by David Belbin
There were no travel agents in the Maynard Estate, the part of her constituency with the lowest turn-out. Sarah joined the doorknockers for an hour, then back to the Labour Committee Rooms. A wind was getting up. Light drizzle splashed the wheely bin by the back door. Sarah went to the loo and when she got back, the drizzle had become a downpour. Winston was talking to someone.
‘Probably only last a few minutes. Hold on and have a tea before you go out.’
‘I don’t mind getting wet,’ said a familiar voice.
‘It’s not you I’m worried about, it’s the leaflets. Have you met the candidate? Sarah, this is . . . sorry, didn’t catch your name.’
‘We’ve met,’ Sarah said. ‘Winston, this is an old university friend of mine. Nick Cane.’
The agent left them alone. They stood awkwardly, neither embracing, nor shaking hands. Sarah’s hair was windblown. Up close, she didn’t look plastic. She didn’t look much different from the last time they met, thirteen years before. Nick didn’t know what to say.
‘Sorry about the other night,’ he managed. ‘Something came up.’
‘Polly Bolton. I saw. How do you happen to know her?’
‘You meet a lot of people, driving a cab. But it wasn’t just that. There are reasons why you might not want to be seen in public with me.’
Sarah put a calming hand on his upper arm, gave him a small squeeze. ‘I spoke to Tony Bax in the pub. He told me about your trouble, said that was probably why you were keeping your distance.’
‘I’m glad you know.’ Nick was relieved Sarah was still talking to him, even being friendly.
Sarah put on an air of forced jollity. ‘Are we going to catch up then? I mean, it’s nice of you to come and leaflet but it’s pissing down. There’ll be fifty people showing up in an hour who’ll be hacked off if there’s nothing for them to do and, anyway, I’m going to lose. So I’d much rather go for a drink with you.’
‘How can I refuse?’ Nick said.
‘Drinks will have to be on you, though.’
‘I remember. Candidates aren’t allowed to buy drinks for other people during an election. I’m on foot. Is there anywhere good nearby?’
‘Fuck, no,’ Sarah said. ‘Let’s take my car.’
Seeing Sarah, walking with her, Nick wanted her, but in the same way he wanted unobtainable women on the TV. She had moved far beyond him. She was agitated, he could see that, but it was to do with the election, not him. In the passenger seat of her unassuming hatchback, Nick found Sarah’s proximity unnerving. The weather changed just as suddenly as it had a few minutes before, wind pushing away the cloud to create a dazzling sky.
‘I don’t really want a drink,’ Sarah said. ‘I’ve had enough to drink lately. Fancy a walk, while it’s like this? University lake?’
‘Great.’
They turned towards the ring road and, to make conversation, he asked how the election was going.
‘Labour will win big, I’ll lose small. By-election gains always go back to the party that used to hold the seat.’
‘You’ve beaten their guy once, you can do it again.’
‘I doubt it, but thanks for your confidence. I might not have got into this lark if it hadn’t been for you, all that time ago.’
They reminisced about the student union election because it was safer than talking about the present. Slowly, Nick unwound. By the time they pulled up at the university, he was almost relaxed. Sarah hadn’t changed, he decided. Nor had he. People didn’t change: they adapted their behaviour to fit the circumstances life threw at them. Sarah was about to be unemployed, like him. They weren’t so far apart.
Sarah parked at the back of the lakeside pavilion with its crumbling plaster and rowing boats for hire.
‘They’re planning to knock this down soon,’ Sarah said, as they got out of the car. ‘Replace it with a fancy arts pavilion – galleries, a theatre, you name it.’
‘Bet they don’t have discos,’ Nick said, referring to the only event anyone used to visit the pavilion for in their day.
‘Bet they don’t.’
Sarah took off her red rosette. ‘I’ll stop being the candidate for a few minutes.’ She peeled the red sticker from Nick’s People’s March For Jobs T-shirt. ‘I remember you buying this. Bit tight on you now. Where did those muscles come from?’
