His mind turned to the meeting with Coyle, an event which only yesterday he had dreaded and which now he recollected almost with relief. Ewan had gone directly from his night with Vanessa to the coffee bar at Liverpool Street Station. In the panic of their initial phone call he’d forgotten to ask Coyle how they would recognise each other, but as he stood there, craning around the crowded room, a man appeared beside him, saying his name.
Coyle in person was quite different from the saturnine figure Ewan had imagined. Small-boned, thinning sandy hair, thickish glasses, a sharp nose. The kind of man Bridget would have called a train spotter, who probably lived with his parents in Hounslow. Ewan felt slightly better. “It’s good of you to meet me on such short notice,” Coyle said. “I appreciate it.”
They both got coffee and what claimed to be croissants. “How was Milan?” Coyle asked. He’s trying to soften me up, thought Ewan, and by way of retaliation he repeated the remark he’d made to Vanessa about the Borgia chair. “Really?” Coyle put down his coffee cup. His sharp nose seemed to quiver. “That’s quite amazing. I’m a bit of a Dante scholar. Of course he was a couple of centuries earlier.” He carried on about Dante’s difficult involvement in Florentine politics. As he waved his hand, Ewan noticed a fat gold wedding ring.
Then Coyle explained that he was talking to people involved with the Gibson Group because a large transfer of stock had taken place shortly before the merger went through. Ewan frowned and asked who the buyer was. “A man named Ralph Marsden,” said Coyle. “A high-class dentist who plays the market as a hobby.”
Ewan waited. That was one thing about stuttering; it taught you an inevitable patience. “So,” Coyle said, “he could be a very lucky dentist. But the deal has all the marks of special info: mortgaging the house, borrowing from the father-in-law, and, of course, dodging my calls. His broker, Brian Ross, claims he was simply following instructions. The reason I wanted to see you so urgently is that I’m going to Marsden’s office today, and I was hoping you might throw some light on the situation.”
“Brian and I have been friends since university,” said Ewan. “We did speak a couple of times about the Gibson stuff, but I’m certain we maintained confidentiality.” He put on his primmest Edinburgh voice, and Coyle at once began to apologise.
“No, no, good heavens. You Scots have a reputation for discretion, bar none. Do you have any thoughts, though? Someone who might’ve been privy to the deal, any odd people showing up for meetings?”
Ewan fiddled with his shirt cuffs and pretended to consider. “I honestly can’t say,” he said at last. “This thing has been in the works for nearly a year. Maybe what I should do is go through my office diary; it might jog my memory. And there is the whole problem of faxes. One never is quite sure who’s reading them.”
“Don’t I know it.” Coyle nodded. “Well, I really would appreciate your checking that diary, Mr. Munro, and getting in touch with me if anything occurs to you.”
Outside in the shopping precinct they exchanged a brief, dry handshake. Coyle was turning away in the direction of the underground when he stopped and, as if the idea had just occurred to him, said, “I don’t suppose you have much contact with people at the Marlowe Company?”
No, Ewan started to say, and could not speak. He simply shook his head.
“Thought I’d ask,” Coyle said with another quick twitch of his nose, and disappeared into the underground station.
An hour later in the office, Yvonne announced that the woman from the Marlowe Company was on line two. In the instant of hearing Vanessa’s panicky voice, Ewan decided not to mention Coyle’s last question. The conversation had gone well, he reported, but Coyle was still determined to talk to Ralph as soon as possible. Vanessa gave a stifled groan. “What’s he like?” she asked.
“Small, with a Birmingham accent. A Dante fan,” he added. Yvonne was pointing to the other phone, and hastily he suggested they meet at the Lord Nelson after work.
In the taxi from the pub back to Barnsbury, Vanessa had been kittenish with relief. There was no word from Coyle. Ralph, she believed, had heeded her admonition; so long as they both kept silent, they were safe. Swept up in her jubilation, Ewan made a joke about shuffling off that mortal coil and failed to notice the signs of his sister’s arrival. They had been looking up film times in the newspaper when Mollie came back with the groceries.
