Resolutions

by Jane A. Adams

  Karen knew that her relationship with her younger brother was much closer than most sibling relationships, and that was because they’d both had to grow up so fast and take so much responsibility. Childhood had simply not been an option for Karen; she had done what she could to make it possible for George to have a semblance of one. And now she felt betrayed, abandoned and very angry, not with George but with just about everyone else. It pleased her immensely that Mac would take the blame for Thomas Peel’s death. Maybe George would think him less of a hero. George seemed to think that taking life diminished Karen; why would Mac be viewed in such a different light?

  Karen did not try and justify what she did. She wasn’t some righteous vigilante, ridding the world of those who afflicted the innocent. Those she had rid the world of were no better or worse than those who paid for her to do so. They were, in Karen’s view, mostly vermin, mainly unimaginative, generally driven by pure self-interest, but Karen understood their type and their motivations and was perfectly at ease with the implications. She earned her money using her skills. End of story. And if someone should raise the question of her only being twenty years of age, she would point them in the direction of the frontline troops currently serving in Her Majesty’s forces. There were snipers her age, doing what they had a talent for and being paid a darn sight less for it than she was. That, as far as she could see, was the only difference between her and them. Oh, and the fact that she wasn’t restricted by the need to kill at a distance, a fact to which the dead body of Thomas Peel, among others, could now testify.

  George would come round, she thought. Just give him time. Just let him realize that everyone in the world except for Karen would let him down.

  She took the pictures of the children from the basement wall, stacking them and then, leaving the basement, taking them upstairs. In the dining room, overlooking the small but pretty garden, was a wood burner, lit and ready and throwing out welcome heat. She opened the door, dropped the photographs on to the glow of wood and coal, and watched them curl and burn.

  Pity, she thought, that all memories, all trace, all difficulties could not be disposed of in that same way: burnt to ash, transformed into heat and light and comfort, gone in a small blast of purple flame.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Pinsent was not ready for the arrival of Rina Martin. She had spoken to Miriam twice more on their journey and, by the time she walked into reception at Pinsent police HQ, had worked herself up into a most vengeful mood. Miriam was waiting for them there, clearly upset. Her face, now the bruising and scabbing had had time to develop, looked even worse than it had the night before.

  Rina hugged her, then held her back at arm’s length and surveyed the damage. ‘What on earth are you wearing?’ she demanded.

  Miriam was nonplussed. ‘Trace evidence,’ she said. ‘They took my clothes. Someone found me some trackie bottoms, and I borrowed a jumper from Alec. I’d got blood on my coat.’

  Alec’s jumper was dark blue and hung almost to Miriam’s knees. The red tracksuit bottoms must have belonged to someone very tall with a love of loud colours, Rina thought. On Miriam’s feet, half-hidden by rolled-up trouser legs, were bright pink socks and a pair of the blue waterproof covers she would normally have worn at a crime scene.

  ‘You need some cream for that face. Come here; let me see what I have in my bag.’ Suiting action to words, Rina rummaged and brought forth a pot of calendula cream. ‘Here, let me.’

  Looking like a child dressed up in her parents’ clothes, Miriam stood obediently as Rina applied cream and affection in equal quantities, tutting all the while and muttering her displeasure.

  Fitch saw the desk sergeant glance uneasily their way. He’d seen that look before when Rina was in moods like this. He decided to divert her.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked as gently as he could. ‘Is Mac all right?’

  ‘You must be Fitch,’ Miriam said. ‘Thanks for coming. I didn’t know what I was going to do.’

  She hadn’t cried yet, but she did now, breaking down completely and allowing Rina to draw her into a comforting, motherly hug and then to dry her eyes and tell her to blow her nose on a proffered tissue.

  ‘Don’t we have somewhere private we can go?’ she demanded. ‘And I want to see Inspector McGregor.’

  ‘I’m sorry, you can’t do that right now.’ The desk sergeant eyed Rina and then Fitch with considerable suspicion. Fitch was used to that, but he could see it riled Rina. Not a good thing to rile Rina.

  ‘And why can’t I see him?’

