‘Liberties?’
Ruiz can make a lie sound noble. ‘Yes, sir. Liberties. I was angry. I may have done something I regretted if it weren’t for Joe. He stopped me and calmed me down.’
Monk’s not buying a word of it. He turns his gaze to mine. ‘So let me get this straight, Professor. The only reason you were outside Gordon Ellis’s house was to prevent a disturbance?’
Monk wants me to agree with the statement.
Ruiz pipes up, ‘That’s what happened.’
‘I’m asking the Professor,’ says the DS, waiting.
I look at Ruiz and then at Safari Roy, who is nodding his head up and down slowly.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘that’s what happened.’
Monk opens the lid of a rubbish bin on the footpath and drops his sandwich wrapper inside.
‘Mrs Ellis must have been mistaken.’ He lets the statement hang in the air. ‘If she’d been correct we would have had to arrest you, Professor, for breaching a protection order.’
I don’t reply.
‘Sienna Hegarty is being interviewed tomorrow and we’re going to investigate her allegations. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to impede or jeopardise our inquiries.’
‘No.’
Monk seems satisfied, and signals to Safari Roy, who has dripped egg yolk on to his tie and is trying to wipe it off with a handkerchief.
An electric window glides lower.
‘Have a good day, gentlemen,’ says Monk. ‘Mind how you go.’
40
Annie Robinson isn’t answering. I press the intercom again and give her another few seconds before walking back to my car. A horn toots. Annie is pulling into a space. She has bags of groceries.
‘If you’re busy . . .’
‘No, you can help me carry these.’
She drapes me in plastic bags and I follow her inside. She’s wearing shrunk-tight jeans, leather boots and a concho belt that dangles below a fitted black shirt. My eyes are fixed on her denim-clad thighs as she walks ahead of me. I remember them wrapped around me and I get that feeling again.
Annie unlocks the door and leads me through to the kitchen, where she begins unpacking the bags, talking constantly.
‘I know I said I was sorry about the other night, but I really mean it. I never do things like that.’
Does she mean she never gets drunk or never knocks on a man’s door and abuses him for ignoring her?
‘It’s a little blonde of me, don’t you think?’
‘Maybe just your roots showing.’
She smiles back at me. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Sit down. Have lunch.’
She heats up two small quiches and opens a plastic bag of washed salad leaves. She’s used to cooking for one, buying prepackaged, ready-made meals.
I look around the flat.
‘This is a nice place.’
‘Rented. I couldn’t afford it otherwise. I can’t really afford it now, but I’ve spent my entire life waiting for things. I don’t do that any more. The only point of waiting is if you have something worth waiting for. That’s a good kind of waiting.’
‘I didn’t know there were different sorts of waiting.’
‘Oh, there are. That’s the mystery.’ She laughs and her thin blonde hair sways.
‘Let’s eat in the garden.’ She points through the glass doors to a small round table inlaid with blue and white tiles. She sets out two forks and knives, two plates and two napkins.
‘Do you ever think about your ex-husband?’ I ask.
She’s drizzling dressing on the salad. ‘No.’
‘Not at all?’
‘David Robinson. There you go - that’s the first time I’ve said his name in months. I did think of changing back to my maiden name when we got divorced, but I couldn’t be bothered getting a new passport and driver’s licence.’
Annie is about to light a candle. ‘Is this too much?’
‘Probably.’
‘OK, no candle.’
She opens the oven door. They’re still not ready.
‘You mentioned a photograph of Gordon Ellis and Novak Brennan.’
‘Yes. Come look.’
I follow her into the bedroom where she pulls out an old photograph album from the shelf in her wardrobe. We sit side by side on her bed, leafing through the pages.
‘That’s me there,’ she says. ‘I’m with my friend Jodie and that’s Heidi and her boyfriend Matt. You see Gordon? He’s with Alison. They went out for about three months and then he started dating Jodie. She’s the blonde. They went out for almost a year. The longest of anyone.’
