you in a week or so.’

  ‘Can we see him, Doctor?’ Kate asked.

  He nodded. ‘Five minutes, no more. Wait here and I’ll send someone to fetch you.’ He put his hands on Kate’s shoulder. ‘He’ll be fine, believe me.’

  It was six o’clock in the morning when Kate finally left the hospital to drive home. But as tired as she was, Kate knew she had something else she had to do. She had always regarded Paul and Michael as her children, and for that reason, Paul was still her son and he needed her now more than ever. She changed direction and instead of heading up the hill and into the Hampshire countryside towards Clanford Hall, she turned the opposite way and headed into Portsmouth and the police station where they were holding him.

  Someone had dressed the wound on Paul’s head, but no one had got round to cleaning him up. He still had bloodstains on his shirt and although Kate couldn’t see it, she guessed the bloodstains reached down to his trousers. They were sitting opposite each other, a table separating them, in a room that lacked an identity. Apart from the table and chairs, and a recording device, switched off now, there was no other furniture. A police constable was standing in one corner.

  ‘How is Michael?’ Paul asked.

  ‘He’s out of danger.’ Kate’s voice was tight and barely audible. Paul’s shoulders slumped and his head dropped. Kate could sense the overwhelming relief in that reaction. ‘The knife missed all his vital organs.’

  He looked at her without saying anything, his expression strained. Kate could see tears forming in his eyes, which were red and inflamed. Then he put his head into his hands, his elbows on the table, and began crying.

  ‘Michael wanted me to tell you something,’ Kate whispered. Paul didn’t answer so she reached across the table and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Paul, listen: Michael doesn’t blame you.’

  ‘How could he not?’ he sobbed.

  She drew her hand away. ‘He said he almost killed you.’

  Paul looked up sharply. ‘What does it matter? I almost killed him.’

  He laid the emphasis on the last word. Kate knew he would be wracked with guilt, which was understandable, and she hoped desperately that there was some way she could help to assuage Paul’s own self-condemnation.

  ‘We are expecting Michael to be home within a week,’ she told him. She tried to lighten her voice; to bring some kind of hope into the sorry mess. ‘I’m sure we’ll be able to sort things out then.’ She pushed his head back a little and tried to get him to look at her. ‘Paul, are you listening?’

  He took her hand away and held it down on the table. ‘Kate, you need to go home, get some rest.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Kate protested.

  He shook his head. ‘No you’re not: you need sleep.’ He gripped her hand a little tighter.

  Kate yawned and lifted Paul’s hand from hers. ‘You’re right.’ She pushed herself up wearily, letting the chair scrape noisily on the floor. ‘I’ll go to the hospital when I’ve had some rest. But I will come in and see you after that.’ She leaned across the table and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Hopefully we’ll have you out of here by then.’

  She went to the door and the police constable let her out. Then he signalled to Paul, who got up and followed the young policeman down to the cells. And as Paul sat on the concrete bed, thinking about the complete mess he had made of everything, he realized that in his stupidity he had done more than almost kill his brother: he had jeopardized the future of Clanford as well.

  THIRTEEN

  Max and Laura, 2010

  Max started going downhill within a short time of arriving in America. Although book-tour itineraries could be exhausting, Max knew what was expected from him in the same way he knew what to expect from his publisher. But his mind was in turmoil and he was finding it difficult to get Emma’s rejection out of his mind. After hurling his phone at the wall, Max had purchased a new one and had constantly rung and sent text messages to Emma, but there had been no response. He eventually accepted the inevitable and stopped calling, but it didn’t stop him from missing her and thinking of her. As the tour came to its close, Emma became the focus of his mind and a chance to make contact again.

  It was Christmas week when Max arrived back in England. His agent met him at Heathrow. He told Max that they were dining with Jacintha that evening. Max wanted to tell him to stuff it, but after six weeks in the States and a nine-hour flight from Los Angeles, he couldn’t be bothered. He had planned to meet with Jack Rivers the following day anyway so he had to stay in town.

  The dinner went well enough, although Max kept yawning his head off. He apologized each time but it didn’t stop him eventually excusing himself and crashing out in his room where he slept for twelve hours. He woke at ten o’clock the following morning and forced himself to get up. He felt like he’d been run over by a train, but twenty minutes in the shower helped to wash out some of the stiffness. He’d called room service and had a pot of tea and a slice of toast delivered, and by 11.30 a.m. he felt fresh enough to meet Jack Rivers.

  Max decided to walk to the restaurant although not by any particular route. It was a miserable day; cold and windy. Dark clouds threatened rain, but the weather matched his mood. The Christmas decorations in the shops helped to lift him a little, but he wished he could have been sharing it all with Emma. He ambled along, his mind on Emma and what Jack Rivers might have to say. He walked from the Grosvenor House Hotel along Park Lane, unconsciously loading images into his mind; storing them up for future novels. He felt for the homeless, the dossers and drug addicts: all so easy to pick out. Many of the sights were familiar to him and evoked memories that he wished could have been different. He strolled along the Mall and into the Strand and arrived at the Strand Palace Hotel.