  ‘Inspector McGregor is not available,’ she was told. ‘He’s with DCI Wildman. I don’t know any more than that.’

  Fitch intervened again. ‘There’s a café across the road,’ he said. ‘Rina, I could do with a coffee, a bite to eat, and I’ll bet Miriam could do with a break from this place.’

  ‘But I can’t leave Mac,’ Miriam said.

  Fitch took a business card from his pocket and laid it on the counter. The desk sergeant picked it up. To Rina’s surprise, it was very expensive-looking: cream card, embossed, neat black lettering. ‘My mobile number is on there,’ he said. ‘If Mac becomes available, we’d be grateful of a bell, all right?’

  The sound of Fitch trying his best to be polite and businesslike, and still sounding like some 1950s gangster, caused Rina to smile and the desk sergeant to drop the card back on to the counter as though it might nip his fingers.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said. ‘But you may be waiting a while.’

  Across the road, Fitch settled the ladies in a corner and went to the counter with an order for tea and whatever looked edible. Miriam had been given a sandwich at some unearthly hour of the night, but she had been too upset to eat; she had not eaten since breakfast the day before. ‘Oh, and a chocolate cream,’ she told Rina.

  ‘A what?’

  Miriam half-smiled. ‘Peel took me to a basement. I woke up and there was a water jug and a chocolate bar. My favourite kind. Rina, he knew what chocolate I liked.’

  Rina patted her hand. ‘He knew a lot about both of you,’ she said. ‘But it’s over now, sweetheart. He’s gone.’

  ‘And Mac is going to get the blame.’

  ‘No, he’s not.’

  ‘Tim?’

  ‘Did as you asked. No more questions about that. It didn’t happen. Now, tell me what’s been going on, as much detail as you can; we need all the ammunition we can get.’

  Miriam had been unable to speak with Mac. She had been questioned, asked to make another statement, pressured by Wildman to say that Mac had been lying.

  ‘There was someone else there,’ Miriam insisted. ‘I kept telling them. Peel was attacked from behind. I could see Mac all the time, but they’re insisting that I’m lying just to protect him.’

  ‘What do they say must have happened?’ Rina queried. ‘Miriam, just try to be calm and tell me. I’ve got thinking to do.’

  Miriam nodded.

  Fitch returned with a tray of tea and news that lunch was on its way. ‘Bacon and sausage baps,’ he said. ‘I got a mix ’cos I didn’t know what you’d prefer.’ A thought struck him. ‘You’re not a veggie, are you?’

  ‘No,’ she laughed through tears that threatened to start again. ‘I am hungry, though,’ she said, wondering at that.

  ‘Good, because we need you thinking straight,’ Rina said. ‘Now drink your tea and tell me everything you can remember. Then we’ll go back over the road and sit there until they let us talk to Mac.’

  They returned to the reception area to find Alec Friedman talking to a young couple who held hands tightly and looked as pale and battered as Miriam.

  Alec and Rina had not met, but the desk sergeant had told him about the old lady and the bouncer, shown him Fitch’s card, and Alec had guessed who she must be.

  He left the young couple, came over with his hand outstretched. ‘Mrs Martin? I’m Alec, a friend of Mac’s.’

  Rina shook hands. ‘This is Fitch,’ she said.
>
  ‘Mr Fitch,’ Alec turned to greet him.

  ‘No, just Fitch.’

  ‘Right. OK.’ Alec let it pass. ‘Can I introduce you to Emily and Calum? Emily is, or was . . .’

  ‘Thomas Peel’s child,’ Rina said quietly. ‘Mac told me a lot about you, my dear. This must be a terrible time.’

  ‘They’re saying Mac killed my father,’ Emily said. ‘Mrs Martin, I almost wish he had, but Mac wouldn’t. It’s not in him.’

  ‘Of course it isn’t,’ Miriam said. ‘I keep telling them there was someone else, but no one is bloody listening.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ Rina said.

  ‘I know, but . . . you know what I mean.’

