She knew about that already, or he wouldn’t have told her. Didn’t want to speculate about how she knew.
‘Madam,’ he said, touching his nose. ‘I am no longer a member of the Constabulary. How the hell should I know?’
‘Come off it, Jones. You still got people who do.’
‘Only just. And no, I don’t think so.’
Shouldn’t have told her. Shouldn’t have boasted about the contacts and how he knew that the Porteous children were raising Cain and pulling strings and all that shit. Fuck. Whatever slipped his tongue to Monica got passed on somewhere else and he had a sick feeling he knew where. He hadn’t told her how he had waited on at the house, but he bet she knew that too.
‘I only know those kids of Thomas have got their fucking teeth in. He left everything to her, and they want it. And maybe someone else is helping drip the poison, don’t suppose you know who, do you?’
Monica shrugged. ‘Course not. It’ll be his bloody kids. They must be sick as parrots, but what did they expect? They never went near him after he came out of hospital, nor much before that, for that matter. Brought their kids and fled screaming from the party. And as for Di, well, you’ve never been sure of her yourself, have you?’
No, he hadn’t. Still wasn’t, but he was always going to defend her, and this affection he and Monica had all depended on not falling out. He leant forward and patted her hand. Didn’t trust her and didn’t want to lose her. Quig was the problem, unless he really was fucking paranoid.
‘I don’t know fuck. Di’s got bigger problems. And the cops are going to come back, for sure. All I do know is that maybe we all should have done more, you know. Can’t have been easy.’
‘What’s so hard about waiting for a rich man to die?’ Monica scoffed.
‘She didn’t just wait, Mon. She stopped it happening. She hauled him out of the water twice last summer, I saw it. Whatever her reasons, she didn’t want that man to die until he was good and ready.’
‘Or she was ready to collect.’
He stared at her, aghast at her callousness, and hid it with a shaking of the head, clinked his glass against hers, and started on a joke. Have you heard the one about … and forgot the punch line. He thought, sickeningly, of the figure at the door of Di’s house, pressed against the glass. The hat.
‘You’d think old Quig might get in touch,’ he said, as if it was simply an observation. ‘Like he might like to know that his daughter’s fucking widowed.’
They didn’t talk about the wedding.
‘I wouldn’t know about that, Jones love. You’re getting maudlin. Best go home, hey?’
‘Can I come with you?’
He was teasing her, knowing what she would say.
‘Another time, love. I’m bushed.’
Jones got up and swallowed his drink, started pacing around the little room, lighting another fag and feeling queasy. He wanted to go up to Di’s place, now. Small town, they knew everything and knew nothing. He grinned at Monica as if to say, no hard feelings.
‘Couldn’t have done anyway, Doll. Got fishing to do. I’ve left my rod on the pier with a nice young bird looking after it.’
She smiled back. There was never any winning with a fisherman. They always had to have the last word.
Jones had been fishing earlier in the evening, coming and going. He wasn’t lying or talking big. There had been a girl there, hunkered down with nowhere to go. Told him she was fucking resting, did he mind? He gave her some chocolate before leaving his rod and telling her to get inside soon, love, it’s fucking cold. The pier was open all night tonight: he might even catch a fish. His conscience was heavy, but his steps grew ever more certain as soon as he saw the lights. The pier was his haven, his space, his vantage point, his extra lung. It was always like that. He was a free and powerful man there; the pier ennobled those who loved it. No fancy wrought iron, no elegant railings and definitely no amusements. Solid concrete, with a closed caff at the sea end and a bunker by the gates on the landward side, the pier wasn’t for fun; it was for fishing. Others said it was so ugly it existed purely for the convenience of the suicidal. Jones knew the three watchmen who worked the shifts and took turns to bed down in the bunker by the gates, so the pier was always open to him. Jones’s idea of heaven would be to live on the pier because it was home. He found his rod where he had left it, stroked it fondly. Not a bite, but that was not the point.
