by J G Alva
He did look tired however, and that wasn’t the same. Trouble sleeping perhaps.
“Is there any reason why you don’t have a shirt on?” She asked.
She tried to sound light, but instead she sounded strident. Like her mother. Ye gods. She was becoming her mother an inch at a time, it seemed.
He raised his eyebrows.
“Is there a law that says I have to wear one?” He countered.
“There should be. At least when answering a door to a stranger.”
“We’re not strangers.”
“You didn’t know that until you opened the door,” she pointed out.
Sutton’s eyes crinkled in amusement.
“It’s heartening to find that you are as conventional – and as reproving – as ever, Dr Sails.”
He made that sound like an insult.
Maybe it was.
“May I come in?” She asked.
He smiled, and held the door open for her.
“Of course.”
She moved past him, careful not to touch him.
A long dark hall led to the living room. She remembered it, although it was not a memory she particularly cherished. Too much had happened here, none of it good. And the past sometimes had teeth. Better not to prod it, for fear of being bitten. She walked down the hall and then stopped at the end of it in some surprise.
She turned to him.
“It’s different,” she said.
He shrugged.
“Some remodelling.”
She looked around the room, trying to check its current incarnation against her memories of the old one. The walls were blue, where previously they had been cream; the skirting boards and the frames had all been brown, now they were white. The easel was the same in the corner, along with the gun metal grey filing cabinets. No, it was something else that was different, something more integral…
“I can’t decide what’s changed,” she said eventually. “Except the colour scheme. That’s obviously new.” She turned to him again. “It feels smaller though.”
“I opened up the kitchen a bit,” Sutton said, gesturing vaguely. He leisurely walked to the nearest sofa and sprawled happily on it. “It was too small anyway.”
He smiled at her.
Robin frowned.
Like his flat, he was different…and just like his flat, it was equally as hard to determine just what it was that had been altered.
Maybe Fin was right.
No invitation seemed to be forthcoming, so Robin helped herself to the armchair opposite the sofa on which Sutton lay sprawled. The sofa was new, green instead of blue. She wasn’t sure she liked it.
She put her handbag on the floor, and resisted getting out her notepad. She did however start to reach for it – more out of habit, than anything – and then cursed herself for the move; Sutton had surely spotted it, and would already have deduced from it part of the reason why she was here.
If he hadn’t deduced it already.
She turned to face him, expecting questions, but instead she was met with that implacable and laconic smile. It was almost as if he had just gotten out of bed.
“I expect you’re wondering why I’m here,” she said.
“Of course.”
“Fin came to see me –“
“Ah.”
“He’s worried about you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you?”
“Sure.”
Robin frowned. Nothing. It was like hitting a wall.
Dare she bring out the big guns first?
What the hell.
“He told me about your friend. The one that died.”
The smile gradually sank out of sight.
“Do you want a drink?” He asked.
Tut-tut, Sutton. Too late.
He made a move as if to get up.
“No. Sit down.”
He stopped. He looked surprised.
“What?”
“I said, sit down.” She smiled then, to take the sting from her tone. “Please.”
He stared at her, narrowing his eyes, and then sat back on the sofa.
Looking at her hands, she said, “you did something for me once. And even though I paid you for it, it was for something that can never be repaid. I would be remiss if I didn’t do something in return to help you. That’s why I’m here. Understand?” She fixed him with a look then. “I’m not the enemy.”
His eyes shifted.
“Alright,” he said, but he didn’t like it.
“Are you alright?”
He thought about his reply.
“Yes,” he said eventually.
“You look tired.”
“Late night. That’s all.”
“And how are you sleeping?”
“On my side.”
She gave him a put out look.
He nodded: alright, no jokes.
“Pretty much okay.”
“No nightmares.”
His expression slipped a little.
“No.”
“No?”
“Did I stutter?”
Wow. She had exposed a nerve.
“It’s just that you don’t look rested.”
“You said that.”
“It’s true.”
“Alright. So I look tired. I told you, I had a late night.”
“Drinking?”
His eyes shifted away again.
“Yes.”
“Fin says you’re drinking a lot.”
He smiled coldly.
“I think I’ll have to have a few choice words with Fin, I think.”
“You absolutely will not,” Robin said, putting a bit of an edge into her voice. “I promised him I wouldn’t tell you that he came to me.”
“That sounds like your problem, not mine.”
“On your behalf, I might add.”
“I didn’t ask him to.”
“If you had, then you might have displayed a little wisdom. Fin was right: you’re not yourself. Anyone can see that.”
“If I’m not myself, then who am I?”
“Don’t try to be glib. It doesn’t suit you.”
“Alright. But you don’t know me. You don’t know what I’m supposed to be like.”
“I do. In fact, I probably know you better than most.”
Sutton smiled coldly. She had seen this smile before. It was not a pleasant one. It made him look cruel.
