by Simon Hall
Now her head slowly turned and she muttered something they couldn’t catch.
Adam took a step forwards. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Freedman. I didn’t hear that?’
She looked up at him, her eyes widening. For a few seconds there was silence, then the shock of her voice, sharp and strong.
‘I said, because they took my husband away! Because they turned him into someone who could only think about their damned party and his bloody self and not his family. Someone who could go off with some teenage tart! And then take the bloody coward’s way out. Now charge me. Charge me and I’ll go to court and tell the world what these people are like.’
The venomous words echoed from the hard brick walls. From the cell opposite came a couple of drunken cheers and the sound of arrhythmic applause.
Claire reached out an arm, placed it around Yvonne’s shoulders. She initially resisted, tried to shrug it off, pull away, then collapsed into Claire’s shoulder and began a muffled sobbing.
Adam sighed, folded his arms. ‘There won’t be any trial, Mrs Freedman,’ he said gently. ‘There won’t even be any charges. The Traditionalists don’t want to take the matter further. You’re free to go, but please, no more of this. It doesn’t do anyone any good. I’ll get someone to drive you home.’
She looked up at him through tear-soaked eyes, swallowed hard and gasped, ‘No charges?’
Adam shook his head. ‘No.’
Yvonne Freedman struggled to catch her breath and her face darkened into a scowl. ‘Then I’ll find some other way … some way to tell people what they’re really like. I’ll get them somehow.’
Dan felt a dense, smothering fatigue overwhelm him when they got back to Claire’s flat. He’d been fighting it all day, but now it had grown into an irresistible force. In the half-light of the stairwell, he briefly closed his eyes and the memory of chasing the joyriders and that knife lunging at Adam’s chest flashed back into his mind. He shuddered.
He could see Claire was exhausted too. She slung her jacket untidily over the back of a chair, slipped off her shoes and put her feet up on the coffee table. She lay back, rested her head on a cushion and cupped her hands over her stomach. Dan made them both a cup of tea and looked for a take-away menu in the kitchen drawers. Neither of them would be up to cooking tonight. He wondered if he was too tired even to eat.
Her Art Deco mantelpiece clock said it was just past eight. After seeing Yvonne Freedman, they’d spent a couple of hours at Charles Cross working on the parts of the code they’d cracked, but made no progress. Open original memorial – what memorial? Where? And why original? Were there two? Or more? They’d started to get irritable with each other and Adam had sent them home for the night, telling them to get a good sleep so they could start again early tomorrow.
Then, they would talk to Julia Francis, the solicitor who represented Linda and Osmond. Dan had met her before, back when he’d first worked with Adam. She had a ferocious reputation and had already made it clear they shouldn’t expect much help. But the detective had insisted on seeing her. Dan got the feeling he was looking forward to another confrontation. He was in a bloody mood.
A mix of harsh streetlight and the gentle glow of the dusk seeped through the windows.
Dan closed the curtains. It felt time to shut out the world.
Claire opened her eyes. ‘Don’t worry about food for a minute,’ she said. ‘Come and sit with me.’
Dan did, cuddled into her on the sofa. She wrapped herself around him. Claire looked flushed. She was sweating a little and wiped a frond of hair from her face.
‘You OK?’ he asked. ‘You look hot. Is your stomach bothering you again?’
‘Kind of,’ she replied, closing her eyes and lying back.
‘Shall I give it a rub for you?’
‘No, probably not a good idea. It’s growing more and more sensitive each day.’
Dan nodded understandingly. ‘Sure. I know what it’s like when you’ve got a bad stomach. You don’t want anyone near it. It’s a horrible feeling. Maybe Adam was right. Perhaps you should see a doctor. It’s been going on for a while.’
‘I am going to see a doctor. But I thought I’d talk to you first.’
Claire reached up and cuddled into his neck. She said something he couldn’t catch.
‘Sorry, what was that?’
‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘It was nothing.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes.’
