‘That’s Russian comfrey.’
‘Very funny. What about the other man? The one with the mother?’
‘Trevor.’
Leo realized the impossibility of turning what they’d found at Fortescue Terrace into a story capable of being told on a lovely summer’s afternoon. How did you ‘lightly’ describe Duggie’s throat? Or the blood on the walls of the small flat, or the rose-coloured water in the bath where Trevor had opened his wrists and bled to death.
‘Trevor committed suicide,’ he said. ‘Let’s leave it. It’s too nice a day.’
She looked up at him and saw his face. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It is too nice.’ Then she said, ‘I suppose it made things worse for Macrae. I mean the stress thing. Seeing all that.’
‘I doubt it. He solved it, don’t forget. I mean there was the MOD and the Foreign Office and everybody running around talking terrorists and Macrae said it was the maid. No… it’s just the thing he needed. It’ll set him up again, you’ll see.’
She watched him, enjoying the sight of his firm bottom and well-shaped legs. Not too hairy, not too bald.
‘What do you want to do tonight?’ she said.
‘You want to go out?’
‘Not really. Why don’t we get a couple of steaks and a bottle of really good wine —‘
‘And a video. I know a place in Chelsea where you can get old French black-and-whites like Rififi.'
‘No, let’s not get a video. The weather’s good and we can watch movies any time. Let’s eat up here.’
‘And see what transpires.’
The phone rang and Zoe went down the ladder to answer it.
A few minutes later she came back. ‘As you were. No steaks. No good bottles of red wine. Mother’s coming to stay for a few days.’ ‘That’ll be nice.’
‘Leo. You know what happened?’
‘No… I… do… not… know… what… happened.’ ‘Listen, I’m sorry. I can’t help it.’
‘What happened?’
‘It’s revolting.’
‘Then I don’t want to hear it.’
‘Share and share alike, old buddy. I’ve just listened to you.’ ‘OK, what?’
‘The “digester” exploded. Father and Harold were covered in… well, whatever was inside…’
‘Human?’
‘Mother didn’t say.’
‘I’d rather have the blood.’
*
‘Julius?’
‘’Evening, Mr Macrae.’
‘She been in yet?’
‘Haven’t seen her all day. And there’s a lot of work on a Saturday night. It’s not like her. She always rings. Unless —’ ‘What?’
‘I know her mum’s been wanting to go to Broadstairs. Frenchy usually takes her for a little holiday in the summer.’
‘All right, laddie, when you see her tell her I rang.’
Macrae leaned back in his chair. He picked up the evening paper. Glanced at it. Dropped it.
He walked to the windows and looked out at the street but did not see it.
The day had been long and hot and empty.
When he’d got back very late the previous night and found the house deserted he had given a huge sigh of relief. And his mood had remained much the same when he woke around noon. But since then it had slowly changed.
He had drifted from room to room. In the spare room the beds had been stripped and the blankets folded. There was a terrible finality about that. In his own room the big double bed, with only one pillow used, told a similar story.
In the late afternoon he had gone to the Blind Pig for a drink but that too had been empty. Not that he wanted to chat. But he liked having a drink when others were drinking. Standing at the bar in isolation made him feel like an alcoholic.
And he was not an alcoholic.
He thought of ringing Leo Silver but he’d only make an excuse. He thought of going to Cannon Row but they’d look at him oddly. Why was the great thief taker coming in on a Saturday night when he didn’t have to be in? Nowhere to go?
Frenchy was probably with her mum.
Leo was with Zoe.
Mandy and the kids were back with Joe.
Thinking of the kids reminded him of Dory, the last time he’d talked to her. She’d told the truth in the end. She’d been in tears then. Just a little girl. But at least that iceberg of a mother had been in tears as well; and that was something.
Tears helped. He knew that now. And he’d make it up to Bobby and Margaret. He wasn’t sure how, but he would.
Even though it was still daylight, he drew the curtains and switched on the lights. Then he went to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of Glenmorangie and a packet of cigars.
He poured himself a shot and, standing in the centre of the room, raised his glass to the dingy furniture. ‘Cheers,’ he said.
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Threats and Menaces (A Macrae and Silver Mystery Book 4) Page 19