Jodie’s hair is cut short and she has a long slender neck and big eyes.
‘She looks about twelve,’ I say.
Annie laughs. ‘Jodie was always getting carded when we went out.’
She turns the page. ‘There’s Gordon again.’
He is wearing a trench coat cinched at the waist, which he probably bought from a charity shop because he thought it made him look urbane and cool. Instead he looks like he’s dressed in his father’s clothes.
The photograph was taken at a party. Ellis is grinning at the camera with his arms draped around Jodie and Annie, his outspread fingers suspended above their breasts. There’s nothing wolfish about the pose, but he’s a man who knows what he wants.
‘This is the photo I was talking about,’ she says, pointing to another image taken in the same series. A person hovers at the edge of the frame, trying to avoid the camera - a younger Novak Brennan with longer hair and fewer lines. His face is partially obscured by Annie’s raised arm holding a beer glass. Only one eye is visible and the camera flash has turned it red.
‘Did you know him?’ I ask.
‘I didn’t remember him at all until I saw the picture. I think he shared a house with Gordon. They were always hanging around together.’
‘But if you were friends with Gordon . . .’
‘He dated my girlfriends, remember?’
‘Where were these taken?’
She shrugs. ‘Some party. You’re not supposed to remember them - that’s the whole point of college.’
Annie turns more pages of the album. There are photographs of a holiday in Turkey, Annie in a bikini, lying on the deck of a sailing boat. She looks good.
‘You don’t want to see these old things,’ she says, not closing the page immediately.
We’re sitting close enough for her breast to brush against my forearm.
‘Maybe those quiches are ready,’ I suggest.
Annie cocks her head, having read the signal.
‘Do you have to be somewhere?’
‘I promised I’d take Emma to the park.’
It’s a lie. Annie knows it.
‘Well, at least have something to eat.’
She leaves me in the bedroom. I keep turning the pages of the album. There are more photographs from college. Foundation Day celebrations. Theatre productions. A charity car rally with a customised VW beetle. A black-tie dinner on a bridge.
Gordon Ellis features in several more images, often in the background. One particular shot stands out because two girls are dancing in the foreground. Behind them, to one side, Ellis can be seen kissing a girl on a sofa, twisting her head towards his. Both their mouths are open, an inch apart, and he looks like a bird about to deposit food in a chick’s beak.
The glass coffee table in front of them is littered with drug paraphernalia and traces of white powder in smudged lines.
I study the girl on the sofa. Gordon’s hat obscures most of her face, but she has a small dark mole on her shoulder blade, just below her neck. I have kissed that spot. Felt her pulse quicken beneath my lips.
Annie calls from the kitchen. Taking the photograph with me, I slip it on to the table next to her plate. She glances at it but says nothing. Instead a strange transformation seems to take place. Rising from her chair, she walks around the garden, examining the shrubs and new blooms.
‘It’s not just the parties you forget,’ she says. ‘A lot of things about college are best left alone.’
‘You’re kissing Gordon Ellis.’
‘I’m snogging him, to be exact.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I dated him twice. That’s as far as it went.’
Annie sighs and her eyes grow brighter as though a generator is spinning inside her.
‘What about Novak Brennan - how much more do you know about him?’
‘He had a reputation on campus for dealing.’
‘Dealing?’
‘Hash. Ecstasy. Speed. Cocaine. Novak could get it. He was always very mysterious. People said he’d been to prison, but I don’t know if that’s true.’
Annie takes the photograph and tears it into pieces, letting the scraps fall into the garden. She keeps her face turned away from mine.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘The past is the past.’
The chemistry of our conversation has changed. Annie picks up her wine glass, her hand trembling slightly. The quiches are growing cold.
‘Sienna tried to commit suicide on Friday. She took an overdose. ’
Annie doesn’t react. Dissected by the afternoon sun, the skin on her face looks coarse and grained.
‘Is she going to be all right?’