‘I don’t remember the last time I was on a march,’ Nick said. This was a mad place to come, he decided. They had so much history here. This used to be the place they would go in order to get Sarah out of her musty Union President’s office. They would come here when they needed to talk, or simply walk. Although part of the university campus, it was mainly used by townies. Children fed the ducks. Courting couples went out in the rowing boats. Family groups took constitutionals. On its right, larger side, the lake had a small island in the middle. The narrower left side ended in crossing stones and a shallow waterfall. Between the two stood a stone bridge, which led to a small patch of woodland. Nick and Sarah walked towards that.
‘Until you rang, I had no idea you were still in Nottingham. Once, I saw the back of your head driving a cab but thought I was imagining it.’
‘I’ve been away too. I expect Tony told you. I’ve made a mess of things, Sarah. I’m only just starting to put my life back together.’
A toddler on a tricycle was coming towards them on the path, trailed by her grandparents. Sarah was pushed towards Nick. She put her arm around his waist.
When the group had passed, Sarah left her arm where it was, and he reciprocated. ‘Don’t be ashamed,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we take a boat? Have you got time? Half an hour?’
‘Why not?’ Nick hadn’t rowed in twelve years. His arms were stronger than they used to be. It was a chance to show off. They turned back, paid a couple of quid and clambered into the rickety craft, both grateful to be occupied by activity.
‘Remember that night, after we saw The Specials?’ Sarah pointed at a tree where, early in their relationship, they had made love at midnight, jeans around their ankles, with a need for each other so urgent they couldn’t wait until they got back to one of their rooms.
‘How about that time we took a boat out to the island and got out to explore.’
‘You got out to explore,’ Sarah protested. ‘I was shit-scared we’d lose the boat and be stuck there.’
He was rowing easily now and began to ask the expected questions: family, friends, who there was in her life. Sarah was almost as bereft as him. More so, since she was an only child, while he had Joe, Caroline and a niece or nephew on the way.
‘Girlfriend?’ she asked.
‘I was seeing someone, casually. It’s over now. You?’
‘There was someone, but we split up last month. It wasn’t going anywhere.’
‘What will you do if you lose?’ Nick asked. ‘Stay around here?’
‘Doubt it. London’s where the work is. I’ve had a couple of offers.’
Nick was starting to sweat heavily. It was hot and this was the most physical exercise he’d had since getting out. ‘Mind if we take a breather?’
‘We used to do that, didn’t we? Just float.’
He gazed at her, feeling good about himself, better than he had done for years. He had to tell her everything that had happened. But not yet. There was no need to spoil this moment, not when birds were singing, the sun was shining, ducks drifting by and Sarah was smiling at him.
‘Do you remember why we split up?’ she asked, breaking the reverie. ‘I’ve been thinking about it and I don’t, not really.’
‘We never did officially split up, did we? We both had flings with other people, then were too proud or stubborn to call the other.’
She gave a wry smile of agreement, so he took the opportunity to ask a question that had been on his mind. ‘How long did you stay in the police?’
‘Just under three years. You were right about . . . a lot of things. I stuck it out longer than I should have done. As you said, I can be pretty stubb
orn.’
‘I kind of liked that in you,’ he said, and squeezed her hand.
They sat in companionable silence.
‘The half hour’s nearly up,’ she said, after a while. ‘I think we’ve played hooky for as long as we can get away with.’
‘Not before I do this.’ He leant forward and so did she. They kissed. Then they kissed again.
‘You’d better stop that before we have this boat over,’ Sarah said.
He pulled back, smiling, and took hold of the oars. ‘Worried one of your constituents will see you?’
‘I’m more worried about a freelance photographer with a long lens,’ Sarah said.
Twenty minutes later, she dropped him off outside the Committee Rooms.
‘Win or lose, there’s a party next Thursday night.’
‘I’m meant to be driving until late.’
‘I don’t suppose I’ll arrive before one. It’s at the Arnold Labour Club.’