She felt a frisson of fear ripple over her skin.
“The Mother Hen routine doesn’t suit you, Dr Sails.”
“If you took care of yourself, I wouldn’t have to roll it out. Would I?”
“Maybe you can’t help yourself,” Sutton suggested. “Maybe it’s just frustration. Seeing as you can’t have kids.”
Her eyes went to his face at this jibe, but straight away she could see he regretted saying it. He could be cruel, yes, but never evil. He wasn’t like that.
Still, it hurt.
The sound of muffled footsteps. Robin was startled to realise that there was someone else in Sutton’s flat. Then a young woman came out of the doorway that led into the back hall. She went to Sutton and leaned down to kiss him on the shoulder. At the same time, she reached for something on the floor behind the sofa. She was young, blonde, thin, and beautiful. She looked like she was barely out of her teens.
She was completely naked.
For a moment Robin didn’t know where to look.
The balcony.
She would look at the balcony.
“Sutton, where, uh…is my purse?” The girl asked. Her voice was heavily accented. Spanish? Italian?
“I picked it up and put it in the bathroom.”
“You are so good. Yes? Can you take me, um…to Josh house? In trenta minuti?”
“Yes. We’ll leave in a bit.”
“Grazie.” A pause. “Hello.”
Robin realised that the young woman had addressed her, and so she turned.
Thankfully, she was now wearing a d
ress. Short, sheer, flower patterned, it left little to the imagination…but at least it was something.
Still, Robin could feel her cheeks flaming with embarrassment.
“Uh…hi,” Robin said, making an attempt to be civil. Her smile felt like it was stuck on.
“What do you do?” The girl asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
The girl moved her hand around in the air.
“How you say? Job. What is job?”
“Oh. Right. Well. I’m a…I’m a Psychotherapist.”
Sutton explained to the girl, “she’s a doctor. For your mind.”
“Ah.”
The girl stared at her, and then turned away, dismissing her. She gave Sutton a not quite chaste kiss, and Sutton slapped her behind. She yelped, and danced back through the doorway into the hall. Her padded footfalls faded, and then Robin heard water running.
“Her name’s Lucia,” Sutton explained. “She’s Italian. She’s studying languages at the UWE.”
“How did you meet her?”
“She models at a life class I go to. You know. For a bit of extra cash.” He raised his eyebrows a couple of times. “She’s not fussed about taking her clothes off. It’s so European.”
“Right.”
“So you see,” Sutton said, and spread his hands. He smiled. “I’m fine.”
Robin nodded.
“Of course.”
But he wasn’t.
The smile didn’t reach his eyes. He was socialising, he was interacting, he appeared to be doing everything a normal, healthy individual does…
But they were purely distractions. There was no emotional connection. She knew him, despite what he had said. She knew he was a complicated man. A young girl like Lucia would never satisfy him…but the sex could be a distraction. She was young, she would want to go out; that was a distraction too.
Anything to avoid facing his grief. And his responsibility in it.
Robin said, “my niece is into puzzles. Like you. And every time I see her, I get her to tell me a new one. Let me know if you’ve heard this.” Robin paused to arrange it in her mind, and then said, “a king dies and two men both claim to be his long lost son.” She checked him. His expression was blank. “Have you heard it?”
Sutton shook his head.
“No.”
“Good. So one of the king’s advisors proposes a blood test to determine the identity of the true heir. One claimant agrees to the test; the other refuses. The one who agreed is sent packing; the one who refused is identified as the rightful heir.”
Robin stared at him, but there was no engagement in Sutton, no light of interest in his eyes. He showed no enthusiasm whatsoever.
He shook his head.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Why was the one who refused the test the rightful heir?”
Robin gathered up her handbag and stood.
Sutton raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise.
And disguising his relief, she thought.
She said, “if you’re so fine, then how come your easel is covered in dust?”
He looked at it, and then looked at her.
But he didn’t have an answer for her.
◆◆◆
Robin got into her car and sat for a moment.
The interior was uncomfortably warm, so she turned the ignition, and pressed the button for the window.
It slowly rolled down. Cool air rushed in.
It was a beautiful day, she thought. Not a cloud in the sky.
But potentially one on the horizon.
She took out her mobile phone and rang his number.
When he answered, she said, “you’re right, Fin. He’s not well.”
Fin was silent for a moment.
“What do we do?” He asked eventually.
Robin sighed and said, “find him something. A case. Anything. Something for him to work on. He needs it. More than he knows.”
◆◆◆
CHAPTER 3
Wednesday, 1st June
“Did you find anything?” The woman in the ironed suit asked.
“Maybe,” the man answered.
The woman looked at him with disgust.
“Have you got to do that here? I don’t want rolling tobacco ground into the carpet, thank you very much.”
The man sat on the edge of the desk while he balanced the pouch, the papers, and the filters in his hands.
