It was a moment before Susan spoke. ‘Morton-Kreiger?’
There was someting in her voice that made him turn to look at her again. ‘They make the stuff.’
‘Oh.’
‘Your friend Schenker.’
‘My friend!’ she retorted. ‘Hardly.’
She moved behind him to resume her kneading and he could no longer see her face. ‘My friend!’ she repeated with a snort. ‘Tedious little man!’
Her hands fanned out over the small of his back and found two points that no masseur of his acquaintance had ever found before. He gave a shiver.
‘I should have used oil,’ she said.
‘Doing okay.’
Sighing, she lowered herself down beside him, and her touch lightened into a caress that travelled down his spine and over his backside. ‘Next time I’ll bring some,’ she whispered, and there was something in her tone which told him he wasn’t going to get to the studio that evening as he’d planned, not unless he made the effort to move straight away.
An hour later he was still there. But then, if working was one sort of oblivion, making love was another.
In the lazy time before they got up, he lay half listening to Susan’s murmured recollections, his mind travelling lightly, soporifically, over thoughts of work and Ashard.
‘You’re not listening.’ Susan tipped a finger at his chin.
He mumbled in mild apology.
‘You’re still thinking of those newspapers!’ she accused. ‘Why don’t you put your side of the story?
‘I gave them a statement yesterday.’
‘No, not a statement – a story. The whole thing, from your point of view.’
‘It wouldn’t work.’
She stroked the hair clear of his forehead. ‘Why not?’
‘Telling your story only prolongs the agony,’ he explained. ‘Then the tabloids would pick out the best quotes and use them out of context. They’d dredge things up, ask questions I couldn’t answer.’
‘But what could they ask that would be so bad?’
He almost laughed. ‘Plenty.’
‘You worry too much.’
‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘They’d …’ He hesitated, and wasn’t sure why he hesitated.
‘They’d bring up Alusha’s death,’ he heard himself say. ‘And the evidence from the inquiry. They’d ask me about things I wouldn’t want to talk about.’
Suddenly he had to move. Disentangling his arm, he sat up.
‘You mean – her illness?’
‘I mean, the psychiatrist’s bloody report!’ he retorted with sudden anger, and he realized that after all this time he had come to terms with nothing, nothing at all. And realizing this, his anger fed off itself. ‘And the morphine!’ he added bitterly.
A pause, then she whispered: ‘The morphine?’
He swung his legs to the floor and reached for his shorts. ‘It was for the pain. She had terrible pain.’
‘Well then …’
‘They thought the pain was imaginary, like the rest. They thought she had a habit. I couldn’t talk my way through all that again. Christ.’
‘But would they ask – ’
He stood up and tugged a cigarette from its packet. ‘I’m not going to take that risk. They think I supplied her, you see.’
Susan gave a nervous laugh. ‘What?’
‘Oh, they didn’t say so, not straight out, but that’s what they thought.’ Lighting the cigarette, he clamped it to his mouth and pulled on his jeans.
‘But that’s outrageous! They could never say anything like that.’
‘No, well, maybe not – but I couldn’t risk it.’
‘But, Nick, they’d never dare.’
Changing his mind about dressing, he headed across the room towards the shower. He stopped in the doorway. ‘You don’t understand,’ he said, suddenly inexplicably cross with her for failing to understand. ‘I did supply her. I did get it for her.’ He was already regretting this, already feeling that old sickness rise in his belly.
He went into the bathroom and closed the door and said aloud to the walls: ‘I got it for her because she needed it.’
Alice scraped her chair back. ‘Another cup?’ She was already scooping up the teapot.
‘Please.’
Daisy watched her go to the Aga, drop a fresh bag in the pot and stab at it absentmindedly with a spoon.
‘I’m not surprised,’ Alice announced. ‘No … it’s what I expected really.’
‘I’m sorry, Alice, I really am.’
‘These things happen.’
