Dying for Millions

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Quite a lot,’ I said. And gave him a brief resumé.

  What I wanted him to do, of course, was give me the complete run-down on where he’d been, phone Ian and do the same, then deal with all the other problems. For once – just once – in our relationship, I wanted him to be grown-up and responsible. Just once would have been enough.

  ‘So, is there any news about that kid?’

  ‘None – and I – hell! I was going into college! Look, I’ll see you in a bit – OK?’ I was on my feet.

  ‘Well, it would be, if you were going anywhere. But surely even your august seat of learning closes down for the night.’

  ‘Of course – but—’

  ‘And I’d imagine that it would be all tucked up by ten?’

  ‘It’s not ten o’clock!’

  ‘No. It’s eleven.’

  I gazed at him. Then, as it dawned on me that he wasn’t joking, I looked at all the little clocks on the kitchen appliances. They all agreed: one minute past eleven.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he said; he sounded anxious.

  ‘Fine! Why?’

  ‘You’re sure? You’re very pale. Look at you – you can hardly stand up.’

  Come to think of it, sitting did seem altogether safer. I sat.

  ‘Fancy a cup of – hell and damnation!’ He fell over my bag of marking, which I’d dropped in its usual place: he picked it up in some irritation and looked inside. ‘Why is your lunchbox still full – well, nearly full!’ He waved a stick of celery at me, the marks of my teeth evidence that I’d had at least one bite. ‘Some executive sweep you off to an expense-account lunch at the Mondiale? No? And what – since this kitchen is uncommonly tidy – did you have for supper? Sophie, kid, you really do run risks with your health. What shall I get you?’ He washed his hands, dried them carefully, and dug in the fridge.

  A bowl of pasta and a glass of wine later, I was feeling much better. But Andy clearly wasn’t. He’d got that transparent look about the eye sockets that he always got when he was tired or stressed. Since it was now nearer midnight than I cared to think about, with a nine o’clock class to start my Friday, I could quite understand how he felt. I also knew that if I started to ask any questions he didn’t like – and I knew he wouldn’t like any of them – he’d go to bed faster than I could put out the milk bottles. But I had to mention Karen. It was still snowing, though not much had settled, and I was terribly afraid she might feel that sleeping rough was a heroic way to get Andy’s attention. Or Andy.

  ‘Did Karen strike you as … unusually smitten?’ I asked.

  He shrugged and pulled a face. ‘Some of these girls – I’m not being politically incorrect, they’re not women – they frighten me. They’re virtually children, but they want real sex. Some go to lengths which – well, they disgust me. At first I wondered if the threats could possibly – but surely a teenage girl couldn’t – could she?’

  ‘What’s Ruth say? She’s had enough experience of the breed.’ I suddenly realised I hadn’t asked after her. ‘I’m so sorry – is she any better?’

  ‘Lots. I’m quite surprised, actually, because she left all her herbal remedies back in Devon. It must be the northern air. Look – I ought to phone her, and Griff told me not to use my mobile—’

  It was easier just to nod permission than to ask why the hell he’d left it so late. Surely he should have called the minute he arrived: with luck she’d tell him so.

  Closing the dishwasher door on the dirties, I reached down breakfast crockery. Whatever mode Andy was in at the moment, he’d have to put up with bread – or toast – and jam. There was nothing else in the breakfast line, despite the fact that the freezer was full of frozen curries and stews and a couple of exotic gateaux; I’d even polished off the spare bread I always kept handy. Somehow I’d have to fit in a supermarket shop, though Fridays weren’t the best days for whizzing round the aisles.

  ‘Right,’ Andy said, putting his head round the door, ‘early start. Six-fifty to Newcastle. OK for a lift?’

  ‘Provided you’ll dig me out of the drifts,’ I said: weary or infuriated, I wasn’t sure which.

  ‘You’re on. I’ll wake you at six.’

  I was so near an orgasm. So very near. But Kenji pulled away, and his funny monkey’s face was replaced by Chris’s, or at least what little of Chris’s face I could see underneath his flat police cap.

  ‘Out!’ he yelled, and Kenji gathered up his thesis and waved goodbye. ‘I’ve got a date with CNN anyway,’ he said, over his shoulder.