  Alec sighed. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I can show you to somewhere you can all talk.’ It was irregular, he knew, but then so was a group of five would-be defending counsels having a case conference in the reception area. ‘I’ll have a word with DCI Wildman, see if he can come down and have a chat. Please, come on through.’

  He opened a door off the main reception area and ushered them all inside. It was a room kept for waiting relatives or for anyone needing a quick, private word. It was small and cramped, but just now it was the best he could do.

  Rina nodded her thanks. ‘I’d like to speak with whoever is in charge,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll tell Inspector Wildman,’ Alec said and retreated to the safety of the briefing room.

  Rina made the introductions and surveyed the little group thoughtfully. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘we’d better talk, find out what each of us knows and see how best to get Mac out of this mess.’

  Three fifteen, and Tim and Joy waited outside the school George and Ursula attended, watching kids fight for places on the school buses and parents double-park on zigzag lines before grabbing their offspring and bundling them into waiting cars.

  ‘What if they get on a bus?’ Joy said.

  ‘They don’t; they go down into town and meet the minibus there. It has to pick up the younger ones first.’

  ‘OK.’ She grinned at him. ‘Don’t they all look young? I was never as young as that.’

  ‘She says from her ancient position of just turned twenty. If you think they all look young, imagine how I feel.’

  ‘Cradle-snatcher,’ she teased.

  ‘Don’t,’ Tim said seriously. ‘Really, don’t.’

  Joy, disturbed by the sudden serious note, looked up at him in concern. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean anything.’

  ‘No, I know. I just worry what people think.’

  ‘The people who matter are happy about it. Mum thinks the world of you.’

  ‘Bridie thinks the world of Rina. She figures I come as part of the package.’

  Joy laughed. ‘You really think that? Tim, you may have noticed that my mother is as ready as Rina when it comes to speaking her mind. If she disapproved, you’d know about it. She loves Rina; she approves of you. She thinks you’re sophisticated.’

  Tim almost howled with laughter. ‘Just as well she’s only seen Marvello,’ he said, thinking about his now-deceased other persona as children’s entertainer, the Great Stupendo. ‘Really, Joy, I made the most appalling clown. There’s George,’ he added, spotting the sandy hair, Ursula’s blonde ponytail visible just behind. ‘Hey, George. Ursula. Over here.’

  George turned, a look of concern on his face. He came running over. ‘What’s wrong?’ he demanded. ‘Is Rina all right? Is Mac?’

  ‘Hello, Joy,’ Ursula said. ‘Have they caught Thomas Peel yet? It said on the news he’d been shooting at people.’

  It must seem almost exciting when you’re fourteen, Tim thought, suddenly feeling very old and worldly wise, and then reminding himself that, compared to George and Ursula, he had very little to feel worldly about. They’d been through more in their short lives than he ever had. He noted that both avoided mention of Karen and wished he could do the same.

  ‘Peel’s dead,’ he announced, childishly gratified when they both stopped and stared at him.

  ‘Trouble is,’ Joy added, ‘the police seem convinced that Mac did it.’

  Twenty minutes of walking and waiting for the minibus, twenty minutes to exchange so much news. Tim wanted to tell George about the knife block, knowing he and Ursula would love the adventure of it, but he resisted; better that fewer people knew any of it. Twenty minutes of getting George to recall everything Karen had said, anything that may give a clue to where she had been and how to track her down. Tim felt guilt, as though inviting George to betray his sister, but found that George had moved beyond that and that the recounting of ‘Karen’ conversations was the easy part. He had now talked it all through with Ursula so many times that it felt almost like it was someone else’s story.

  By the time the minibus arrived, George had explained about the house and the gallery and the old lady selling up, and the fact that it was on the promenade somewhere and there would be a lot of passing trade. He had described the house and its tiny front garden, its formal, imposing door and sash windows and every single thing he could think of.

  ‘Did she want a gallery before?’ Joy asked curiously. ‘I mean, was she into art?’

  George thought about it. ‘She liked pictures,’ he said. ‘She used to draw cartoons for me to cheer me up, but she said there was no money in drawing; she had to get a proper education and a real job.’ He frowned, as though remembering something awkward or remote. ‘The house,’ he said. ‘It reminded me . . . you know when little kids draw a house and it’s always got a door in the middle and four windows and a chimney on top?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Joy said. ‘Like when they draw the sun with rays so it looks like a spider.’