‘She’s out of danger. Before she went to hospital she told me something that puzzled me.’
‘What was that?’
‘She said you asked her if she was seeing Gordon Ellis outside of school. It was late last year.’
Annie holds the glass to her lips for a beat. Her eyes meet mine over the rim, a private thought buried within them.
‘I heard she was babysitting for him.’
‘You suspected something?’
‘I thought it was inappropriate.’
‘But you didn’t say anything to the school or to Sienna’s parents.’
A sharper edge in her voice. ‘You think I covered it up.’
‘I think you knew. I think you protected Gordon. I want to know why.’
She puts down the wineglass. All remaining warmth has gone.
‘It’s time you left.’
‘Explain it to me, Annie.’
‘Go now or I’ll call the police.’
Taking my coat from the lounge, I walk to the front door. Annie unlocks it for me. I want to say something. I want to warn her about getting too close to Gordon Ellis because everything he touches begins to rot and perish. Suddenly she grasps my forearms through my shirt and plants a kiss on me, hard but not mean, whispering into my mouth.
‘That’s what you’re missing.’
41
The problem with secrets and lies is that you can never tell which is which until you dig them up and sniff. Some things are buried for safekeeping; some are buried to hide the stench; and some are buried because they’re toxic and take a long time to disappear.
Annie Robinson lies as easily as she kisses. I can still taste her. I can see her eyes beneath her fringe, awkward and sad. I see a woman ready to surrender completely - to freefall into love, if only to escape the memories of a bad marriage.
Thirty minutes later I’m almost home. My mobile is chirruping. Ruiz.
‘I’ve found the freak with the tattoos.’
‘Where?’
‘I was watching the minicab office, thinking he was never going to show, thinking I got better things to do, thinking about how I’m retired and I’m too old for this shit . . .’
‘OK, OK.’
‘Anyway, he finally turned up and picked up a girl. He took her to a hotel in Bristol. Fancy place. Dropped her off. Waited downstairs while she did her horizontal polka with some suit on a business trip. Afterwards he dropped her at a train station and drove to a gaff off the Stapleton Road - a bed and breakfast hotel called the Royal. Place needs a facelift or a bulldozer. Now he’s in a pub around the corner. I’m sitting outside.’
‘Do we know his name?’
‘Mate of mine - shall remain nameless - ran the number plate. It’s an Audi A4 registered to a Mark Conlon. Lives in Cardiff. Nameless is running a full computer check. He should have something in a few hours. You want to join me? I’m not fronting this freak alone.’
I don’t think we should front him at all.
Thirty minutes later I knock on the steamed-up window of his Mercedes. Ruiz unlocks the doors and I slide inside. Sinatra is singing ‘Fly Me to the Moon’. Takeaway wrappers litter the floor.
Ruiz offers me a cold chip.
‘I’ve eaten.’
‘Yeah, but what were you eating? Is that lipstick I see? You’ve been knobbing your schoolteacher friend while I’ve been out here freezing my bollocks off.’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘Shame. Is there lipstick anywhere else?’
‘You have a one-track mind.’
‘When you get to my age it’s the only track worth playing.’
We’re outside an ugly modern pub with red-brick walls, small windows and harsh lines. Streetlights reflect from the wet black pavement. Ruiz takes a sip from a thermos mug.
‘You been inside?’
‘Not yet.’
Glancing at the pub I ponder the wisdom of this. We don’t know anything about Conlon except that he put three men in hospital and one of them now speaks through a hole in his neck.
‘Novak Brennan was supplying drugs at university. Ellis might have been one of his dealers.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Annie Robinson.’
Ruiz rolls down his window and tosses the dregs of his tea. ‘Novak always knew how to spot a gap in the market.’
The pub door opens. Light spills out. Two men step on to the pavement. Conlon is the taller of the two. He’s wearing dark jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. The second man is older with a receding hairline and a stiff military bearing. He’s dressed in a beige raincoat, carrying an umbrella like a walking stick.
