by GJ Minett
He smiled and they walked on a few paces, nodding at passers-by.
‘You’re talkative this morning,’ she said at length.
‘Sorry.’
‘Barely get a word in edgeways. You OK?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he said, turning to apologise to a shopper with whom he’d inadvertently collided. ‘Bit preoccupied, I suppose.’
‘Callum?’
‘Sort of. Yeah.’
‘Well, if you want to bend someone’s ear about it all, feel free cos we’ve got another five and a half hours of this and I’m just about out of jokes here. And you know what they say?’
‘What’s that?’
‘A problem shared is a . . . isn’t a problem anymore. That’s not right, is it?’
‘Not quite.’
‘Something like that anyway. So, come on then – I like moody and magnificent as much as anyone else but you can get too much of a good thing.’
He stopped near the entrance to Estelle Roberts, the jeweller’s on the second floor and nodded to Danny, one of the assistants working inside. Anna leaned against the shop window next to him, waiting him out.
‘It’s nothing in particular,’ he said at length. ‘It’s just –’
‘You miss him.’
‘Yeah. I do. Stupid, yeah? I mean, it’s not like we were living out of each other’s pockets or anything like that. In fact, I used to go weeks without seeing him. Weeks. And I probably spent more time moaning about him than anything else.’
‘It’s what dads do.’
‘Yeah, well . . . he wasn’t the easiest kid you’ll ever meet, you know? Always in trouble, one scrape after another. I hoped he’d grow out of it some day. Thought maybe there was a better Callum inside, struggling to get out. But if there was I never really got to see it. Pretty awful thing to say about your own son, right?’
‘I dunno,’ said Anna, rubbing distractedly at a mark on her uniform. ‘I’ve always felt my dad doesn’t love me enough. Maybe you and Sally loved Callum just a bit too much. I guess it’s a pretty difficult balancing act most of the time.’
‘Spoiled him, you mean?’
‘Whoa,’ she said, holding up two hands in an exaggerated defensive gesture. ‘Not for me to say. I just don’t see why you should be beating yourself up about it, is all. If you’re going to get it wrong, loving him too much is the better way to go, trust me.’
He said nothing as he stared vacantly at the jewellery in the window. Anna was prepared to bet he couldn’t describe a single item he’d been looking at.
‘What about the investigation?’ she asked, more to break the silence than anything else. ‘How’s that going?’
‘Bit of a mess, if you ask me,’ he said. He told her about Abi’s visit on Saturday afternoon and their subsequent interview with Holloway, who had not been best pleased to learn about the inaccuracies in her previous statement.
‘How about you?’ she asked, picking up on an edge to his voice when he was talking about Abi. ‘You sound a bit annoyed with her.’
‘A bit. Maybe.’
‘Because she’s been seeing this other guy?’
‘She says he’s just a work colleague. Nothing to it. Just a friend she wanted to confide in.’
‘And you think it’s more than that?’
‘I don’t know. I mean, I know Callum had been cheating on her but two wrongs don’t make a right, do they?’
‘No. They make you human though. Not sure how many saints I’ve ever met.’
‘I know. None of my business anyway . . . not really. I just –’
‘You thought better of her.’
‘Yeah. I guess. Stupid.’
Anna asked him for more detail about the investigation and he told her what he knew, which was precious little.
‘It doesn’t feel as if they’re getting anywhere,’ he said. ‘I keep ringing and they’re all polite and everything, say all the right things. But if they’re going after anyone in particular, they’re not letting me in on it, that’s for sure. They’ve made it quite clear I’m to stay out of it. Be a good boy. Leave them to do what they’re good at.’
‘Only you don’t think they’re doing that good a job, is that it?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I know they’re stretched to the limit with that kid who’s disappeared. They say there’s a key period in every investigation and I just worry maybe they took their eye off the ball and missed it with Callum. And I’m not very good at sitting back and staying out of things at the best of times but when it’s your own son –’
‘So don’t,’ she said.
He stopped and looked at her.
‘Don’t what?’
‘Don’t stay out of it. Why not do a bit of digging around, see what you can come up with?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve been well and truly warned off,’ he said.
‘So be discreet about it. Who’s going to know? If you need a volunteer to help out, you only have to ask. I’ve always fancied myself as a bit of a sleuth. Stake-outs. Following people. Anna Castrogiovanni, private eye. It’s got a ring to it, don’t you think?’
He laughed.
‘I’m serious,’ she insisted. ‘Instead of sitting around all day, brooding over it all, why not get off your backside and do something? I’ll help. It’s not like either of us has got a social calendar that’s about to explode. We can do our own interviews, see what we can dig up. It’ll be fun. You remember fun, don’t you?’
He draped an arm across her shoulder and gave her a quick hug which came across as appreciative but no less dismissive for all that. He wasn’t taking her suggestion seriously.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll buy you a coffee. My treat.’
‘Just think about it,’ she said. ‘If you don’t want to do it, I may just go ahead and do it on my own. Ten years from now I’ll have my own PI business and you’ll be wondering why you didn’t get in on the ground floor while you had the chance. Give it a go. The proof’s in the pudding.’
