Fault Lines

by Natasha Cooper

  ‘I will listen. I am listening,’ Trish said, surprised by the reference. ‘We can’t meet, but I will listen to anything you want to tell me now, while we’re on the phone.’

  ‘It’s not safe, even on a mobile. People have scanners to eavesdrop with.’

  Trish sighed again and thought of asking whether extra-terrestrials ever sent him messages through his television screen, but the man sounded desperate. It might be wildly unethical – no, it was wildly unethical, but she was beginning to think she would have to meet him, if only to shut him up. Without Kara’s letter, she would never have done it but, as things stood, she did not see that she had any option.

  After some to-ing and fro-ing, they arranged to meet the following evening in an obscure pub near Waterloo station. It sounded anonymous enough and quite unlike the sort of place where anyone she knew might drink, particularly on a Friday evening.

  Having got rid of him at last, Trish had a look in the fridge to see what she could cook for George. There was a chicken, which she had forgotten about but which, amazingly, had three days to run before it was no longer fit to be eaten. She set about dealing with it.

  The following evening when Trish reached the pub, she peered through the smoky gloom, hoping that Blair Collons had had second thoughts. He hadn’t. He was sitting without a drink at a table about fifteen feet away from the door. As he saw her, he got to his feet and waved furtively before tucking his hand deep into his trouser pocket and looking over his shoulder to see who was behind him.

  He was no longer wearing the dreadful suit. Instead he had on a pair of relatively clean cords and a crumpled shirt that was fraying at the collar and cuffs.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘What …?’

  ‘I was afraid you weren’t coming after all. Thank you. It’s really good of you. I’m so glad to see you. You can’t imagine –’

  ‘That’s all right. Now, we’d better have a drink. What would you like?’

  ‘Anything soft. I don’t mind. A Coke? Thank you.’

  Trish fetched his drink and a half of lager for herself. ‘Now, what exactly is all this about?’ She put the glasses down on the smeared table, wishing she had a cloth to wipe up the spilled drink and ash.

  ‘Kara wasn’t killed by any rapist, whatever the papers say.’

  Trish blinked.

  ‘They’re only repeating what the police have told them, and they want everyone to believe it was the rapist. It’s in their interest that the truth should never come out. But there was no rapist involved. Kara died because of what we were doing together. I’ve been worried sick.’

  Trish put on what she hoped was a sympathetic face and relatively credulous expression. ‘I see. And what exactly was it that you and she were doing?’

  ‘I … She …’ He fell silent, biting his lip and then the edge of his left thumbnail. His eyes kept flicking left and right and once he even turned to check whether anyone was listening to them.

  ‘How did the two of you meet in the first place?’ Trish asked, more gently.

  Collons’s terrors might have been no more than products of his own imagination, but they were obviously real to him. He drank some Coke then coughed, neatly covering his mouth with his hand like a well-behaved child. Then he took another clean handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his lips.

  ‘When she came to the finance department. She wanted information on the costs of the social housing Kingsford Council is going to build on some waste-ground near the high street.’

  For the first time since Trish had met him, Collons sounded normal. At that moment she could – just – believe he had once worked as a chartered accountant.

  ‘She told me a little about the scheme,’ Trish said. ‘It’s to deal with difficult families who need a lot of supervision, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. It’s going to be so different from any other public housing scheme that, as soon as she heard about it, she was determined to be part of it. That’s why she wanted the job in Kingsford so much.’ He smiled and sat more proudly on his stool. ‘She told me so when we had a drink once in her house. She invited me there. To her home.’

  As she saw how even remembered approval transformed him, Trish began to understand why Kara had come to feel so protective of him. ‘And what exactly did she think was so special about the scheme?’