“Then tell me where you want me to roll them,” he said. “Outside?”
The woman stood by the window, as if forced against it. This was her home office; the man had been to both, and he was amused by how similar each was to the other. He had known the woman long enough to be acquainted with her particular fancies…and to be particularly amused by them: bookshelves with the same volumes arranged in the same order; similar colour designs, usually dark wood furniture and pale or grey walls. She was five foot three, tiny in comparison to himself, but she had a big reach…and perhaps even bigger psychological barriers.
“Just…try not to make a mess,” she relented.
The man smiled. She couldn’t really say anything else.
“Aye aye, ma’am.”
The woman didn’t look happy. If she had doubts, then this might be the time to fan the flames.
“You know,” the man said, licking the paper and then rolling the cigarette. He put the cigarette behind his ear. “This is as illegal as you can get, mate.”
It was as if she didn’t hear him.
It had been the same for months. She was more than distracted, she was barely coherent. Fractured conversations – as if lines of discourse were missed, or alternative lines were only voiced in her head – had become the norm. Coupled with the irrational mood swings, she was difficult to handle.
He knew why. She was obsessed. He knew something about that. He’d had his own obsession once. His particular focus had come to a natural conclusion, but not before he had derailed his career, threatened the lives of half a dozen people, and mortally injured someone very close to him.
Yes, he knew about obsession, and he also knew how it could carve through your life with the ease of a hot knife through butter.
“If you still want to go through with it,” he finished.
“What?” Distracted.
“Is he worth it?” The man asked.
“You know what he did –“
“If you get caught, you could lose your career. Then where would you be? I know how much it means to you. I’d hate to see you fuck everything up to get him. It would be kind of a waste.”
She nodded. Despite the distracted air, she was deadly efficient.
“I know. We won’t get caught.”
“We?” He laughed. “Alright, mate. We.”
She turned to him. Something in the set of her shoulders told him she was angry.
“I then. Alright. I. I won’t get caught. So…what is it? What have you found?”
The man slid off the desk.
“A case in the MCIU. A girl. Her brother is dead.”
She stared at him.
“Is the girl pretty?”
He frowned.
“Are you fucking serious?”
“She’s got to be pretty. If she’s pretty, he won’t be able to help himself.”
“Alright,” the man said, mildly, waving her off.
“So? Is she pretty?”
He made a face.
“She’s alright. Not my type.”
“Alright then. If she’s got tits and a pulse that will probably be enough.”
“You hold the opposite sex in such high regard.”
“I know what men are like. I know what he’s like. So. Can you get her to go to him?”
“I think so. With the right word in the right ear. Also, there’s an added bonus.”
“What’s that?”
“The detective on the case knows him. And Sutton will need to get it vouched. He’s too smart not to.”
“Okay. That’s good then
.”
The man nodded. He coughed into his hands.
“And the girl doesn’t have an answer. So if a suggestion is made…” He spread his hands.
“Alright. Okay. Do you want me to talk to the detective?”
“No. You can talk to the girl. Get her convinced, and then the detective will get on board. If he’s worked with Sutton before, then he knows he’s at least somewhat competent. And it won’t cost him anything.”
“And then what?”
The man shrugged.
“See how it plays out.”
“You’ll follow him?”
“I’ll keep an eye out.”
“I want him right in the middle of it. I don’t want there to be any doubt. He belongs in prison, where he can’t hurt anyone else.”
◆◆◆
CHAPTER 4
Thursday, 2nd June
Whiteladies Road runs like a gigantic tarmacked toboggan run down the hill and into the centre of the city.
Records purport that, in the late 18th century, there was a house called White Ladies in the vicinity, and the road took its name from that. At the top of it, as it nears the Downs, an establishment with a name in direct contrast to the road it was situated on once existed: the Black Boy Inn, supposedly named after Charles II…it was his nickname after all. A coaching inn for weary travellers, it provided services for the coaches themselves, as well as looking after the horses. Sutton had always been fascinated by the black and white photographs showing unhappy men in thick black coats and hats, standing beside their horse drawn carts. Whiteladies had been dirt for over one hundred years. The sound of horse’s hooves clop-clop-clopping must have been so prevalent as to be unremarkable. Only time now made that remarkable once again.
So progress had paved the dirt track, and dispensed with the horses – at least in common travel – so that Whiteladies was now fully ensconced in the 21st century, unremarkable except for the fact that it was still here, much as it had been from the very beginning.
Sutton and Fin were at the bottom of it, walking along the pavement. No horses here; only the vroom-vroom of their modern mechanical counterparts. Fin stopped by a café with a long front terrace, like a large tongue with bamboo furniture scattered over it, and Sutton stopped beside him. It was early afternoon, and the road was busy with both types of traffic, on and off the pavement. It was a busy road. It had always been a busy road. Fin had a file folder in one hand, and he referred to it now.