‘We’ll have to think again. Look elsewhere. Konrad’s not the only specialist in the world. There’ll be someone else. It’s just a question of tracking him down.’ Daisy heard the tired old reassurances, and wondered if she herself believed them any more. ‘I heard about a new epidemiological study on agricultural workers in America …’
Alice twisted round and stood facing her, back against the stove, one hand gripping the rail.
‘… I’m not sure who’s doing the study,’ Daisy went on, ‘But they’re looking into something very like Aldeb, something called – oh God, I can’t even remember the name. Going nuts at last, Alice, but then it was only a matter of time – ’
‘Daisy – don’t.’
There was a peremptory tone in Alice’s voice that made them both pause and look at each other.
‘I’m not going on,’ Alice announced. ‘I’m calling a halt.’ In case Daisy still hadn’t got it, she explained: ‘I’m giving up the legal action.’
Daisy stared at her, not sure that she hadn’t been expecting this.
‘Why, Alice?’
‘John’s ill again. They’ve found two secondaries.’
‘Oh, Alice.’
‘I feel I’m letting you down.’
‘Letting me down? You have to be kidding.’
‘Well … Whatever, I’ve no choice. What John needs now is care and support. And a bit of fun before it’s too late. The promise of cash in five or six years or however long it takes isn’t going to do him much good.’
‘Oh, Alice, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.’
‘He’s only twenty-seven.’
‘But what do they say? Surely …’
‘Oh, you know. The usual treatment, then wait and see.’
There was resignation in her voice. She’d seen too many courses of treatment fail on her husband to allow herself much hope.
‘Alice, if there’s anything I can do. Anything.’
‘I feel I’m letting you down,’ she repeated.
Daisy went across to her and put an arm round the wide curve of her shoulders. ‘Alice, you’ve been a real trooper. I couldn’t have asked for more.’
Alice gave a rueful grin. ‘Wish I could have done more. Still makes me mad as hell.’
Daisy hugged her. Her old sweater smelled of animals and other unidentifiable farmyard odours, and her hair, wiry as horse bristles, tickled Daisy’s cheek. ‘You stay mad as hell, Alice. It’s what gives you your get-up-and-go.’
Alice gave her a squeeze, then pulled back to scrabble for a handkerchief. She blew her nose with a loud hoot, then flicked the tails of her handkerchief across her eyes. ‘Remember the agricultural show?’ she said in a reminiscent tone. ‘I promised myself then I’d never give up. Swore it.’
‘But we gave them a fright. Don’t forget that.’
‘Did we?’
‘You betcha. You’ll be on a file somewhere, Alice. The one who nearly nailed ’em.’
She cheered up a little at that and, sluicing the hot water into the pot, took the tea back to the table.
Talking about her altercation with the law seemed to raise her spirits further. Her only regret, she declared, was that she hadn’t been clapped in chains and taken to court, because then she could have aired the whole thing in public. But she wasn’t to forget the impact of the hundreds of letters she’d written, Daisy reminded her, the dozens that had got published, and the n
umerous MPs who’d replied sympathetically. All that had raised public awareness.
‘Wouldn’t have given in,’ Alice murmured from time to time, her eyes fixing on Daisy’s in the failing light.
‘I know you wouldn’t,’ Daisy said.
Shortly before six the gin came out. Alice produced it with a flourish which almost concealed the slight but unmistakable flash of guilt. ‘Does me good,’ she said. ‘Always have a drop about this time.’
‘I should hope so too,’ Daisy said.
‘You’re a good girl, Daisy. I’ll miss you.’
‘Not half as much as I’ll miss you, Alice.’
They blinked at each other.
‘You’ll have one …?’ Alice tilted the gin bottle over a glass, her voice gently pleading, as if she already knew Daisy would take this as her cue to leave.
‘Actually, I’ve had a bit of a time in the last few days,’ Daisy said, allowing herself a measure of understatement. ‘I’ve got to get back to see a few people.’ Like the garage people, who had towed her car away that morning, like Jenny, whose VW Beetle she had borrowed, like the
Chelmsford police, the insurance agent, the Octek staff, and various other people who, weekend or not, would be wanting to speak to her urgently.