The pier was officially open all night, four nights a week, depending on the seasons and the fishing competitions. Fishing folk brought foul-weather clothes and stayed the course, sheltering in the open concrete shelters that hardly deserved the name. To stay out there all hours, catching fish in a gale, was the highest achievement most of them knew and they rejoiced in it privately. They weren’t a club but a confederacy, not of close friends but distant allies, co-existing in silent, apparently indifferent harmony like card players concentrating on their own moves. No hierarchies except between the skilled and the unskilled, no enmity either and no social barriers. Harry, Jack, and Stefan would share a smidgeon of disgust for the incompetent newcomer who would not ask for help and got in the way, while Harry might envy the equipment owned by Abdul, but that was it. What Jones liked was the blessing of their sheer indifference: no one cared who the fuck you were. They would let you sleep. You could die quietly here.
Then there was, of course, the other reason why he loved and needed the pier. From here, he could see the whole sprawling frontage of the town for a mile in either direction and when he was here, he used his powerful binoculars as much as his rod. He knew when lights came on and lights came off; knew the colour of the doors of the houses and the shadows of the alleyways in between. So dull on the front these days, one of the old fishermen said. When my grandad came here, every second house on the south side was a pub or a brothel, that was the rough end; you could hear the screams from here. So ordinary now. Not to Jones it wasn’t.
There was that same girl huddled asleep in the shelter near his rod, and Jones paused to pity her. He had given her the blanket from his bag, and the chocolate, and that was all. You couldn’t touch runaways these days; you had to keep your distance and watch, like he had with Di. He smoked a cig -arette, ignored the girl and trained his eyes on Di’s house. There were lights in the top windows. Nothing to worry about, then.
Someone hit him from behind. He staggered, keeping hold of the binoculars, and crumpled slowly. The girl leapt up, shouting, ran into him and broke his fall.
In her dream, Di was in the water with Thomas, hauling him to shore and fighting for breath. She could swim like a fish, even against the tide which she knew better than he. She knew what he intended, and she yelled at him, Not yet, she said, please not yet. You’ve got things to do.
All the sounds of the house had become background to that loud, laboured breathing, turning to sobbing, an undisguisable sound coming from close by. She sat up and listened, touched the surface of the pillow, then the bedside table, feeling with her long fingers for anything tangible to prove she was alive, turned on the light and saw the picture on the wall to the left.
Man with dog and child. Blue sky and sea. Prominently placed waste paper bin, dog cocking leg against it, old couple on bench all looking forward, him looking at them. A conversation about to start. Stubby figures against a great big sky. Her own description of it, written yesterday. The sort of picture that makes you listen to it, she had typed, like putting a shell to your ear.
Big sky, big sea. It wasn’t the sound of the waves she could hear, nor was it Thomas, but someone weeping and coughing next door.
The master bedroom was next to the gallery. She put on her dressing gown, put the knife in the pocket, plucked a scarf from those decorating the bedpost and a blanket from the chair and moved towards the next room. The gallery room glowed only with the light from the windows. At the furthest end away, there was a fine old settee and a man lay on it. He was dressed from top to toe like a stage burglar, black lycra, black
surfing shoes, his face a pale contrast of chalky white. He was wheezing ah, ah hah, a hah hah, trying to smother his own noise. She stood over him, taking in his slenderness, the handkerchief clutched in his hand. Then she flung the blanket over his body and knelt on his chest. His eyes opened as she placed the scarf against his neck, pinioning his chest with her knees, throttling him with silk. A sweet, salty smell came from him. Blankets were good for catching birds without hurting them. She had even caught a rat that way. She released the scarf, slightly.
He spoke.
‘I was only fishing,’ he said. And then the coughing started. A racking cough, enough to make him buck and rear, flail his arms and legs, thrashing like a landed fish. She touched his white face and felt the hectic heat of a fevered body, relented, took away the scarf. He raised his arms and shoved her off. The coughing resumed until he lay back exhausted. She sat on the floor next to him, assessing weight, size, appearance.
‘You’re a bastard, Saul,’ she said.
‘So I am. I do apologise.’
It was a disarming thing to say and she was not disarmed.
