Except, of course, the twenty-odd people he employed. An image of them pricked at his conscience for a moment, but then he asked himself if, realistically, any of them would show him any loyalty if they were given a better offer. One or two ageing retainers, perhaps, but he could keep them on in some capacity somewhere to salve his conscience. But the others… Mickey was pretty sure most of them would find gainful employment elsewhere. He’d pull strings, dish out glowing references. And anyway, morale was plummeting. You could see that every day – uncertainty and dissatisfaction. They’d all probably be grateful for the chance to move on.
Trouble was, he wasn’t entirely sure how to start a fire. One that wouldn’t look suspicious, at any rate. They’d have forensic scientists crawling over the scene of the crime before you could say Bryant and May. How could he make it look like an accident? He supposed there were people you could pay to do that sort of thing for you, but this was Honeycote, not the East End of London. And Mickey thought that the less people knew about it the better. He didn’t want to leave himself open to blackmail, after all. He wanted a stress-free life, a chance to start afresh with a clear(ish) conscience.
Mickey gave the practicalities of the task some careful thought over another inch of damson gin. He was pleased with his final solution. He’d force an entry into one of the downstairs storerooms. Leave a few cans of Diamond White and a few Embassy fag ends lying around. Perhaps some condoms for good measure – or perhaps not. He didn’t fancy procuring those. But if he left traces of adolescent detritus in one of the storerooms, make it look as if they’d broken in for somewhere to den up and have a bit of a party, then a fire might be a logical conclusion. He’d go down to the bus shelter in the village, pick up some evidence. Then it would all look like a party that had got out of hand, the kids would have scarpered. And he’d have a nice fat cheque and a chance to start afresh without anyone knowing.
He’d seen Inspector Morse often enough to remember to cover his tracks and prepare an alibi. He shoved a blank tape in the video machine and recorded whatever was on. He could slip back home, rewind it and watch it to give himself an alibi – it was the best he could do without involving anyone else. He also remembered to put a pair of gloves on, then went out to find the Defender. He remembered Patrick had it. Oh well – he’d have to borrow the Healey. He’d enjoyed driving it, on the one or two occasions that Patrick had let him get his hands on his precious motor car.
Mickey fished about in Patrick’s bedroom until he found the keys in his flying jacket, then drove down into the village. He parked up behind the post office, then made his way as inconspicuously as he could down to the bus shelter. There were plenty of fag ends lying around. Even, miraculously, a single Man United glove – he could leave that somewhere at the scene of the crime. He scooped the butts up into a carrier bag, then peered into the bin. He fished out a couple of pop cans, but could see no alcohol. He’d have to go further afield. He couldn’t pull into one of his own pubs for fear of being recognized and remembered.
For someone who was totally sloshed he was covering his tracks remarkably well. Mickey slugged at the nearly empty bottle as he drove back up through the village towards the brewery. Then he realized the one weak spot in his plan. Matches. Fucking matches! He leaned over to the glove compartment and fished about, triumphantly laying his hands upon a stray lighter.
It was only when a lorry came thundering round the corner that Mickey noticed he was on the wrong side of the road and swerved.
The whirring of a helicopter overhead woke Lucy just before midnight. She sat up with a sudden start, her heart racing. For a moment she wasn’t sure where she was, then reality started to filter its way into her brain, no longer obscured by an alcohol-soaked cushion. She was in bed with James. All of a sudden she felt filled with panic. What on earth had she done? For a moment she hoped that perhaps the whole thing had been a dream, but one look at James asleep beside her told her the truth. Anyway, the room smelled of her perfume and his cologne, rose and bergamot inextricably mingled with their combined sweat. Red-hot remorse welled up inside her and caught at her throat.
Lucy crept out of the bed and into the bathroom, where she surveyed her reflection in the mirror, thinking about what she’d done. Would she look any different to an outsider? Did she look like a wanton adulteress? She certainly felt like one – she could see exactly where the expression ‘scarlet woman’ came from. She was blushing with shame, red with guilt, her betrayal glowing like a beacon. She couldn’t even look her own reflection in the eye. It made her feel sick. She gripped the porcelain of the sink, trying to keep the nausea down, but it was no good. She threw up brandy and champagne and bile; luminous, yellow bile that proved she was filled with poison.
She scrubbed and scrubbed at her teeth, and washed her face and hands. She thought about having a shower, but she didn’t want to wake James. She put down the loo seat and sat with her head in her hands. It was throbbing, whether from the stress of the day or a surfeit of alcohol or a mixture of both she didn’t know.
Post-coital triste wasn’t the word for it. Lucy felt positively suicidal. Just for a moment, she’d enjoyed the luxury of being worshipped and pampered. It was pure indulgence, an utterly selfish revenge fuck, and the only person who was really going to suffer in the long term was James. She could see now just how easy it was to be unfaithful, in that moment of insecurity when you needed to be reassured. It was the ultimate displacement activity: after all, making love to James in front of a roaring log fire had been a far more inviting proposition than going over her confrontation with Mickey, analysing the implications and having to make some sort of decision about the next step. Yes, infidelity was certainly an enjoyable distraction. At the time, the emotions it awoke were more powerful and pleasurable than any other and over-rode anxieties. But screwing James really wasn’t the answer to her problems. On the contrary, it had created yet another one.