  ‘Well, to cut a long story short, the council was – is – going to build small blocks of flats, some two-storey houses and some bungalows for the elderly and infirm, all together in a kind of complex. There are going to be safely enclosed gardens and a health centre on site and plenty of wardens and care workers. It’s to have a very high carer-to-client ratio. Oh, yes, and there’s going to be some kind of children’s home, too, and maybe facilities for children with special educational needs, but they’re not sure if they can afford that in the first phase. It’s going to be a long-term project.’

  ‘I see. It all sounds admirable. Expensive, too.’

  ‘Well, that’s just it, you see. That’s how it started. Part of the total cost has to come out of the social services budget, and that’s been seriously stretched for months.’ Collons paused, looking speculatively at Trish. ‘I don’t know how much you knew about the detail of Kara’s job?’

  ‘Not a great deal.’

  ‘I thought not. Bear with me, will you? I’ll have to tell you or you won’t understand. One aspect of her brief was to make quite big savings in the budget. If she couldn’t get what she needed from greater efficiency and less waste, then she was going to have to cut jobs and services. And she didn’t want to do that, you see.’

  ‘No, I can imagine that would go against the grain. So, she came to you to see whether her department’s share of the building costs could be reduced. Is that it?’ Trish was frowning again, unable to believe that Collons had been in control of anything as important as the financing of a major construction project. But if she didn’t pin him down, she’d never find out what was really bothering him.

  ‘Oh, no. She just wanted information. She’d already tried to get it from the chief finance officer, but he didn’t have any time for her. He sent her to me, and told me to talk her through the estimates. Even he would admit that that was within my capabilities.’

  ‘And could you satisfy her?’

  Collons’s plump cheeks turned a rich cochineal. He looked so embarrassed that Trish realised what he must have thought she’d meant. Watching him, it struck her that his fantasies might have gone beyond paranoia to include some kind of erotic fixation on Kara, which would have explained a lot.

  ‘We worked out,’ he said, with a resumption of his official manner, settling his shoulders with a series of tiny shudders, ‘that the estimates were so much higher than they should have been because the land on which the housing is to be built is heavily contaminated with chemical residues from the factories that were once operating there. Cleaning it up is going to be costly. Very costly indeed.’

  ‘Then why on earth,’ asked Trish, ‘did Kingsford Council ever pick such an unsuitable site?’

  ‘That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,’ Collons said, beginning to look happier. ‘Kara and I both asked each other the very same one over and over again.’

  ‘That wouldn’t have done much good,’ Trish said, forgetting that she had meant to be supportive, ‘since neither of you had any answers. Didn’t you ask it of anyone else?’

  ‘Well, of course we did.’ He sounded pettish again. ‘Both of us, separately. And when they saw that we weren’t going to be fobbed off, they had to get rid of us. One way or another.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’

  ‘It’s true. First they made sure that anything I ever said would be taken as spiteful revenge for being sacked. And then, once I was out of the way and no more risk to them, they stopped her too. Now can you see why I’m so worried?’

  Trish took a moment to think how best to deal with him. He was obviously serious and believed every mad word he’d said. Somehow
she was going to have to persuade him that local council officials just do not go around raping and murdering people who ask inconvenient questions about building overspends. But she was worried about how he might react to the demolition of his grandiose fantasies. Facing up to the reality of his own pathetic situation might cause all sorts of problems, and he clearly had enough of those already.

  ‘Mr Collons, you can’t really expect me to believe that Kara was killed because she was trying to reduce the social services’ contribution to the costs of a housing project,’ she said at last. ‘Are you sure that your quite understandable distress at the loss of a friend isn’t making you see enemies where there aren’t any?’ At the sight of his face, she added, still more gently, ‘I expect that her death has left a big hole in your life. And I can understand exactly why you want her killer caught. I do, too. But we have to leave it to the police. It’s their job and they have all the resources.’

  ‘We can’t leave it to them. It’s far too dangerous. They have their own agenda.’

  Trish tried not to roll her eyes to heaven. She sipped her lager and gathered her patience. She wished that she had the deep wells of kindness that Kara had apparently been able to draw on at will.