‘You managing all right, Alice? I mean, for money, that sort of thing?’
‘Hah!’ she exclaimed, waving a vague hand, the gin already trembling in her voice. ‘Another mortgage, another bank manager … I’ll be all right.’
Before leaving, Daisy called Simon’s number but there was still no reply. The Sunday Times features desk, never particularly well-informed on the whereabouts of its staff, was also unforthcoming until the unidentified voice on the end of the line broke off, capped the phone for a consultation, and returned to announce that Simon was expected back that evening from Prague.
‘Prague? When did he leave?’
Another conference. ‘Friday morning.’
The morning immediately after the fire. She drove away from Alice’s in a state of bafflement and alarm. If Simon had left on Friday morning, then he would have had to pass on the information about Nick mighty quick. Impossibly quick. Like straight away, the very night he’d got her message.
But then if she was blaming Simon for revealing Octek’s existence to people he shouldn’t have, there was another problem. More than a problem – a great yawning gap. It was just after eight that morning, as she had faced her hangover in the bathroom mirror, that the realization had come to her; she had never told Simon where Octek was located. The set-up, the cell-line trials, the five-month testing programme, and of course Nick’s identity – she’d given Simon all of that. But nowhere in the conversation had she given him the city, let alone the street, where it was all happening.
And if she hadn’t told him, and he hadn’t passed it on, then how had the fire raisers known where to go?
Unexpectedly, there was a parking place bang opposite the flat. She examined it for builders’ skips, no-parking cones and upturned nails, courtesy of the local hooligans, but it seemed clear of hidden traps. Parking, she walked round the Beetle and flicked an unthinking glance up at the windows of the flat.
She stopped and looked again.
The lights were blazing.
The scene shook, her heart hammered.
As she watched, a shadow arced across the ceiling and the top of a man’s head swelled briefly into the lower corner of the left-hand window.
She started across the road only to pause and retreat, struck by sudden doubts. Confrontation might not be such a good idea. Wait for him to come out then? Call the police?
She hovered uneasily in the road, looking up at the stagelit window.
Another movement. She scrambled back onto the pavement. A tall metal object appeared, glinting in the light, followed by the man’s head, along with his shoulders and back. The man levered open the object – a stepladder – and climbed slowly towards the ceiling.
She leant against the car, weak and shaky, and it was some time before she managed to move in the direction of the house again.
The workman grinned down at her when she let herself in. ‘You’re working late,’ she said.
‘Didn’t want ter ’ang about,’ he said. ‘Save me ’avin to come back Monday. Nearly done now.’ He slapped some sort of filler into a hole in the wall where the falling ceiling had ripped a lump of plaster away.
‘You gave me a shock,’ she said. ‘I thought you were …’
‘What, doin’ the place over? Nah,’ he laughed, ‘I was lookin’ after it for yer, wasn’t I?’ He smoothed off the filler and climbed down the ladder. ‘Just leave it ter dry now. A week, I’d say, to be on the safe side. Oh, yer got some phone calls – seven, as I remember. Three left messages on the machine there. Oh, and a visitor. ’Bout free o’clock.’
Daisy pulled the plastic sheet off the red armchair. ‘Who was it, did he say?’
‘Nah.’ He collected his tools into his bag. ‘’E just rings the bell. I put me ’ead out the windar and says there’s no one ’ome, and ’e nods and goes off. Didn’t ’ang about.’
‘What did he look like?’
He climbed out of his overalls and dusted his hands thoughtfully. ‘Blimey … now you’re askin’. Brown ’air … Well-built. Nah …’ He shook his head. ‘Nah … didn’t really get a good a look at ’im. Too busy tryin’ to get me ’ead through yer windar without gettin’ meself topped. You know you got a sashcord broke?’
‘I have?’