  Jack Rivers stood up as soon as he saw Max enter the hotel. He smiled and shook Max’s hand.

  ‘I guess you want tea, Max?’ He ordered and they both sat down.

  ‘You know all my habits, don’t you, Jack?’

  Rivers laughed, a slow, dark rumble from deep in his chest. ‘How was the trip?’ he asked.

  Max frowned. ‘I wish I could have avoided it.’

  ‘But you need the money.’

 
Max smiled back at him. ‘Like I said, Jack: you know all my habits.’

  The drinks arrived and Rivers waited until Max was ready. ‘I don’t have much for you, Max,’ he told him, ‘but I know where Emma’s sister lives.’

  Max nodded. ‘I’ll have that later, Jack. What have you got on Isaacs?’

  ‘Nothing more than I gave you last time. I have heard that the estate might be sold by auction, though.’

  Max perked up at this piece of news. ‘Any idea of the price?’

  ‘Reserve price is nineteen million.’

  Max frowned deeply. ‘It must be worth more than that, surely?’

  Rivers shook his head. ‘There’s a recession on, Max. Real estate has bombed. And there’s a mortgage on it.’

  ‘Any idea?’ Rivers shook his head but said nothing. ‘So Isaacs isn’t necessarily in the frame?’

  ‘No, but his wife is. Remember, she’s the legal owner of Coney Enterprises.’

  ‘But at that price, surely Isaacs wouldn’t bother. It’s too rich for him.’

  Rivers leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Word on the street is that Isaacs could net up to 100 million a year.’

  Max snorted and sat back. ‘Not playing fucking cards he couldn’t, Jack.’

  Rivers picked up his glass and took a sip. His eyes didn’t leave Max as he drank. Then he put his glass down. ‘You’ve been out of the loop too long, Max. He could use that pad for all manner of things: money laundering for one. The casino would net him a fortune on its own.’ He waited for Max to say something, but there was silence. ‘And think of the high rollers he could get in there and the potential for blackmail,’ he went on. ‘Isaacs is no idiot, and with connections into government, he’s on a winner.’

  Max recalled their earlier conversation about Isaacs’s link with the Responsible Gambling Strategy Board who advise the Gambling Commission. They also advise the Department for Culture, Media and Sport. Right into the heart of government, he remembered saying.

  ‘So how do I stop him?’ Max asked. The question was hypothetical in a way, but Rivers answered it.

  ‘You either outbid him at the auction if they have one, or find some dirt on his wife and get her to pull out.’

  Max drained his cup and put it back into the saucer with a clatter. ‘Simple as that, then.’ The forced smile said everything. ‘It’s a lot of money, Jack. A lot of money.’

  The two of them sat there for a while: Rivers waiting for Max to say something and Max thinking. Eventually Max nodded. ‘OK, Jack, carry on digging. Now; what about Emma Johnson?’

  Rivers shook his head. ‘It looks like she’s moved out, Max. I don’t know where, but like I said: I have her sister’s address.’ He reached into his pocket and removed his wallet. He took a slip of paper out and passed it to Max.

  ‘Thanks, Jack.’ He pulled an envelope from his pocket and passed it over to Rivers. ‘And thanks for what you’ve done. Just don’t get too close to Isaacs,’ he warned him. He stood up. ‘Now: Salieri’s?’

  Max pulled up at the end of a row of terraced houses. He remembered them from his first visit with Emma. The front gardens were no bigger than a blanket and each one had a wheelie bin perched on the pavement like a plastic sentinel. He had obviously picked the wrong day. He locked his car and walked along the street checking the house numbers until he came to one which didn’t have a wheelie bin out front.

  He rang the doorbell and heard it echoing inside the empty house. He tried again, knowing he was wasting his time. Then he stepped back and looked up at the house. There wasn’t much to it. He hadn’t been inside. Emma wouldn’t let him in the day he dropped her off: she was still being cautious. He couldn’t see a way round to the back of the house. He noticed a curtain twitch in the bay window next door and looked over as the curtain was pulled back over the window again. He went to the door and rang the bell. A woman opened the door.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ Max began, ‘but can you tell me if Mrs Johnson is still living next door?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘She moved out about a month ago.’

  ‘Do you know if she left a forwarding address?’

  She shook her head again. ‘No idea. Poor woman never had much chance to speak to anyone what with that husband of hers. I don’t wonder why she’s gone now he’s in prison. I expect she’s run away.’

  Max pursed his lips and tried not to look too surprised. He hadn’t really expected anything else. He thanked the woman and walked back up the street to his car.

  He entered Laura’s address into the on-board satnav and steered away from the terraced homes and their rubbish-bin sentinels, feeling heavy-hearted. He hoped his next call would give him a lift.