Now Ewan stared at the hanging above the fireplace and realised there was nothing to celebrate. Very likely Coyle was going to get Ralph; Ralph would betray Vanessa; and she in turn would betray him. What, after all, would prevent her? To his surprise, the people whose disapproval he most feared were Coyle, who had seemed to believe an Edinburgh upbringing put him above suspicion, and Yvonne—as if these two had become his surrogate parents.
At school one winter there had been a craze: any lie could be cancelled by crossing one’s fingers. Did you take my gym shoes, George? Course not. Then the shoes were produced and the crossed fingers triumphantly displayed. At the age of ten, Ewan had scoffed at the notion of morality that lay behind this game. But at thirty-three he had succumbed hook, line, and sinker.
A soft knock interrupted his reflections. He hurried to the front door and found Vanessa, a bag in one hand. She’d changed out of her suit into jeans and her leather jacket. Before he could stop himself, he pulled her close and kissed her.
“Ewan,” she said.
“Sorry.”
He led her inside, locked the door, and returned the keys to his pocket. Beneath the hall light she looked tired, and he could see as a fact, indisputable as her supple posture or her small even teeth, that she did not love him, that she liked him, that she thought him a nice person—all those irredeemable phrases that from anyone other than the beloved count as praise and from the beloved are the most damning. And in the midst of this revelation Ewan was appalled to hear himself say, “Vanessa, will you sleep with me? I mean like last night. I just want to hold you.”
“All right,” she said, and followed him upstairs without another word. Something about that quick agreement, Ewan thought, was like a knife in the heart. Another knife, he corrected wryly.
He would have claimed not to have slept a wink, but proof to the contrary was furnished by his waking the following morning. Vanessa lay remote on the far side of the bed. He held his own breath and caught the slow sound of hers. By the glowing numerals of the clock it was only five past six. He stole from beneath the covers, determined to let her sleep as long as possible. If they left by eight, they could still be at Mill of Fortune in plenty of time for the rendezvous. He washed, put on his dressing gown, and went downstairs. In the kitchen, Mollie was already feeding the baby. Her eyes passed over him as if he were an empty television screen.
“Well, we’re up early.” Ewan’s voice came out in that jolly register he knew Mollie loathed, and to make matters worse, he clapped his hands. Quickly he bent to the morning tasks of filling the kettle and finding tea bags. For several minutes he moved around the room, pretending they were just two taciturn, sleepy adults. Then the tea was brewed, and there was no choice but to set a mug before Mollie and sit down.
She drank some tea, still ignoring him. Ewan remembered how once, when he’d borrowed her bike without asking, she had refused to speak to him for an entire week. He leaned over to see Olivia. She was wearing the same blue top and trousers as the day before, and beamed up at him. When he reached out his hand, she gurgled and grasped his finger. “She looks like she had a good night,” he said, trying desperately to sound normal.
Still nothing.
“Mollie, what is it? Are you angry? Talk to me.”
“Grr,” said Olivia.
Mollie bent over her. For a moment Ewan wondered if he had indeed spoken. It was so early, he was so tired. He touched the side of his mug to feel the heat. “Mollie,” he tried again. “I know you think I’m letting you down. But Olivia has parents, and they want her back. We can’t just shanghai her.”
“Why not? Why can’t we keep her? See how happy she is here, with us. She’s learning to talk. And she loves music. The king’s daughters promised her she could stay with us. Why should we give her up to some lout who left her in a toilet? All he cares about is money. And booze.”
She continued ranting. Ewan had never seen his sister, or anyone, in such a state. Words were pouring out of her and, even more disturbing, a mysterious bitter smell, which made him edge back his chair. He longed to wake Vanessa, who, whatever her shortcomings, behaved badly in the usual ways, but it was still only six thirty-five.
“Olivia needs love. Every day you can see her learning and growing. And—”
“I’ve nearly finished The Dark Forest.”
Maybe it was not the most sensible interruption, but it did get Mollie’s attention. She came to an abrupt stop, an almost visible slamming on of the brakes, and swerved into a new topic. “So you understand?” she demanded.
“Understand what?”
“How miserably Chae treated me.”
“No,” said Ewan. “Not really.” Nothing in his life so far had prepared him for the storm of Mollie’s emotions.
“I’ll never forgive him,” she spat. “Those stupid pots, as if that would deceive anyone. The birds keep pecking away. She wears my clothes. She has my dreams. The part about Leo and Maudie, the part where he fucks her—did you read that?”