  ‘Is it this Martin Drakeshill you mentioned who’s frightening –’

  The colour drained out of Collons’s face. His hands clutched the edge of the table. He was mouthing words soundlessly. Trish felt seriously worried that he might faint, or worse. She did not want to be responsible for an unconscious man whom she ought not to have been with in the first place.

  ‘You mustn’t –’ he gasped. He put one hand to his chest. ‘You mustn’t tell anyone I ever said anything about him.’

  ‘Of course I won’t, if you don’t want me to. But it would help me to understand, Mr Collons, if you could tell me a little more about what’s frightening you so much.’

  ‘I’ve told you all I can. Kara was killed because of the questions she and I were asking about the social housing so we both had to be silenced. That’s all I can tell you. And you have to believe it.’

  Trish detested being told by anyone that she had to do anything. She would have liked to explain to Blair Collons that she was under no obligation whatsoever to believe anything he told her or to take any kind of action. But she didn’t. Instead, hanging on to her temper with difficulty, she said, ‘but I don’t understand what you expect me to do about it, given that you don’t want me to talk to the police.’

  He looked at her as though she had been deliberately obtuse, and cruel with it. ‘Not the ones on the ground because they’re in it, too. I’m sure they are. I want you to find out why our questions frightened them so much that they had to kill Kara.’

  ‘Mr Collons …’

  ‘And then I want you to use that information to persuade someone really senior in the police, who’s well above all the local corruption, that her death has to be properly investigated. And then I’ll get my job back.’

  It was absurd. He must see that.

  ‘I’m your barrister, Mr Collons, not some kind of private eye. I’ll do everything within my remit to get you your job back, I promise, but I can’t investigate Kara’s death. The police are doing that at this moment. I have neither the facilities nor the skill to compete with them. Nor the time.’

  ‘Someone has to do it,’ he said, sighing deeply, as though all his blood were being drained out of him, ‘and I can’t. You’re the only person who’s in a position to do what has to be done.’

  ‘It’s a job for the police,’ Trish said again, feeling sorry for them. Still, they must be used to dealing with people like Collons.

  ‘Even though the victim was Kara, your great friend? Isn’t this the least you can do for her after everything she’s suffered?’

  He stood up. His hands were trembling and his eyes were nearly as full of hurt as Darlie’s. Trish thought he needed a doctor not a lawyer.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said, as a way of helping him leave the pub peacefully.

  ‘Don’t take too long. It’s desperately urgent. We have to stop them before they do any more damage.’ He bent down so that his face was so close to hers that she flinched. She couldn’t help it. Lowering his voice, he added, ‘And you must promise not to tell anyone – at any time – that it’s me who alerted you to what’s been going on.’

  ‘I won’t.’ Trish wiped his spit from her cheeks, hoping his peculiar appearance and hoarse, desperate whispers weren’t making too many people look at them.

  He turned away at once and scuttled out through the crowd of drinkers, some of whom moved aside as though he might infect them. Trish gave him plenty of time to get away then left the pub herself, ignoring everyone who looked in her direction.

  That night Collons lay in bed with his prick in his hand, talking to Kara. Her photograph was stuck on the wall at just the right height so that he could see her as he lay on his side. It wasn’t the same as talking to her when she was still alive, not as thrillingly wonderful, but not nearly as difficult either.

  She always understood him now and he wasn’t clumsy with her any more. She knew him very well, and loved him, and she gave him all the right answers. There weren’t any more of the equivocations that she used to go in for. Now she was all reassurance as she smiled at him and loved him.

  ‘I hope you’re right about Trish Maguire, Kara,’ he said to her. ‘She seems bright enough, and I know you think I can trust her. But she didn’t believe me and I didn’t see any of the warmth you talk about. She didn’t seem warm to me at all. Just hard.’