‘Such an intrusion,’ he said. ‘Such a terrible intrusion at a time of grief. Only I couldn’t resist it. Not such an opportunity to see things in secret, so I found my way in and then I couldn’t find my way out, got sick, something like that. And all I find is lovely stuff, collected with love. He was a real collector, wasn’t he? The real, real thing. You’re one, too. I was overcome with sorrow. So much crap out there, and so much real.’
‘You’re a shit, Saul. Where have you been? Why didn’t you even try to speak to me?’
He closed his eyes. She flicked her fingers against his pale cheek, painfully.
‘Nearly a week since Thomas died and not a word. You shit.’
He shook his head, opened one eye.
‘Dear, dear. I thought Thomas had cured you of bad language. Where do you think I’ve been? I’ve been con -sorting with the enemy, as instructed. I have been in their houses and in their minds. I have been reading their correspondence and listening to them. Playing bluff and setting snares. As well as waiting for you to learn about hatred and greed. Are you going to call the police? You may as well. I’ll go quietly.’
She looked at him closely in the bright light. His face was gaunt with bright blue eyes and a large mouth. His body was thin, his legs like sticks and the voice was exaggeratedly well bred. Saul was Saul, the chameleon, and it was a relief to see him, the relief tempered with acute suspicion until she remembered the sobbing. Saul had been sobbing for Thomas.
‘Ah well, let’s get it over with,’ he said. ‘Just call them.’
‘As if.’
She shook her head, hiding the beginnings of a smile. Then she tucked the blanket round him so tightly he could not move.
‘I’ve seen you looking better, Saul,’ she said. ‘So why didn’t you knock on the door?’
‘Insatiable curiosity,’ he said. ‘Absolutely insatiable, demanding instant gratification. I had to see for myself that you were keeping faith. That you hadn’t removed anything. Besides, old habits die hard. I hate to be announced. Anyway, you were out, gone to London, taken that case.’
‘Saul,’ she said, ‘You insult me any more and I am very likely to disfigure you. I have a knife.’
She placed a hand on his groin. Colour flooded his face; he struggled to free his arms and began to cough again.
‘Leave my gonads alone, Di. They might be useful. In case I need to sleep with the enemy, which is, in a manner of speaking, exactly what I have been doing. And believe me, it isn’t comfortable. And if I’d spoken to you, I wouldn’t have been able to keep up the act. Oh, screw you, Thomas, you old darling, why did you have to die?’
The weeping began again.
Jones woke in the third shelter on the left on the north side of the pier. The back of his head hurt like hell and he raised his hand to feel it. No blood, a lump the size of an egg. He held his forefinger in front of his face and touched the tip of his nose, like he was testing a drunk. The next test was to see if he could walk in a straight line and he got up to try. Not so good. He could stand. The binoculars were still round his neck. He leaned against the concrete balustrade of the pier and put them to his eyes but they were too heavy to hold. Dawn was waiting somewhere, but not near enough. Di’s house still blazed with light. Someone was dragging at his arm. He turned, focused on a kid with a badge round her neck so big he could read it, Peg, looking at him with big anxious eyes.
‘You all right?’ she asked. ‘You’ve been asleep.’
He looked at her blankly.
‘Don’t remember, do you? You gave me some chocolate, earlier on. I came on here to sleep. Then you went away and came back. I looked after your rod … Then someone hit you and you fell on me.’
‘Christ,’ Jones said. ‘And you fucking stayed around? You mad or what?’
She shrugged. ‘Someone had to. Nobody else noticed. They wouldn’t, would they?’
‘No, not on here they wouldn’t. They mind their own business on here.’
The lights of Di’s house twinkled in the distance, like a welcoming beacon in the lightening sky.
‘Fucking nightmare, this place,’ the girl said. ‘Nowhere to get a cup of tea.’