She was clutching the edge of the table, her eyes bulging with passion.
Ewan nodded, and his acquiescence seemed to calm her slightly.
“Babies, what does Chae know of babies? He wouldn’t give me one. He has no sperm. He thinks Leo … but no, that’s not it.” She stopped and sighed. “The whole thing makes me feel crazy.”
Ewan gazed at his tea; the light above the table bobbed in the surface. Mollie was revealing a part of herself that ought to be kept hidden, and he was torn between wanting to pay the closest attention and feeling duty-bound to turn a blind eye. If he ignored her shameful indiscretions, he thought, later it would be easier for her to do the same. But what was all this about no sperm? Then he remembered Mollie telling him casually, years ago, that Chae had had a vasectomy. “He sounded devoted to you on the phone last night,” he offered.
“Devoted,” Mollie muttered.
“His girlfriend. Affair.” Each word was worse than the last. He hurried on. “Perhaps that’s all over with?”
“What girlfriend?”
“Didn’t he have a girlfriend, a woman friend? Wasn’t that why he left?”
“Ewan, he left because of the fucking book.”
“You mean—”
“Christ!” She slammed her fist against the table so hard their mugs jumped. “He stole my life. Do you think I could live with a thief?”
She spoke with furious impatience, as if she’d forgotten that for two months she had allowed, even encouraged, Ewan to believe Chae had left her for another woman. He was dumbfounded. Over and over she claimed to have been abandoned, but it was she who had left. Or, rather, made Chae leave. All the transactions of the last few weeks flipped from red to black, from round to square. Ewan was still staring at Mollie when Olivia uttered a sound and his sister’s face went pale. Before he could ask what was the matter, Vanessa breezed into the room.
“Good morning, everyone,” she said. “I hope you slept as well as I did.” She smiled at the three of them. “I was afraid I was holding things up, but I can see that’s not the case.”
Ewan took in that she was washed, dressed, had her bag in one hand and her jacket over her arm. “Is there any coffee?” she asked.
“I’ll make some,” Mollie said. As she stood up, the acrid odour engulfed Ewan, filling his nostrils and tickling the back of his throat. He gave a surreptitious cough and reached for his tea.
Chapter 17
Kenneth wandered out of the bus station and saw a taxi idling at the curb. In his entire life he’d ridden in no more than half a dozen, always with other people, either crammed in with a bunch of mates, someone’s elbow jabbing into his ribs, or, once or twice, with his mum. Now he stared at the white Austin with a sign on the side advertising a Chinese restaurant and thought, Why not? He climbed in and asked for The Blind Beggar.
“Mind going by the South Inch?” the driver asked. “It’s a bit longer, but the traffic’s no as bad.”
“Fine by me,” said Kenneth. The longer the better. He sat back and gazed appreciatively at the park and the river. If he had had a pen, he would have written his name on the seat beside him, just to prove he was here. This was the life.
When they drew up outside the pub, the meter said three pounds sixty. Kenneth proffered a twenty-pound note with a flourish. Disappointingly, the driver’s wedge-shaped face did not change an iota; he pocketed the smooth, clean note and handed back three crumpled fives and some coins.
Inside, the swimming pool brothers were at the dartboard and there was a chick behind the bar, with her sleeves pulled up so you could see her pretty arms. Kenneth ordered a nip and a chaser at two fifty a go. Eager to get rid of the smelly notes from the taxi, he bought a round for the brothers and the barmaid. They all thanked him. When he went to take a piss, he saw his inscription, For a good time … and the Laffertys’ phone number. Someone had added, Oh yeah? and a third hand had written, Out of this world. Kenneth chuckled.
By three he was wasted. The barmaid had to tell him several times before it dawned on him that he was to be included in the general exodus. Outside, the street was reassuringly noisy, not like that creepy country road where he’d been this morning. Even the hardness of the pavement when he tripped and fell was okay. He lay there scrutinising the gutter. There was a Mars bar wrapper and too many cigarette butts to count; he started anyway, got to six, stopped and started again.
“You okay, mate?” one of the swimming pool brothers was saying. And he was on his feet, which did, after all, seem preferable.
“You’d better go home,” said the other brother.