‘In the eating,’ he laughed.
‘The what?’
‘The proof of the pudding is in the eating.’
She stopped and stared at him.
‘I swear to God, you say the weirdest things.’
OWEN
He’s cooking his dinner, turning sausages in the pan and checking that the potatoes don’t boil over, when the phone rings.
It’s Abi.
‘Owen,’ she says. ‘Have you been in my bedroom?’
Oh.
He turns the sausages and the potatoes down to a low heat. He’ll need to concentrate.
‘No.’
‘I’m going to ask you again,’ she says, and she sounds very cross with him. This is not good. ‘I found a half-eaten pork pie on the window sill. It certainly wasn’t there when I left this morning and you’ve had one in your lunch box just about every day you’ve been here. There were also a couple of those sticky burrs that cling to your clothes – I found them on the floor next to the bed. So I’ll ask you again – have you been in my bedroom?’
He vaguely remembers putting the pork pie down so that he could open the box and hold the necklace up to the light. Can’t believe he was so stupid as to leave it there. He needs an excuse. Badly.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, almost a whisper.
‘Why were you in my room? What were you doing in there?’
‘I was looking for the necklace.’ He’s pleased with this reply. Turn the responsibility back onto her. If she’d been wearing it like she was meant to, he wouldn’t have been in there. She doesn’t need to know the real reason.
‘So you ask me, Owen. You want it back, you ask me. You don’t go nosing around in someone else’s bedroom without their permission. It’s private!’
She’s still angry. He thinks that’s a bit unfair. If she didn’t keep trying to hide things from him, like her friendship with Adam, he wouldn’t have to go anywhere near her bedroom. He’ll explain this to
her some day when it’s not such a big deal but maybe now’s not the right time.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says again, because this is what she wants to hear.
‘Yes, well I’m sorry too, Owen, but if you’re going to be working here while I’m not around I’ve got to be able to trust you. I think we’re going to have to sit down and go over a few ground rules. I certainly don’t think it’s a good idea for me to leave a key out anymore. If you’re going to carry on working here, it will have to be while I’m at home. Either that or you’ll have to make do like any other contractor would, but I’m not having you wandering about the house. My bedroom, Owen? Really? My bedroom?’
Any other contractor? He’s still stuck on that part of the conversation, can’t believe she could possibly be that hurtful. How can he be just any other contractor? So he went into her room – it’s not that big a deal. He’s heard that women can be irrational at times. She’s certainly not making sense just now.
‘And as for the necklace, I’ll give that back to you tomorrow morning,’ she says.
‘I don’t want it b-back.’
‘I thought you said that was why you were in my bedroom?’
‘I . . . I was just looking,’ he says, trying desperately to improvise. ‘I wanted to see if you still had it. I was worried you m-might have sold it already.’
‘Then you should have asked me,’ she says, and there’s still no sign of her backing off from this. He can’t remember her ever being cross with him before. Maybe he needs to be there with her. If she could see his face, she’d realise how sorry he is. Then she’d take his hand and tell him it’s OK – just don’t do it again. He wonders whether it might be better to tell her about the bookmark but doesn’t see how he can do that right now without making her angrier still.
She’s still harping on about the necklace. Saying things he doesn’t think she can possibly mean. Not deep down. She’s going to give it back to him tomorrow. If he doesn’t accept it, she’s going to take it round to a charity shop and give it away. Up to him. Take it or leave it. He knows she doesn’t mean it and is about to say so when she puts the phone down on him. Just like that. No goodbye or anything.
She’s never done that before.
And Willie’s sitting at the kitchen table watching him, a smug grin on his face, the words told you so stamped across his forehead.
PHIL
He hadn’t really taken Anna’s suggestion seriously at the time. Maybe it was a legacy from all those years on the force but the idea of going against clear instructions from a superior officer was something that just didn’t sit comfortably with him. If you were told to back off and leave it to others, that’s what you did. Sharpish. It was deeply ingrained in you, a code of conduct that removed the need for complex calculations and reduced everything to one simple, incontrovertible rule: because I say so.
But he found it niggling away at him throughout the afternoon. Maybe it was the tiny but insistent voice that kept reminding him he was his own man now, no longer bound by their rules and regulations. Or perhaps it was just his growing frustration with an investigation that seemed to have come to something of a standstill or might just as well have done for all the feedback that was coming his way. And besides, he reasoned with himself, it wasn’t as if he was asking to work alongside Holloway and Horgan. He wasn’t stupid – he could see how inappropriate that would be.
Still, the more he thought about it, the more aggrieved he felt at being . . . well, marginalised, for want of a better word, because that was pretty much what was happening here, wasn’t it? When you stripped away all the sympathetic handshakes and expressions of support. Even if it was just a case of fiddling around in the background, he couldn’t see what harm it would do if he were to ask a few questions here and there. Nothing high-profile. Nothing intrusive. Just satisfying his curiosity on a few details. If he did no more than rattle a few cages, who was to say that wouldn’t turn up something useful? When it came down to it, who could blame a father for wanting to get off his backside and do something as Anna put it?