  Chris pulled his cap further over his eyes. He had a senior officer’s baton and a failing erection.

  And it was morning. And I was cold because the duvet had gone walkabout. No orgasm, either.

  I was fully showered, dressed and made-up before I could bring Andy back to life.

  ‘You’ll have to move fast – there’s quite a lot of snow.’

  I threw him our communal dressing-gown; he grabbed it and was beside me at the window, staring down at Balden Road. Not even a milk float had sullied the snow. Next-door’s cat had made it halfway down my path, before changing what passed in its case for a mind.

  The roads weren’t in fact too bad once we reached the bus routes, which had been salted and gritted. We made New Street Station rather more quickly than a normal traffic-filled morning, and I parked with no problems.

  ‘I’m seeing you on to the train – no arguments.’

  ‘I should be grateful,’ he said, muted, and set off at a spanking pace to the booking hall.

  It was only after he’d bought his ticket – second-class – that I was able to say it. ‘I think you’re taking the most enormous and totally unjustified risk. You should consider other people, even if you refuse to consider yourself. And – listen to me, don’t turn away – you should have told the police where you were.’

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ he said roughly. ‘Tell you what – as soon as you see the train pull out, you can call the fuzz and they can meet me at Newcastle.’

  ‘That is, of course, if you’re still on the train at Newcastle.’ His face gave him away. ‘What the hell are you up to, Andy?’

  ‘Tell you when I can, love. You know that.’

  ‘I don’t. Not with you in this mood.’

  ‘It’s not a mood. Look, just give me a break, will you? I’ll be happy to talk to the police – once I get back to Ruth.’ He fished out his diary and scribbled. ‘There – my address and phone number. I promise I’ll go straight there and stay there until the police are happy. Or if they want me back in Brum I’ll come back to you – if that’s OK?’

  I nodded, reluctantly.

  ‘Phone the fuzz as soon as the train pulls out and give them that address. And then swallow it!’ He grinned and hugged me. ‘And find that kid – what’s her name, Karen? – and persuade her to fall in love with a local lad. How about Andy Hunt? He’s got nice knees, so Ruth tells me.’

  ‘She’s probably a Blues supporter,’ I said, returning the hug.

  Despite everyone’s loudly-expressed fears that the train would no doubt be delayed by the wrong kind of snow, it pulled in on time. Andy got a seat and returned to the door, leaning out to talk to me.

  ‘Andy,’ I said, ‘couldn’t you give up Africa and play trains instead? You could be to rail travel what Richard Branson is to aeroplanes! Sorry, only joking.’

  ‘I don’t think rail privatisation’s all that funny,’ he said. But his expression was stony: I shouldn’t have laughed about Africa.

  A silence ballooned between us. I was frightened; we never used to have secrets. If we’d rowed, there was always a joke to bring us back together. But this wasn’t a row; it was a withdrawal. At last, the guard started looking officious. And suddenly Andy flung open the door, stepped out and kissed me.

  ‘It’ll be all right, kid. I promise,’ he whispered. He stepped back in, slammed the door, and was gone.

  As soon as the train had disappeared, I set off to find a phone. Ian was u
p and about, but still at home. He read Andy’s address and number back to me, to make sure he’d got it right. ‘I’ll get on to the transport police – make sure they keep an eye on things between here and the north. OK? And Sophie – there’s a wine-tasting competition next weekend and I’ve entered you as my partner.’

  The car was still wearing a thick layer of snow on its roof, but little rivulets were beginning to trickle pathetically down the windscreen and rearscreen. I got in, dodging drips, and sat down. Seven o’clock: what useful thing could I possibly do at seven? There was no point in going home, because with even the small amount of snow still left rush-hour would be truly vile this morning. I’d no idea what time Tesco opened, or college: not for a while, at any rate. The best thing to do was head for college and park. With a bit of luck I could be at Tesco for eight, stock up, and be in class for nine: a little miracle of organisation. To celebrate such inspiration, and to fill the silence, I reached in the glove box for a tape.

  I was greeted by a wodge of brown spaghetti.