Home, thought Kenneth, and pictured his mum’s dusty pink sofa, a place to which he could find his way in almost any state of inebriation. He set out past the row of furniture shops, the laundry, and the seedy hotel. Quite suddenly he was climbing the stairs to her flat. He knocked at the door and stared at the nameplate, Singer, left by some long ago tenant. “Singing,” he chanted. “Sewing.”
Ideas were swarming, so many he couldn’t identify them. I’m too brainy, he thought, that’s my trouble. The Singer name-plate receded, and there was his mum, dressed in her pale-brown trouser suit. Something about her head seemed different, though. For a moment he wondered if she was wearing a hat, all those tight orange curls. No, probably Rita downstairs was the culprit. “Mum,” he said, “you look fab.”
Behind her blue-framed spectacles, her eyes narrowed. “You’ve been drinking.”
“A wee dram. Nothing to mention. Can I come in?”
She stepped back reluctantly. Kenneth moved towards the kitchen, then, remembering other needs, swerved to the bathroom. He took a piss and, as an afterthought, threw up in one tidy heave. Amazingly it all landed in the bowl. At the basin he ran water over his hands, splashed his face, and rinsed his mouth. He avoided the mirror. It was one thing for his mum to look different, another if he were to find his own reflection gone AWOL. In the kitchen, she was waiting. “Where are you getting the money to drink, then?” she said in vinegary tones. “You’ll never get another job if you carry on like this.”
“I have a job,” he said indignantly. Putting the frighteners on someone was definitely an occupation. “Temporary,” he added.
“Lorries?”
“No, not lorries.” He had an inspiration. “I’ve moved into PR. Public relations. Just for a couple of days.”
“PR?” She snorted with laughter. “You gormless wonder.”
This was chronic. Look at her stupid hair. He beat a retreat to the sitting room, where, without bothering to turn off the TV or draw the curtains, he lay down on th
e sofa and, in the comfy atmosphere of cigarettes and dust, fell instantly asleep.
When he woke, the curtains were drawn, or at least it was much darker. He raised his head experimentally, one inch, two, then saw his mum watching from her armchair. “You know what, Kenny?” she said. “You were talking in your sleep. At one point I could hardly hear the telly. I’m so pleased. It means you were dreaming.”
“I never dream,” he said automatically. His mouth was sandpapery, and he swallowed. “What did I say?”
“It wasn’t easy to follow. You kept saying ‘grace.’ And Lally? Lully? Some nonsense word. You said ‘no’ a lot. Something about water. Oh, and you mentioned Miss McBain. Remember, she was that teacher of yours in primary school, the old battle-axe.”
Kenneth did not bother to answer. He stared at the furry pink fabric and grappled with the notion that he’d been dreaming. Daydreaming he understood; it could even be useful. You pictured a situation and figured out what to do next. He’d done a fair bit of that lately. But the other kind of dreaming was different, and he had been proud of never succumbing to this peculiar habit. He wanted to argue, tell Mum she was daft, but even as the protest rose to his lips, dark shadows from the last hour crowded in upon him. Yes, Grace had been there, he recalled, his little breadwinner, but grown larger, and that bearded guy, Mr. Lafferty, who had turned out to be surprisingly understanding. So this was dreaming, bits and pieces of your day coming back to you. He shifted, and Joan’s blue sari rose out of the sofa—she, too, had been there. And someone else, whom he didn’t recognise, a figure so indistinct he wasn’t sure if it was man or woman. He felt immediate indignation. What the hell was some stranger doing in his brain? It confirmed what he had always suspected: this dreaming was a weird, chancy business, not something he wanted to go in for.
He buried his face against the dusty cushion. He’d have liked to forget Joan. She had food, water, a toilet, a telly. Why not leave her be? By tonight he should have news of Grace. By tomorrow the baby herself. Now that he thought about it, it was amazing, that woman’s kidnapping Grace. Real News of the World stuff. What would happen, he wondered, if he went to the police? There was that copper who sometimes picked him up after football matches. Wallace, he thought; Willy Wally they called him mockingly. It would be nice to go to the nick, seek out Wallace, and report a crime, be the law-abiding one for a change: have blokes say please and thank you and bring him a cup of tea.
Criminals Page 20