  Kara smiled at him with her wise, gentle smile, the one he loved most of all, and told him he was right to be careful. She advised him to wait a bit more and test Trish, watching her carefully, before he told her the rest.

  And then Kara kissed him as she had every night since her death. And a few minutes later he came. And slept.

  Chapter Nine

  By Sunday, Sandra’s knee was better so she and Michael spent all morning together while Katie was at ski school. He was more affectionate than he’d been for ages, and Sandra knew everything was about to come right again. In a sudden surge of happiness, she realised that in spite of everything she was going to be able to forgive him for making her life hell.

  He chose a very expensive restaurant for lunch and ordered a bottle of white wine instead of the usual beer. The food was lovely, and so was the way he listened to her instead of snapping and sniping. Her face began to ache she was smiling so much. When he’d paid the bill, he even put his arm around her, kissed her cheek, and said that he felt so knackered he thought he’d go back the hotel for a snooze. Sandra smiled secretly and pressed herself against him.

  In the early days of their marriage, when Simon was tiny and woke them at all hours, they’d usually been too tired to make love at night. But at weekends, after lunch, they would put him down in his room and shut the curtains in their own, pretending they were young lovers having an affair in Paris or somewhere.

  ‘Why don’t I come with you?’ she said luxuriously. ‘I’m quite tired, too.’

  She looked up at him, smiling, to make sure he knew what she meant. His handsome face closed up as though he was a woodlouse rolling up at the touch of a broom.

  ‘Better not,’ he said, pulling away from her and walking towards the massed skis in the rack outside the restaurant. ‘You’ve missed three days already and you need to work on your turns. You’ll be fine so long as you stick to the runs I’ve shown you. I’ll see you out here later if I wake in time, or else at tea.’

  Sandra couldn’t believe it. She stood open-mouthed, watching him collect his skis from the rack and leave her without another look. Her goggles were all misted up, not because she was crying – she wasn’t really – but because her eyes were hot and the plastic lenses were so cold. She took them off to polish them, squinting in the sudden dazzle.

  She couldn’t see properly and didn’t know what was happening when a child smashed i
nto her at what felt like a hundred miles an hour. She picked herself up, expecting an apology, but all she got from the horrible child, who looked like an insect in his huge goggles, helmet and bright red salopettes, were furious shrieks in some foreign language. Seeing that she did not understand, he gave up in the end and flew off down the mountain, shaking his fist as he went.

  Sandra couldn’t bear it. Whether Michael wanted her or not, she was going back to the hotel after him.

  The compacted snow in front of the hotel had brown stains all over it, like a baby’s nappies that hadn’t been properly washed in hot-enough water. Sandra shuddered. Tiredness hung on her legs like lead anklets and made the climb up the outside steps to the balcony almost more of an effort than she could manage.

  The first thing she saw on the balcony was Michael, sitting beside the fat man and reading his newspaper. She couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Michael, what are you doing?’

  The fat man looked round at the sound of her sharp voice, his face almost comically frightened.

  ‘Sandra!’ Michael said, with a snap that meant: how can you embarrass me like this, you awful woman?

  ‘You said you were too tired to ski,’ she said, more quietly. ‘I thought you’d be in bed.’

  ‘I’m on my way. Mr Watford here has kindly lent me his paper and I’ve been catching up on the news before I go up. What is the matter with you?’

  She couldn’t tell him, not with the fat man there, anyway. So she shrugged and then, to save face, asked whether there was anything interesting in the paper.

  ‘Not a lot,’ he said, folding it up and putting it on the floor under his chair.

  Somehow that made Sandra even angrier. He looked shifty and embarrassed enough to suggest he was hiding something. She bent down to pick up the newspaper. It was easy to see he’d been reading about the Kingsford Rapist because the pages were all wrinkled from his sweaty fingers.

  ‘Don’t read it,’ he said quickly. ‘The police haven’t got him yet so it’ll only worry you.’