So by the time he left work, he’d managed to persuade himself that she had a point, even if she was probably just pulling his leg. This was the way to go. He owed it to himself.
And as soon as he got home, he started making a few phone calls.
Which is why, barely an hour later, he was standing in the entrance to the dining room at Bognor Golf Club, making a deal with himself: if he’s already left, I’ll forget it; if he’s still here . . .
It took him no more than a few seconds to pick out Ezra Cunningham. He was sitting alone at a table in the centre of the room, transferring his salad from a side dish onto his plate, arranging it precisely around fish of some description. Phil threaded his way through the diners and stood facing him across the table. Cunningham paused briefly, then helped himself to another spoonful without looking up.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked eventually.
‘I need a word.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I said, I need a word.’
Cunningham looked up at him, frowning as if trying to place him.
‘Yes, I heard you well enough. It’s just that you have me at something of a disadvantage here. I’m afraid I don’t have the faintest idea who you are.’
‘My name’s Phil Green.’
Cunningham tossed the name around for a second or two.
‘Is that supposed to mean something because for the life of me –’
‘I’m Callum’s father.’
‘Ah.’ He slowly lowered his cutlery to the table, then half-rose from his seat. ‘In that case . . . would you care to join me?’
‘I’m not staying.’
‘Even so, can I offer you a drink, perhaps? You’re welcome to share this bottle,’ he said, fingering a spare wine glass, ‘but if you’d prefer something from the bar –’
‘This isn’t a social visit.’
Cunningham smiled.
‘It is however a visit and I’m sure you’ll feel more comfortable sitting down. For what it’s worth, I’d certainly prefer not to have to crane my neck to look up at you. Please.’ He gestured towards the seat opposite him. Phil hesitated, then decided to accept the offer. A waiter appeared at his elbow and he waved him away.
‘Now,’ said Cunningham. ‘You say this isn’t a social visit, so that rather begs the question . . . what sort of a visit is it? How can I help you?’
‘I’m here to talk about my son.’
‘Of course.’ Cunningham’s expression clouded over, dignified sympathy personified. ‘My condolences, Mr Green. I wish we might have met under less difficult circumstances. Callum always spoke of you with the utmost respect and no little fondness.’
He leaned forward and linked his hands on the table in front of him, pausing as if expecting some sort of response from Phil. When it became clear that none was forthcoming, he picked up the salt cellar and began sprinkling salt over his tomatoes and lettuce.
‘I don’t have children of my own,’ he continued undaunted, ‘so I’ve no idea how you must be feeling right now, but you have my deepest sympathies. I trust you received the flowers.’
‘I did. They’re the reason I’m here.’
‘Yes, well . . . it’s the very least I could do. I feel bad about staying away from the ceremony itself. I hope you’ll understand. It’s just that putting in an appearance might easily have engendered, shall we say, unwelcome levels of attention from the authorities. I find they generally need very little encouragement to leap to inappropriate conclusions where I’m concerned, and turning up at the funeral of a murder victim didn’t seem like the wisest course of action. Not to mention the distress it might have caused you and the rest of Callum’s family.’
‘Your concern for us is very touching.’
If Cunningham picked up on the sarcasm he gave no sign of being offended by it.
‘But you wanted to talk about your boy. So tell me – how can I
help?’
‘You can start by explaining how the hell he managed to get himself mixed up with the likes of you.’
Cunningham paused in the act of spearing a tomato.
‘The likes of me?’ He shook his head, then raised the fork to his mouth. ‘Mr Green, we seem somehow to have got off on the wrong foot. If it’s something I’ve said or done, I can only apologise but I suspect the reasons for a certain brusqueness in your manner lie elsewhere and that you’ve made up your mind about me before we’ve even had a chance to get to know each other. Perhaps if I were to disabuse you of some of the more fanciful notions you seem to be harbouring?’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, for one thing, Callum was not, as you so colourfully put it, “mixed up with the likes of me”. Not in the sense you imply at any rate. In fact, we had no business dealings whatsoever as I recall. Our relationship, if you must know, was far more prosaic than that.’
‘Explain.’
‘He was my squash partner.’
‘Your what?’ This, it would be fair to say, was not what he had been expecting to hear.
‘Well . . . squash coach might be a more accurate description. I joined the league at the Arun Leisure Centre eighteen months ago, a little fiftieth birthday present to myself.’
Phil smiled at this.
‘Callum was coaching you? You expect me to believe that?’
Cunningham returned the smile.
‘Probably not, no. Your scepticism is entirely understandable, as it happens. I’m not sure I’d react any differently, were our roles reversed. Even so, it happens to be the truth. But in all honesty it doesn’t matter to me whether you believe it or not. I imagine it would be relatively easy to substantiate it if the need were to arise. We booked the same slot most Thursday evenings: six forty to seven twenty. The leisure centre must keep records of bookings, I’d have thought.’
He gently picked at the fish, his movements precise and unhurried. Affected, almost.