The deserted pier was no longer a friendly place. Jones started to walk, unsteadily, but purposefully towards the open gates of the exit. The door to the watchman’s bunker was firmly shut. His memory was fitful; came on the pier, set up rod, talked to someone, what time? Went for drink, came back. Perhaps someone thought he was coming on to this kid, no, no one would ever think that, because whatever else he was, Jones would never do that, he was passionate about kids, but not that way. People saw stuff that wasn’t there to be seen, anything would do if you wanted an excuse to hit him and Jesus H Christ, he was weary and hungry, and this kid seemed to be going the same way. They wavered out of there together. He didn’t like the way she held on to his arm, which was humiliating, but he needed it and he let her. He felt as if he smelled, probably did. Booze and sweat and an exploding head. He was fucking rank and he did not want to go home. How long between leaving the pub and being hit? Fifteen minutes? Long enough for someone to tell someone where he was going.
Ten minutes’ brisk walk to Di’s house on a good day, longer now, with both of them blathering. Her name was Peg, she said, and she had a map. Showed where the pier was, she said; thought she would kip there and save the money, pretended to be looking after his rod, giggle, giggle. You look like my dad. Do you know someone called Di? No I don’t, he said, no one knows her, not really. We should be going the opposite way, he said, I live down the other end, only you can’t come in. Have you got a wife? she asked. No, not now, I never want to go home, that’s my trouble. Mine too, Peg said. Dear God, she chatted on like she trusted him. A London child, she was, and didn’t she know that this place was all about fish and feathered birds and the sea, all of that far more important than human beings.
Jones stopped and gestured expansively towards the waves, pointing back towards the pier. ‘Innit marvellous,’ he said, stumbling. ‘I saw Thomas there at twelve, he said he was going home. I spoke to him, he said he was fine but he always said that. She didn’t call the ambulance until hours after. What did she do?’
Peg looked at the map. ‘Who are you talking about?’
‘Di. Who lives up there.’
‘Oh,’ said Peg, ‘That Di. She’s a really kind woman, that one.’
Jones stopped, as if struck by lightning.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Do you know what? You’re fucking right. That’s what she is. Kind. Too fucking kind by half. That’s Di alright and that’s all we need to know. It’s as simple as that.’
There was nowhere else to go.
CHAPTER NINE
‘I don’t care if you’re sick and tired, Saul. You have to go on talking to me. Say it again.’
Saul sprawled in Thomas’s winter chair. It was upholstered in b
rilliant, faded blue, with scuffed arms and like most objects in this house, seemed to have an independent life of its own.
‘I’ve been halfway party to this plan,’ she said. ‘But not all the way.’
‘You couldn’t be,’ Saul said. ‘Because you kept on thinking that one day Gayle and Beatrice were bound to inherit the finer qualities of their father and understand his passions. Can’t imagine why you did.’
‘Because I wanted to.’
‘Because you think you inherited your own saving graces?’
‘Some. A talent for concealing things. And I’m handy with a knife.’
‘We stray from the point,’ Saul said, carefully. ‘Thomas and I hatched a plan to save this collection from the threat posed by his children, who are led by Edward, who in turn clones his own bitterness. He’s a failure in life who’s wrecked his career by serial dishonesty and he has something to prove. Inherited qualities? If you had known Christina, you’d be better placed to judge them. But you didn’t know Christina.’
Yes, I did, in a manner of speaking, Di thought. I knew what she could do, but it was an unspoken thought.
‘At least I know them better now,’ Di said. ‘I hate them: Gayle, Edward, Beatrice. Although I don’t know which I hate most.’
‘Good. You’re going to need that, although I’m sorry you found out in the way you did. That was no one’s intention, although I must say, Edward’s pre-emptive raid on the London flat was entirely in character and certainly endorses the rightness of the plan.’
‘And the plan is … ?’
‘To entrap them. To compromise them. To give them something, but make them work for it. To make them take a risk. To show themselves to themselves. Turn them into thieves, and soon. Otherwise, they will hound you into the ground. And it must be sooner rather than later, because they’re going to look foolish when the Coroner exonerates you, and they’ll think of something more extreme than putting you in prison. They’ll get really vicious, and they won’t stop. And it’s urgent, because although Edward is my new best friend, I fear he has sources of information he doesn’t share with me. Contacts, also. He’ll go off on a dangerous tangent, like he already has.’
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