He manoeuvred his ladder out through the door and came back for the dustsheets which he pulled off the furniture with great flourishes that sent billows of dust mushrooming lazily into the air.
‘Only three messages?’ she called after him.
‘Yup. The other callers – four there were – they rang off when they ’eard the machine.’
‘Thanks,’ she said.
When he’d gone she played back the messages. A tense Peasedale pleaded for information, Inspector Brent requested in formal tones that she contact him as soon as convenient, and Jenny, in a no-nonsense message strong on emotional support, insisted that Daisy come over that evening for a meal with her and her boyfriend.
She was tempted by Jenny’s offer. There wasn’t much she could do in Chelmsford until Monday morning, although Inspector Brent probably thought differently, and there was even less to be done for Adrian until she could get up to Scotland, hopefully on Monday afternoon.
She called Jenny and said she’d be over as soon as she could. She thought of calling Peasedale, maybe even Brent, but couldn’t face either. She felt like the pilot of an aircraft that had crash-landed in the jungle, miles from civilization, with a plane-load of demanding passengers.
There was a shout of laughter from the street, answered by a raucous exuberant yell. She felt a pang of loneliness, the sort you get when the rest of the world is having a good time and someone forgot to invite you. She scooped up some wine as an offering to Jenny and made for the door. Pausing, she went back to the answering machine and hovered over it uncertainly. No, she’d had quite enough messages for tonight. Leaving the machine off, she hurried out.
Remembering that Jenny was allergic to wine, she drove down the hill to Mr Patel’s and picked up some cider. She added some bread and milk for her breakfast next morning.
She’d parked on a corner of the junction, pointing the wrong way. To save herself a trip round the block she backed cautiously out into the wider of the streets, peering through the tiny rear window of the Beetle, and was rewarded by the blasting horn and flashing headlights of a suicidal speed maniac screaming blindly out from behind the row of densely parked cars. Her adrenalin surged, her hands trembled on the wheel, she felt an abrupt exhaustion. Jenny’s place suddenly seemed a long way away, the prospect of talking through the last couple of days altogether too much. Better to call it a day, better to get some sleep.
Wearily, she pointed the car up the hill again. Anticipating that the
prime parking spot would be gone by now, she took the first space she came to, some way short of the flat on the near side. Getting into it involved a ten-point manoeuvre with a killing amount of wheel winding, but at the end of it the car was more or less parked.
Someone walked briskly past the car, going uphill. As she prepared to open the door, she glanced up and took in a jaunty gait, stocky build, and dark casual clothing. The lighting wasn’t brilliant, he was largely in shadow, but something about the back of his head, or possibly his stride, made her pause, something that sparked the glimmer of a memory, and she canted her head to one side to observe him through the windows of the parked cars ahead. After a time the car windows offered more frame than glass, and she lost sight of him.
She opened the door and clambered heavily out. She noticed that the striding pedestrian had disappeared. For some reason, she wasn’t sure what, this bothered her, and she took another look, balancing on tiptoe to get a view over the car roofs. Then she spotted him. He was climbing the steps to a house not far from hers. A neighbour, then, which accounted for the familiarity. A close neighbour at that, though from the oblique angle and in the darkness, it was hard to tell precisely how close.
Gathering the groceries, balancing them precariously on one arm, she closed and locked the car door, and made her way slowly up the hill.
She looked over to the prime parking place and saw that, far from being taken, it was still there. Automatically she glanced up at the flat windows.
Light.
She stopped, baffled. What lights had she left on?
But if she wasn’t sure about the lights, she was absolutely certain about the curtains. She hadn’t drawn them, either when she arrived or when she went out.
She stared at the familiar pattern of the Indian cotton, its peacock design thrown into colour-bleached reverse by the backlighting, the two curtains pulled around the bow of the windows and drawn together so tightly that there was no thread of light between them.
She had the feeling that this was happening at a remove, that she only had to pause for the scene to shift towards something more acceptable. But there was no escape from the curtains and the fact they were drawn.
Requiem Page 58