Conlon glances down the street. For a moment he seems to be looking directly at us, but it’s too dark for him to see anyone inside the Merc. Conlon reacts to something. He grabs the man by the lapels and pushes him hard against the side of a car. The older man is nodding. Scared.
Conlon shoves him away and gets behind the wheel. The Audi pulls away.
‘You want to follow him?’ asks Ruiz.
The older man is walking towards us.
‘Wait! I want to see who this is.’
Reaching below the dash, Ruiz pops the bonnet. Climbing out, he unhooks the latch and the bonnet hinges open. The man has almost reached us. The streetlight reflects from his bald patch and his umbrella clicks on the pavement with each second step.
‘Hey, guv, you wouldn’t happen to have any jumper leads?’ asks Ruiz. ‘I can’t get a spark out of this thing.’
The man barely pauses. Looking flustered and feverish, he mumbles a reply and keeps walking. He’s in his fifties with a solitary band of greying hair that warms the top of his ears. I know him from somewhere.
‘Is there a garage nearby?’ asks Ruiz.
The man stops and turns. ‘Perhaps you should call the AA.’ His accent is public school. Genteel. Erudite.
‘Not a member,’ says Ruiz. ‘Always thought it was a waste of money. Isn’t that the way?’
‘Quite,’ says the man, turning again. His eyes meet mine. I see no hint of recognition.
‘Well, you have a nice evening,’ says Ruiz.
His umbrella swings and clicks as he walks away.
Ruiz shuts the bonnet and slides back behind the wheel.
‘Now there’s a turn-up.’ He glances in the rear-view mirror.
‘You recognised him.’
‘Didn’t you?’
That’s the thing about Ruiz: he doesn’t forget. He has a memory for names, dates, places and faces - for the victims and perpetrators - going back ten, twenty, thirty years.
‘I know I’ve seen him somewhere,�
�� I say.
‘You saw him on Thursday.’
And then I remember . . . Bristol Crown Court . . . he was sitting in the front row of the jury box. The foreman.
Ruiz has found my father’s birthday present - the bottle of Scotch I forgot to wrap or to send. He cracks the lid and pours a generous amount over ice before settling the bottle on a table in the lounge where it can keep him company.
We sit opposite each other, listening to the ice melting. Ruiz once told me that he didn’t talk politics any more, or read newspapers, or watch the News at Ten. One of his ex-wives had accused him of opting out of public debate. Ruiz told her that he’d served his tour of duty. He’d manned the barricades against outraged pacifists, anti-globalisation protesters, poll-tax rioters and hunt saboteurs. He had fought the good fight against the violent, corrupt, treacherous, hypocritical, cowardly, deviant and insane. Now it was time for others to take up the battle because he had given up trying to save or change the world. He simply wanted to survive it.
‘What did we just see?’ I ask.
‘We saw evidence of jury tampering.’
‘Maybe it was a chance meeting?’
‘It’s against the law to approach a member of a jury.’
‘He’s one of twelve.’
‘He’s the foreman!’
‘Yeah, but he’s not Henry Fonda and this isn’t Twelve Angry Men. You need ten jurors for a majority verdict.’
‘What about a hung jury? You need three.’
‘Maybe they have three.’
‘So there’s a retrial and they do it all again with a different jury. That doesn’t help Novak.’
‘So what do you suggest?’ I say.
‘We have to tell someone.’
‘The judge?’
Ruiz almost chokes. ‘You’re joking. He’ll abort the trial. That poor kid giving evidence will have to go through it all again.’
‘Maybe he’ll just dismiss the foreman. The jury can still deliberate. Eleven is enough.’
Ruiz stares at the fireplace. ‘Maybe we should talk to a lawyer.’
He gives Eddie Barrett a call. Puts him on speakerphone. It’s a bank holiday Monday and somebody is going to pay for Eddie’s fifteen minutes - probably me. His voice comes through like a foghorn.
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