  When the doorbell sounded, Laura was watching a house programme on TV. It was one of her favourites. She frowned and went to the window from where she could see who was calling. She didn’t recognize the man standing there and wondered if she should ignore him. But her curiosity got the better of her and she went to the door. When she opened it, the man switched his gaze from the footpath and looked up.

  ‘Laura Morton?’ he asked.

  Laura nodded. ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘Max Reilly,’ he said simply.

  Laura’s shoulders dropped visibly. ‘Oh.’ She stepped aside. ‘I guess you’d better come in.’

  Max stepped into a pleasantly decorated hallway that had a staircase leading away to the upper half of the house. It was carpeted completely, and just inside the door was a fitted coir mat. He wiped his feet and followed Laura through to the front room. The furniture was modern, the suite leather, and a huge TV fixed to the wall above the fireplace seemed to dominate everything. Laura picked up the remote control and turned the TV off. She dropped the remote onto a small table beside an armchair.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink?’ she asked.

  ‘Cup of tea would be nice.’

  Laura raised an eyebrow. ‘Milk and sugar?’

  Max sat down on the settee. It was soft and felt expensive. He wasn’t much of a decor man so he had no idea whether Laura’s choice was a good one or not. His wife used to say he was a typical man and had no idea when it came to fashion or colours or style. There were paintings on the walls but he had no idea if they were real or not. They looked nice. Then he saw some framed photographs on a wall unit. He got up and went over to them. His heart leapt when he saw a picture of Emma. She was sitting on a wall with Laura. It had obviously been taken a few years earlier, but he recognized her straight away.

  Laura came in with his tea and put the tray down on the table beside the settee. ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar.’

  Max thanked her and asked her if she knew where Emma was.

  ‘I don’t know, and that’s the truth.’

  Max didn’t know whether to believe her or not. ‘Look, I understand that Emma doesn’t want to see me, but I would like the chance to speak to her.’

  Laura shrugged. ‘I can’t help you. I honestly don’t know where she is.’

  ‘But you must have some idea, surely? You have her mobile, don’t you?’ he added hopefully.

  Laura let out a deep sigh. ‘Her phone’s dead. I’ve tried several times.’ She shifted on the chair and straightened up. ‘Max, I don’t know how much Emma told you of her life, but her husband was obsessive about her: he wouldn’t let her do anything without his permission. He made her life a misery.’

  Max put his hand up. ‘I know; she told me everything.’

  ‘No, Max, it isn’t that; I think Emma has run away. She has run away from everything she hated about her life. She didn’t trust men because of Ian, her ex-husband,’ she told him. Max nodded. Laura went on. ‘When she found out you were married, it shattered her. You weren’t truthful; you lied to her, deceived her.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you were after.’ She stopped suddenly and twitched her shoulders. ‘Well, I do know, and so did Emma.’

  ‘Laura, I am not married,’ he interrupted. �
�My wife died in a car accident two years ago. Her lover died in the same accident.’

  Laura looked quite startled. ‘But. . . .’ She couldn’t say anything for a few seconds. ‘Emma saw you with . . .’ she slowed up as reality dawned on her. ‘She saw you with a woman and two kids. We were on the train going through Cambridge. She said she saw you with. . . .’

  Max was shaking his head. ‘This was about six or seven weeks ago? He watched Laura as she worked out the timing. ‘I’d spent the weekend with my editor, her husband and her two very noisy, unruly kids. She was seeing me off at the station.’

  ‘Your editor? But you don’t work for the Cambridge Gazette,’ she protested. ‘So who’s your editor?’

  ‘I’m a writer, and writers have editors.’

  ‘You mean books, novels, that kind of thing?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, that kind of thing.’

  Laura put her hand to her mouth and gasped. ‘Oh shit; you’re Max Reilly, aren’t you?’

  He smiled and opened his hands in surrender. ‘Yes, for my sins; I am Max Reilly.’

  FOURTEEN

  Paul and Michael, 1981

  Paul was charged with two counts of murder, grievous bodily harm and carrying an offensive weapon. He listened to the voice of the senior police officer formally charging him and wondered how it had all managed to come to this. Stupidity didn’t even cover it. His inflated ego and self-belief that he was almost untouchable was the prime factor. Greed came a close second.

  Paul had left the gun in the glove box of his car. The police found the gun and sent it away for forensic tests. The results showed that it had been used to kill Finnegan and another villain who Paul had never known. Paul realized he been duped by Finnegan: the gun had been planted on him, which linked him to another murder. Finnegan had certainly planned revenge for Paul’s ill-advised threat with the bolt gun.

  Paul appeared in front of the local magistrate and was remanded in custody at Winchester Prison. He waived the right to choose a solicitor and accepted one appointed by the court. While he was there, he had a visit from Kate.