Dan struggled up from the sofa. ‘Well, I’d better start seeing about some food before it gets too late to eat. I thought we might get a take-away delivered.’ He walked over to the kitchen and opened a couple of cupboards.
‘Where do you keep your take-away menus?’ he said, over his shoulder. ‘I can’t find them anywhere.’
There was no reply. He rummaged on, still without success. When he looked back at Claire he stopped, stricken. She was crying, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. Her chest shook and she sobbed gently, the noise rising until she began gasping and coughing.
‘Claire, what is it?’ He strode back over to her. ‘Claire? What’s the matter? What is it? Claire!’
Her face was soaked with tears, crumpled in deep, miserable lines. He held her tight, tried to make her talk to him.
‘Claire? Claire! What is it? What’s the matter? Claire! Is it your stomach hurting you?’
She grabbed some tissues from the coffee table and dabbed at her face, tried to breathe deeply to calm the sobbing.
‘Yes,’ she managed finally. ‘Yes, it is my stomach.’ She took both his hands in hers and looked into his eyes. ‘It’s my stomach. There’s something I have to tell you.’
‘Shit!’ he gasped. ‘Oh no – you’re not saying …’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh shit! I can see it now – how did I miss it …’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t believe it – it can’t be …’
She nodded. ‘It is. It’s true.’
‘You’re serious – I can’t believe it … it can’t be … it’s …’
Dan hesitated, couldn’t find the words. Finally, he spluttered, ‘It’s … it’s cancer, isn’t it? You’re dying. Please don’t tell me you’re dying. Please, no, please. It can be cured, can’t it? Don’t say you’re dying.’
She looked at him and seemed to laugh, a breathless, disbelieving noise. He just stared, uncomprehending. Her hands ran over his and gripped them hard.
‘No. No, I’m not dying. Quite the opposite. I’m full of life.’
‘What?’ Dan put his hands on her shoulders. ‘What?!’ He couldn’t hide his bafflement and alarm. ‘What? I don’t understand. Tell me! Please, tell me!’
She reached out and wrapped her arms around him, held him close. He felt her take a deep breath, then another. She was shaking and her voice trembled.
‘Dan, I’m pregnant. Pregnant.’
The words seemed to bounce around his mind, flashing in bright neon pink and green, always elusive, floating just in front of him, lingering for hours before he could finally stretch out to catch them, hold them, examine them and understand what they meant.
Later, in the countless times he thought back on the moment, Dan could only compare it to being hit by an avalanche, a solid wall of sweeping emotion. It rendered him utterly helpless, numbed and paralysed with its power. It was a defining moment in his life. Nothing would ever be the same again.
It was one of those rare seconds when his universe changed for ever. He saw the stars spin around him, and felt the world and all its billions of people stop to stare at him and Claire, cuddled into the corner of a sofa in a small first-floor flat in Plymouth. There was no sound, no motion, nothing, just a second eternally stilled in time.
Later, he also rued how appallingly he handled it.
‘Blimey,’ was all he managed. ‘Blimey,’ he gasped. ‘Is it mine?’
She stared at him, her mouth opening. He wished more than ever at that moment he could fly and grab the word
s back from the air, swallow them and erase them from existence.
Claire burst out laughing, her face suddenly shining through the tears. ‘Yes, you idiot,’ she said kindly. ‘Of course it’s yours. He’s yours, in fact. I think it’s a boy.’
‘Blimey,’ Dan repeated. ‘Blimey. I need a drink.’ He got up and walked over to the kitchen. He noticed his legs were wobbling and seemed to be only partially under his control. She watched him, shaking her head, but smiling.
‘Actually, what I probably mean is I need a cuddle,’ he said, walking unsteadily back and taking her into his arms again. ‘I mean, you need a cuddle. Or we both do. Yes, that’s what I mean.’
‘That’s better,’ she sighed into his neck. Her breath was hot and she was still shaking. ‘God I was so nervous about telling you. I’ve been trying, but you didn’t pick up the hints.’
‘What hints?’
She sighed. ‘Never mind.’