Because she couldn’t carry this charade on. She liked James. Loved him, even, as one did love members of one’s family. And she was surprised at how much she’d enjoyed sex with him. But now, in the cold chill of the bathroom, she realized that she’d over-romanticized the success of their coupling. She should know that whatever James did, he always did it to perfection, whether it was decorating or cooking or making love.
For one moment, she toyed with the idea of stepping away from life at Honeycote and into James’s life, for she knew without him saying it that he would welcome her. It would be like falling out of the frying pan into the feather bed. In her mind, James could provide everything she needed, practically. He was attractive, wealthy, a good friend, they had everything in common – almost more, in fact, than she had in common with Mickey. It was with James that Lucy pored over catalogues for the country house sales they both loved to frequent; it was James who often went with her to the concerts in Gloucester cathedral that brought a lump to her throat.
But she knew it was Mickey she belonged with. Mickey who was the flint that lit the spark inside her. For heaven’s sake, she’d know that years ago, when she’d first met the two brothers. She’d made her choice then. She’d known she could have had either of them. But it was Mickey who excited her, fascinated her, whose unpredictability and unreliability made him more exasperating yet more lovable. And vulnerable. She was surprised when this occurred to her: that actually James wasn’t vulnerable at all. He had a ruthless streak she’d seen him use in business that she felt sure he’d be capable of using in his personal life. And when she thought about it, he had. He was quite capable of culling girlfriends when they got too needy, too clingy, too close. She’d mopped up their tears on more than one occasion. This realization made her think of Caroline. He’d made it quite clear to her that she was expendable and hadn’t done much to spare her feelings. The memory now made Lucy cringe. She’d been too wrapped up in her own problems at the time to care. But she could see now that James had been utterly ruthless.
Mickey wasn’t ruth
less. He was just weak.
How could she turn her back in a fit of pique on Mickey, on Honeycote, on her family and on the brewery just because of a single indiscretion? Especially when she hadn’t even waited for an explanation for the wrong she’d been done. How could she possibly defend her actions, if she hadn’t even allowed Mickey to defend his? She hadn’t meant to be so savage with him. She couldn’t get the image of his shell-shocked face as she’d fled Honeycote out of her mind. She hadn’t given him any chance to explain. No, she’d fled into the arms of the one man she knew loved her unconditionally, because she hadn’t wanted the truth; she’d wanted to be protected. She was a coward, without the strength to face her demons.
She was an adult, she had responsibilities and whatever cards she had been dealt she had to play them, not just walk away. She could find the strength from somewhere, she was sure. There was too much to lose.
In the meantime, what should she tell James? She cursed herself. It would have been so much easier if she hadn’t slept with him. Now she’d compromised herself. How best to let him down gently? And had she used him? Did she have to apologize for that, or was he to blame? Had he taken advantage of her vulnerability?
She was shivering now with the cold. She crept back across the carpet and slid under the warmth of the blankets. Next to her, James stirred in his sleep and opened his eyes. He smiled and reached out an arm to curl round her before falling back into a contented reverie. Lucy flinched at his touch; his arm was like lead, trapping her, pinning her down. James sat up.
‘What is it?’
Lucy turned to face him, stricken.
‘James – ’
But before she could reveal her innermost thoughts, the shrill bell of the telephone on the bedside table cut through the moment. He didn’t know which way to turn. Either way was bad news. He had a pretty good idea from the expression on her face what Lucy was going to say, so he picked up the phone decisively.
‘James Liddiard.’
It was the hospital. Mickey Liddiard was in intensive care. He was about to go down to surgery. Did he have any idea how they could contact his wife?
20
James sped through the dark lanes of Gloucestershire then Oxfordshire with tight lips. Lucy sat miserable and dry-eyed beside him. He thanked God he hadn’t had too much to drink – he’d deliberately held back on the champagne, pouring the lion’s share down her throat. They didn’t speak, except to confer on directions, just sat in surreal silence.
They arrived at the hospital and were ushered with haste through miles of corridor until they were shown into a waiting room. A consultant came in and spoke gently to Lucy as James held her hand. She couldn’t take it all in, just key words that hit her in the gut – haemorrhage, blood clot, coma, unconscious, brain scan. They were all theoretical fears, but James had to admit to himself that it didn’t sound good, even though the consultant kept reiterating that Mickey was in the best place. He’d been airlifted to hospital, apparently. The lorry driver he’d just missed before he crashed into the wall had recognized that this was a job for the air ambulance and had been pretty insistent on his mobile phone, which had certainly improved Mickey’s chances. The bottom line was he had serious head injuries that needed checking out before they proceeded any further. The fact that his right leg was smashed to smithereens was secondary. He was going to have to undergo at least two operations.
Lucy was allowed to go and see her husband before he went down to theatre; they were getting ready for him now. James squeezed her hand as she was led away. She was warned that Mickey wasn’t a pretty sight, probably unrecognizable.