‘I’ll try to be there,’ Nick told her.
She gave him her home and mobile numbers. ‘I’d like to see you again before then. Tomorrow?’
‘I’ve got a family thing. But I could do Saturday.’ He was meant to be driving but fuck that. He ought to pack it in. If, by some miracle, he could get back with Sarah, it was too risky to do anything that would break the rules of his parole.
‘I think I can free up some of Saturday night,’ Sarah said. ‘As long as you don’t stand me up again.’
‘I promise,’ Nick said. They kissed again, just a peck this time, as people might be watching.
20
The campaign was relentless, leaving little time to think. Easy, in these circumstances, for Sarah to compartmentalize her feelings about Nick, to put off thinking about him until Saturday afternoon. But there was one problem she had to find time for. Ask Polly Bolton. We tried to keep her out of it. The Chief Constable’s remarks had made no sense to Sarah, but she kept replaying them in her head. There was something nuanced about the way he used the words. Sarah tried to remember their exact context. She’d been asking about Ed Clark’s lack of motive for murdering Liv. She’d read the murder trial papers. Polly Bolton wasn’t called as a witness. Sarah couldn’t recall her even being mentioned in the trial. What was Eric getting at? He’d said something about Liv condoning what Terry had done. What had he done? Sarah couldn’t go to Polly again. Whatever motive Eric was implying, it had to go back to Ed’s original arrest and trial, for handling stolen goods.
Sarah phoned Brian Hicks at the Evening Post, explained what she was after.
‘Bit late in the day, isn’t it? Must be seven years ago.’
‘Could you photocopy me the reports from the time?’
‘Certainly. Quick drink tonight?’
‘Fine. I’d like that,’ Sarah said. It occurred to her that there would have been newspaper stories about Nick’s arrest. Otherwise Tony Bax wouldn’t have known about it. Nick, she realized, must have lost his job as a teacher. Sarah was curious to know more than she could comfortably ask Nick. She could phone Brian back, ask him to dig for details. But Brian would want to know why she wanted to know. Best not to go down that road. Nick would tell her the full story when he was ready.
After three hours of canvassing, she met Brian Hicks in the side bar of the Bell Inn. Brian was three quarters of the way down a pint of Shippo’s, probably not his first.
‘Six days to go,’ he said, making it sound like a death sentence.
‘I’ll be glad when it’s over, one way or the other.’
‘You’re looking good, in better spirits than I’ve seen you for ages. Think you might be closing in from behind?’
Her good spirits had nothing to do with the election. Over the last day, Sarah kept feeling suddenly happy and couldn’t think why. Then she remembered seeing Nick again.
‘The end’s in sight, that’s all. Did you dig out those cuttings for me?’
‘Straight to business, as ever,’ Brian sighed. He handed Sarah a folder and she flicked through the contents. The Evening Post of 1990 hadn’t covered the crime in enormous detail. There was barely any mention of Ed Clark. He was the youngest member of the gang and the police hadn’t been able to prove that he was part of the robbery. He had been charged with receiving stolen goods, for which he received a year’s sentence and received six months.
‘It doesn’t explain how they got caught,’ Sarah pointed out, after speed-reading a week’s worth of pieces. ‘I reckon there’s something the police are keeping back, something that won’t be in the court records.’
She tried to think of a way to bring Polly Bolton into it without mentioning what Eric had said. Then she noticed something that wasn’t there.
‘Why did Ed kill Terry Shanks rather than any of the other officers who arrested him? Terry Shanks isn’t even mentioned in these reports. It doesn’t sound like he can have played a big part in the arrests. He wasn’t even proper CID, was he? He was only attached to them for a few months.’
‘You’d have to ask the sister-in-law that. Polly something. Only one left alive.’
‘I don’t think she’ll talk to me.’
Brian thought for a moment. ‘I’ll bet the husband knew the score.’
‘Polly’s ex? Think you can find him for me?’