  Breathing carefully, I picked it all out, checking each cassette as I did so. Beethoven Piano Sonatas – OK. Brahms Piano Concertos – OK. The Bee Gees – OK. Yuri Bashmet – OK. Andy Rivers’s ‘Raging’ album – gutted. Completely gutted. That was the source of the spaghetti.

  I gathered the whole lot in my hands and pressed it to my eyes. I knew now where I’d better go: back to Harborne, to Rose Road Police Station. Andy might have a cavalier attitude to the police but just for once I was going to prove to Ian and Diane Stephenson and everyone else that I was on the side of the angels. Evidence that someone wanted Andy destroyed? Here it was, in my own hands.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Are you seriously expecting me to believe that not only have you no idea when this was done, but that you have no idea where it was done?’

  Perhaps Stephenson wasn’t a woman for mornings. Perhaps I wasn’t. One thing was for sure: between us we were making a pig’s ear of communicating a simple fact. Ian worried a hang-nail; the silence in her office deepened.

  ‘Look, Diane, would I joke about this? I’d give my back teeth to be able tell you when my car was broken into. And my front teeth. Apart from anything else, I feel violated. Someone’s been in my territory, fingering my property.’

  ‘Would you like me to refer you to Victim Support, Ms Rivers?’

  I would dearly have liked to ram her neatly poised ballpoint down her long and elegant throat. What the hell was the matter with the woman?

  ‘All I ask is that you believe me,’ I said, very calmly. On my lap, my knuckles cracked. ‘At no point have I ever suspected that my car has been interfered with. I’ve had no reason to. I always leave it locked, with one of those mechanical immobilisers on it. You can check for yourself that no one’s smashed their way in. And I usually listen to the car radio if I want entertainment. I leave the car in the car park at work, or out on the road at home.’

  ‘You have a perfectly good garage.’

  ‘It’s full of plants over-wintering at the moment.’ I looked at Ian for confirmation, which came in the form of a cautious nod.

  ‘OK, I suppose we shall have to accept that.’ She leaned back in her chair, twiddling that bloody ballpoint.

  ‘D’you want to fingerprint it?’

  ‘Anyone professional enough to break into a car as unobtrusively as you allege would scarcely leave prints behind. But I’ll get it done as soon as I can.’

  ‘I’ll ask one of the lads to drop it off at college for you, shall I?’ Ian asked kindly, earning a cold glance from his boss.

  I smiled back at Ian; when I spoke I found I hadn’t managed to infuse the chill I’d intended into my voice. ‘I might as well get off to work, then.’ Gathering up my bag, I remembered a question I ought to have asked in the beginning. ‘Is there any news of Karen Harris yet? And any response to those love potions from the forensic scientists?’

  Ian shook his head. ‘Give us a chance, love.’

  ‘And Andy himself? What are you doing about him?’

  ‘Bit of a law unto himself, isn’t he?’ said Ian. ‘Bit cavalier, like.’

  ‘A lot cavalier,’ I agreed, my voice as dour as Ian’s. ‘And stupid with it. Travelling second-class, on a public train!’

  ‘Nice and public, Sophie. More people around. Anyway, I’ve contacted the transport police, and he’ll be met by more than Ruth at Newcastle. Besides which, I’d have thought one of Griff’s mates would be somewhere around. He might be full of bravado—’

  ‘– shit—’ Stephenson amended.

  ‘– but he’s no fool. He’s probably got a minder tucked away somewhere out of sight. Wouldn’t be surprsied if he’s put a tail on you to make sure you’re safe.’

  Stephenson slapped a file down hard on her desk. ‘It’d do my heart good to think we could charge him with wasting police time.’ Clearly she needed another dose of his charm.

  ‘You never answered my question about Karen.’

  ‘Ms Rivers, we have contacted all her college, school and other friends. All personnel are looking for her. She phoned her mother again, by the way, about half an hour ago.’

  So where was she? ‘I suppose the call couldn’t be traced? No? She’d dialled whatever it is first?’

  ‘141, yes.’

  ‘Any identifiable background noises?’ Silence. Wrong question. ‘OK – I’d better be on my way.’