They cuddled, held each other tight. Claire started crying again, the warm tears seeping through the shoulder of Dan’s shirt. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed meshed together. He seemed to have lost any sense of time. Nothing felt real. It was a waking dream. He tried to force his brain to think about what she’d said, but it was blank.
‘Did Adam know?’ Dan asked finally, remembering how the detective had questioned his emotional intelligence.
Claire leaned back against the sofa and dabbed at her eyes with another tissue.
‘I think so.’
‘So I was the only one to miss it.’
‘Don’t blame yourself. Adam’s got experience of having a kid. You haven’t. Plus you’ve been wrapped up in the blackmail case. Don’t worry about it. You know now. That’s the main thing.’
Dan could feel a familiar burgeoning annoyance with himself.
‘It must have been horribly lonely for you, bearing it on your own. I’m so sorry I missed it.’
‘No, it’s fine. Forget it. You know now. That’s all that’s important.’
Dan reached out and ran a gentle hand over Claire’s stomach. She watched him, then placed her hand over his and held it there.
‘How pregnant are you?’
‘I don’t know. Probably only a few weeks I think, but I’m not sure. I’ll have to see a doctor to check.’
They both stared at her stomach.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ managed Dan finally.
‘You don’t have to say anything,’ she replied, stroking his forehead. ‘I’m fine and I feel so much better for having told you. Tonight I think we should just try to relax, have something to eat and we can talk about it when it’s sunk in.’
‘OK,’ replied Dan, standing up. ‘But you stay there. I’ll sort the food out, and …’
‘And don’t think you have to wrap me up in cotton wool,’ she interrupted. ‘I don’t need molly-coddling. I’m pregnant, not terminally ill.’
She got up and found the take-away menu. It was in a drawer Dan had already checked. They ordered a Chinese. On the phone, Dan managed not to ask whether there were any ingredients or additives which could be harmful to an unborn child. He also stopped himself questioning whether Claire should drink the tiny glass of wine she poured for herself. They sat and watched a film, held hands throughout and didn’t talk about it any more that evening.
Dan had expected to suffer a restless night. His mind should be full of the news, buzzing with what it meant and what they should do. But he slept deep and easily and dreamt of playing football in the park with a boisterous eight-year-old with dark hair, an unpredictable temperament, a pronounced and immensely irritating selfish streak and dreadful egotism.
In essence, a boy very much like his father.
Chapter Fifteen
DAN SCARCELY RECOGNISED IT as a Monday morning. He didn’t feel the familiar, tedious lethargy of the return to routine after the weekend, the struggle to find time for food shopping, ironing shirts and trousers. None of that mattered. It didn’t even register in his mind.
In that moment, in Claire’s flat last night, the world had been transformed. It looked the same, but it felt new. He struggled to take his eyes from Claire’s stomach. All he could see was her. Everything else was blurred, a meaningless background. She caught his look and gave him a brief, sideways smile.
It was eight o’clock and they stood in the MIR, drinking the pungent canteen tea and discussing the day ahead. Adam wanted to talk about the interview with Julia Francis, but Dan was finding it hard to concentrate on anything except Claire. He longed to reach out and place a protective arm around her wherever she went.
His mind still hadn’t come up with any sensible thoughts about what her pregnancy meant and what they would do about it. But that wasn’t bothering him. He felt adrift in a gentle tide of easy contentment, a valium dream. The coming day, the interview with the solicitor, even Lizzie’s call earlier to demand a follow-up on yesterday’s story, none of that mattered. All he could see was Claire and his son growing inside her.
‘I don’t expect to get much from Francis,’ Adam was saying. ‘But we’ve got to try. She’s a link between Osmond and Linda, although she says she didn’t know Freedman. She’ll hide behind client confidentiality, but we’ll give it a go.’
A plane droned by in the sky above the city. Dan looked out at the lines of cars, commuters queuing dutifully to get to a place almost all probably didn’t want to go. He wondered what percentage of people actually liked their jobs. Not high, probably.