‘I shall use the full range of my reporter’s skills,’ Brian said, rising unsteadily from his seat, ‘but we will need to move to the snug. They keep my most useful tool behind the bar in there.’
Sarah followed him into the bar on the right, where Brian ordered another pint for himself and a second gin and tonic for her, though she’d barely started the first.
‘And can I borrow your phone book?’ he asked the barmaid. He handed the directory to Sarah. ‘Know the guy’s first name? Be your own detective.’
Sarah trawled her memory. She should recall Polly’s husband’s name. He had left her, not long after the murder, not long after the couple were landed with two Shanks kids on top of their own two. She remembered Polly cursing him, saying he didn’t keep in touch, even though he didn’t live far off. MPs had to be good with names. Phil. She was pretty sure that was it.
She looked for a Philip Bolton in the Nottingham area. There were five with the initial P in the book. No Philip or Phillips. None lived in the city. One was in Arnold. Another in West Bridgford. That was nearest, so she tried it first, using her party mobile. No good. The ‘P’ stood for Peter.
‘What are you trying to find out?’ Brian asked, plonking her drink in front of her, spilling a few drops onto the table as he did so.
‘I’m not sure,’ Sarah said, punching in the Arnold number. ‘There’s something I’ve not been told and, without it, I’m at a disadvantage.’
‘A disadvantage in what?’ Brian asked, but Sarah knew better than to answer. Brian was voluble when pissed and gave an impression of oafishness, yet retained a trained reporter’s memory and the curiosity that went with it. A male voice answered the phone.
‘Is that Philip Bolton? I mean, Phil . . .’
‘Speaking.’
‘You used to live in Basford, with your ex-wife, Polly.’
‘Yeah. What’s this about?’
Brian was hanging on her words. Sarah decided that she couldn’t do this over the phone. It was too risky, even, to reveal who she was.
‘It’s something I can only explain in person.’
Joe’s birthday meal ought to have been a treat: Caroline was a good cook, but working over a hot stove was no job for a heavily pregnant woman, so Nick volunteered to do the honours. They were having roast chicken, the Sunday dinner that was Joe’s favourite meal. Nick followed Caroline’s instructions on making bread sauce, but the result was lumpy and tasted too strongly of cloves. Joe tried to help with an extra dish, something complicated concerning mustard seeds and cabbage.
The roast potatoes, when they came out of the oven, were hard enough to remove prison fillings. The chicken was over-cooked. At least the gravy was all
right. Nick was good at gravy.
‘He passed, by the way,’ Joe said, as he put on the peas.
‘You what?’
‘Ed Clark passed his knowledge test. I’ve put him on the books, officially.’
‘I see.’
‘How much longer do you plan to drive for?’
‘A week at most,’ Nick said. His resolution to stop at once had wilted.
‘Probation come up with anything?’
‘Silly jobs. Shelf stacking. Industrial cleaning. Applied for a couple and wasn’t even called for interview. Didn’t put in too convincing an application, mind. I’ll find something else.’
Caroline ignored the bread sauce and carefully scraped the soft part out of the hard potatoes. She was tired and conversation was strained. Nick began to describe the debate on Tuesday night.
‘You used to go out with this woman?’ Caroline asked.
‘We lived together for two years while we were at university and just after.’
‘Why did you split up?’
‘She joined the police,’ Joe pointed out. ‘That’s what you told me.’
‘I don’t think it was the only reason. We were – what? – twenty-two. At that age you think you know everything and there’s bound to be another soul mate just round the corner.’
‘Only there wasn’t,’ Caroline said.
‘Nah. There was Clare. She sort of moved in with me for a few months the following year, but she wanted to settle down with someone and said I wasn’t over Sarah. Then I went out with Nazia for nearly a year.’
‘I thought Nazia was great,’ Joe said, picking up his chicken leg and crunching into the skin.
‘You’ve got a thing for Asian women,’ Caroline told her husband. ‘But you’ve never been out with one. Why’s that?’