James peered through the blinds into the room and saw Lucy at Mickey’s bedside, her head bowed, holding his hand. Her lips moved silently. Her eyes were closed. Was she praying? He thought she probably was, and in that moment he realized he’d lost her. No matter what happened now, she’d slipped through his fingers. He’d possessed her for a few golden moments only, moments that he would treasure as long as he lived.
He stared at his brother’s motionless figure, at the wires and drips and apparatus that were keeping him alive. There was one chance, he supposed… But no matter how hard James tried, he couldn’t quite bring himself to wish his brother dead.
As soon as the call came through from James outlining Mickey’s predicament, Keith swung into action. Patrick had insisted on driving, but Keith wouldn’t hear of it. He’d take them all over to the hospital in the Landcruiser. The girls were woken and stood, shocked and dazed, in the hallway, shivering even though the central heating never went off at The Cedars.
Sandra was hovering on the fringe of the action. The news was sobering by its very nature and she was horrified by what had happened, but not really sure what role she should take. It didn’t help that she was being totally ignored. Until everyone was about to leave. Keith turned to her.
‘I don’t suppose I’ll be back before tomorrow. I’ll hang on until I know exactly what’s going on. See what help I can be. I’ll bring the girls back here if necessary.’
Sandra nodded, grateful that this new drama was going to take the heat away from the earlier incident.
‘Shall I get some shopping in?’
Keith looked at her coldly.
‘No. I think the best thing you can do is be gone by the time I get back.’
Sandra’s mouth dropped open slackly. He could see every single white filling he’d paid for, to replace the myriad black ones. He jabbed the car keys in her direction to emphasize his seriousness.
‘I mean it.’
The front door slammed shut and Sandra sank to her knees. Somehow she knew that Keith was deadly serious.
In the car, Keith had flicked the speakers to the back. A soothing Enya track was playing for the girls, who sat pale and anxious in their seats, unable to sleep but not wanting to talk either. Mandy had insisted on coming and Keith had relented: better that she gave Sophie and Georgina her support than found herself subjected to Sandra’s hysterical ranting.
Keith looked at Patrick sideways. The shock, rather than ageing him, had taken years off him, and he looked like a young boy, white with the fear of the unknown. He was trying to look calm and in control, but Keith could see his jaw was clenched, and his fists. He felt a surge of almost paternal protectiveness. Patrick wasn’t really much more than a child, in spite of the confident air he carried with him.
‘Are you OK?’
Patrick nodded.
‘I just want to get there. See dad.’ His voice trembled, ever so slightly. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘You know, if there is anything I can do to help…’
‘You are helping. By driving us.’
Patrick smiled his thanks. Keith persisted.
‘I meant with the brewery.’ He paused. He had to be tactful. He didn’t want to seem as if he was fishing for information; poking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted. ‘I get the feeling things are a bit…’
He trailed off, suddenly feeling that no matter how he put it he was intruding. After all, he was only working on instinct. None of the Liddiards had hinted there was anything amiss; but Keith was perceptive. And Mandy had told him she thought there might be money worries, out of concern for her friends.
Patrick sighed. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He’d wanted to be in control when he laid the bait down for Keith. But perhaps now was the time, otherwise events were going to take over and the golden window of opportunity would be lost. At least if the seeds were sown in Keith’s mind, they could move forward quickly, for Patrick felt sure that speed was of the essence if the brewery was to be saved. Anyway, they had another thirty miles to go before they got to the hospital. It would take his mind off things. He didn’t want to think about what had happened to Mickey, or indeed what might happen. Deep down he had a naive faith that his father was invincible, immortal, that he would walk away from the accident unharmed. He had to cling on to that belief, otherwise he was terribly afraid he mi
ght break down. And he had to be strong, for Lucy, for Sophie and Georgina, for himself.
‘You’re right. Dad’s been worried sick for months.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Cash flow, mainly. We want to move forward but we’re being dragged under by our existing debts.’
‘Many a good business has fallen at that fence.’
Patrick winced. He didn’t need to hear that. He was going to have to strike a fine line, sound vaguely optimistic while at the same time subtly proffering the begging bowl.
‘Thing is, we’ve got great plans, if only we could get ourselves out of the mire. It’s extremely frustrating.’
Keith nodded in agreement.
‘There must be hundreds of different directions you could take. I can see the potential.’ He chortled self-deprecatingly. ‘Even as a plumber.’
This was encouraging. It gave Patrick the courage to go on to describe the future of Honeycote Ales as he saw it. He’d memorized the bullet points on Caroline’s outline, and he had to admit to himself it sounded convincing, an inviting investment project. Keith listened, interested. Patrick finished with a sigh.
‘Trouble is, we haven’t got any cash. The bank will lend, of course, but the rates are out of the question. It’s that or sell a pub, which would be suicide. What’s the point of having a brewery with no tied houses?’
‘So you’re looking for a… what do they call them these days? A business angel?’
‘I suppose so. But it’s got to be someone who understands the way we do things. Not someone that will try and take over – stamp on everything we’ve done over the past hundred and fifty years. It needs to be someone sensitive, with creative flair, who appreciates it’s a family business. We don’t want anyone stepping on our toes.’
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