The ruined church stood to welcome them with its loneliness. A couple of crows perched on the edge of the tower, scornfully watching the mundane rituals of the human world. Dan’s eyes wandered up to the plane. It was small, just a single propeller engine. A banner trailed behind it. One of those promoting a new bar or car dealership, he suspected. It had become fashionable to advertise by air.
Dan squinted to look at it, then stared. He blinked, looked again.
‘Adam,’ he said slowly. ‘Adam!’
‘Yes,’ snapped the detective, looking up from a sheaf of papers. ‘I’m busy. Is it urgent?’
‘I think you should come and look at this.’
‘What?’
‘It’s easier if you just look.’
Adam put the papers down heavily and walked over to the window. Dan pointed to the plane. He said quietly, ‘I think we’ve just found out how the Worm planned to expose Osmond.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Adam gasped. ‘Claire, get on to Plymouth air traffic control and get that plane down. I want to talk to the pilot.’
Claire picked up a phone, still staring at the plane. The banner trailed behind it, shining in the morning sun, bold black letters on shimmering white plastic. Dan could imagine the thousands of eyes looking up at it and wondered what they must be thinking of the message.
SUPERINTENDENT LEON OSMOND DRINK DRIVER
Dan followed Adam into Julia Francis’s small, modern office. It was stacked with books, all in orderly rows and piles and smelt of pine air-freshener. A couple of prints hung on the walls, colourful geometric intertwinings of lines of cats, backs arched, tails erect, smiling out into the room. There was also a small photo of a Siamese cat on the solicitor’s desk.
It was a familiar theme. Dan could count three cat-obsessed women with whom he’d had brief relationships. All lived alone, apart from their pet, and every single one talked to and treated the lucky feline more like a close relative than an animal. Naturally, the slightest of attempts to expose such ridiculousness – usually in an attempt to win some well-deserved attention for himself – would be greeted with disdain, if not horror.
One particular house had excelled in its felinity. There were pictures of the cat on the mantelpiece, by the side of the bed too, and assorted feline paraphernalia scattered around the house, from cat door-knockers to cat welcome mats, cat corkscrews, cat ornaments, even a cat duvet.
Dan had made a point of ensuring that particular relationship didn’t last.
H
e was about to begin enjoying a familiar superiority complex when that annoying corner of his mind which he presumed housed his conscience whispered a sly suggestion. What about Rutherford? The creature Dan always thought of as his best friend. The only one he could ever really rely on. Who was always loyal. Of whom he had countless photos.
The nag of self-awareness could be so irritating.
Julia Francis stood up from behind her desk to shake their hands. It was one of the most reluctant gestures Dan thought he had ever seen. Her chubby fingers stretched out quickly, made a brief, transient contact, and were immediately withdrawn. He noticed she wore no rings and her fingernails were short and bitten down.
Her desk was clinically tidy, no human disorder to soften its austerity, and her appearance matched it. Dan had first thought of her as like a matron, but without the kindliness, and that image stuck with him.
She wore a plain black suit with an equally plain white blouse, had short blonde hair, greying over her ears, and pale, watery blue eyes which rarely blinked. Her features were sharp and severe, her face prematurely lined. She radiated hostility.
Facing her felt akin to standing in the path of an enemy tank.
Francis opened her attack before even they’d sat down. ‘Chief Inspector, is it usual to arrive for an interview in a criminal investigation with a journalist in tow?’
‘Dan’s been co-opted onto the inquiry,’ said Adam levelly. ‘It’s a case which has attracted great media interest and he’s helping me handle it. He understands that all he witnesses is confidential.’
Francis stared at him, said frostily, ‘Well, I’m not happy with him being here. And given what I have to say to you in a moment, you may prefer for us to be alone.’
Adam held her look. ‘Thank you for your advice. However, how I conduct my investigations is my business. He stays. Now, regarding Linda Cott and Leon Osmond.’
‘Very well, Chief Inspector, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Not that it matters. As I have said, I won’t be able to help you. Discussions with my clients naturally have the protection of law in their confidentiality.’