  Neither thought it necessary to delay me. Thanks to the 103 I was scarcely late for work.

  How I was supposed to combine teaching an Access group all morning and a GCSE group in the afternoon with the interrogation of the A-Level students which Ian had hinted at, I simply didn’t know. All the lifts still being out, I made it to the eighth floor to pick up the register which I had to complete for my class – fifteenth floor – and would then have to return, collecting another for the afternoon’s class – second floor. Richard was just unlocking his office as I staggered past to the administrator’s room. The walk up had done him more harm than me – he was grey and gasping.

  ‘Here, let me,’ I said, grabbing the key and opening the door. ‘Look, Richard,’ I added, ‘you’ve only got less than two months before you go. For God’s sake make sure you live long enough to enjoy your retirement!’

  I picked up his briefcase, and was ready to take his arm if necessary, but he waved me aside. ‘Just out of condition,’ he gasped. ‘Haven’t got your asthma spray, have you?’

  Asthma? It looked more serious than that to me, but I wiped the mouthpiece of my salbutamol spray and passed it without a word. While his colour slowly came back, I found I was digging my nails into my hands. He had to be all right – had to be. It wouldn’t be fair for him to—

  But he was upright again, and smiling. ‘Sorry about that. Tell you what, though – I could do with a cup of tea. If you could ask Florence?’

  I made it myself.

  Richard’s suggestion was that I should give the Access group some written work for the second half of the morning, when he himself would be free to sit with them, enabling me to question Karen’s friends. I baulked at the thought of him tackling even more stairs, but he anticipated my objections: he had a meeting on the thirteenth floor at lunch-time – we both had, hadn’t we? – so he’d have to make it up there anyway.

  ‘You could reconvene the meeting down here in your room,’ I said.

  ‘What? And inconvenience all those people?’

  Each of the girls gathered – at Richard’s suggestion – in the Conference Room was adamant: Karen had spoken of coriander.

  To anyone else, coriander was just another herb or spice, a slightly exotic parsley or mint; but coriander was my special herb, the obsession I’d shared with my dead friend George. When he remembered, Andy would bring a pot for my window sill, and I would crush a leaf from time to time to bring out that lovely spring-green smell. Sometimes it made me cry. More often these days I’d smile at a memory of George, and be comforted.

&nb
sp; ‘Why coriander, for goodness’ sake?’ I asked. Despite myself, I couldn’t keep the asperity out of my voice. Any other herb she was welcome to …

  ‘Because of this article. Out of her mind, if you ask me. That’s why—’

  ‘Why what, Farhana?

  Farhana looked at her feet. I looked round the rest of the circle. ‘Come on – what’s up?’

  Becky caught my eye briefly. ‘She swore us to secrecy. So when the fuzz came sniffing – well, you see …’

  ‘Rather than betray a confidence you kept your mouths shut. No problem. Except now she’s been missing some thirty-six, forty hours.’

  There was a tiny but distinct frisson: they all knew more than they were letting on. But something told me a frontal attack wouldn’t work, at least not yet.

  ‘Have any of you ever been to her home? Farhana?’

  She flushed. ‘It’s my dad, Sophie. Won’t let me – you see, she’s not Muslim.’ She touched her head-covering, as if to remind herself of something.

  ‘Becky?’ She’d be C of E if she was anything.

  ‘Only the once. To pick her up.’ She squirmed. ‘It’s her dad, see. Creepy.’

  ‘Creepy?’ The choice of word surprised me.

  ‘That voice of his. And he smells. Like – like my gran’s kitchen.’ She dropped her voice and mouthed, ‘Mice.’

  Predictable giggling.

  ‘Mind you,’ Becky added, ‘I don’t reckon he’s any worse than her mum. She’s really flaky. Says she’s psychic. And she says she can will parking spaces to appear – and she can, I’ve seen her do it.’

  Clearly a useful skill.

  ‘Crystal balls? Tarot?’ I must have sounded too flippant. ‘Have any of you ever seen the rest of the house? Her bedroom?’

  Half a dozen heads – blonde, Afro and covered – shook solemnly.

  ‘What about Karen? Does she believe in any of this? I’d have thought she was a bit too streetwise.’