  ‘Well, I always drew houses like that, and Karen said one day we’d find a house like that and live in it. The house she showed me, like I said, sort of Georgian but not quite.’ He shrugged. ‘There are a lot of houses like that. Probably a lot of galleries too. It could be anywhere, couldn’t it?’

  Privately, Tim thought so too, but he tried to sound encouraging. ‘We’ll find it,’ he said. ‘We’ve got Abe and Fitch and Rina.’

  He saw George nod and try to smile, but Ursula voiced what he really felt.

  ‘Up against whose army?’ she said.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  At three fifteen in Pinsent, conversation had run out and Calum and Emily decided they had better leave. They’d been at a safe house while Emily’s father still posed a threat; now they wanted to get back to something like normal and were wondering how and what and where. To go back to their little rented house seemed untenable; for one thing it was still a crime scene, cordoned off and under guard. For another, there was no longer a front door and the hall was peppered with shotgun pellets, splintered wood and plaster from when Thomas Peel had twice discharged the weapon. Calum now understood that it had only been because Peel had had to reload that he and Emily and Frankie had had those precious seconds in which to get away. Had Peel been armed with anything better than a shotgun, he was convinced their families would now be arranging funerals.

  Meantime, they thought they’d go and stay with Calum’s parents for a few days and consider their options. The idea of being somewhere under police protection was an uncomfortable one: a reminder of the past that both were eager to put behind them. Too eager, Rina thought. Fail to face up to what had happened now and it would surface with even greater intensity at a later, maybe less convenient moment, but she could appreciate their point of view.

  Her other worry was that all of this might not be over. What if Karen had taken an interest in the young couple? What if Peel had associates who might want revenge?

  Maybe she just worried too much. She wanted to talk this over with Tim, but a long discussion over the phone was not the same as a face-to-face conflab.

  After Emily and Calum took their leave, Rina sat, thoughtful, while Fitch paced a room too small for meaningful pacing. Miriam sat at the little table in the corner of the room, head resting on her arms, try
ing hard not to doze. Sleep was what she really craved, but it seemed inappropriate and unfeeling, knowing Mac was still . . . wherever he was.

  Give her action any time, Rina thought. Forced inactivity was something she just did not do well.

  At half past three the door opened. Alec came in and motioned them to come out into the reception area. Rina bristled, thinking they were about to be thrown out or fobbed off with excuses, but Miriam was looking past her and jumped to her feet. ‘Mac!’

  She ran past Rina and grabbed at him, holding fast to the lapels of his jacket, pressing her face against his chest. He held her tightly, blinking as though he’d been in half-light for too long.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Rina asked.

  ‘Suspended pending enquiries,’ he said. He was pale and exhausted, dark circles under puffy eyes, and Rina would have sworn he looked thinner than the last time she had seen him. Smaller too, somehow diminished; even his skin looked grey and dull, as though he’d faded over the past few days.

  ‘Take us home, Fitch,’ Rina said. ‘I think I’ve seen enough of this place.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  After Fitch had driven them back to Frantham, Mac and Miriam walked back along the wooden causeway to the boathouse, Mac half afraid of what he might find there and Miriam too tired to care. She had still worn the blue plastic crime-scene slippers, and Joy insisted on lending her a pair of shoes. Miriam had waited in the Range Rover while she fetched them, unable to face the exuberant welcome home she would have to accept from the Peters sisters and the Montmorencys; not wanting to hurt their feelings by rebuffing them.

  They had spoken to DI Kendal on their way home, asked if it was OK to return. Dave Kendal was sympathetic and had been a little put out at being asked to conduct the search of his friend’s house. He told Mac that he had supervised things himself, kept it all low-key, and that Mac’s home was now available to him once more. The neighbours would probably not have noticed anything untoward. Mac thought that was an unduly optimistic hope, born of Dave Kendal’s unfamiliarity with Frantham Old Town.