This time, and given her previous responses, he thought non-committal was probably best.
‘Yeah, they’re good, and… Not recently.’
He didn’t mention that just the day before, he’d decided to wait until Friday before ringing Monsieur Dupont again. Three and a half weeks wasn’t bad. The longest he’d managed so far was nearly five.
She got the message, switched tack.
‘So what about this morning? How did that go?’
He told her.
‘They didn’t go for it?’ She was incredulous.
‘Nicholas Whitely was there.’
‘Oh.’
He showed his hands as if to say And there you have it.
‘I thought you looked a bit down.’
‘I’m not down.’
She pinned him with a look. ‘Take it from me. You’re down. I can tell.’
For several moments they stared at each other. Two detectives whose joint experience had forged a bond of which neither ever spoke. This time it was she who broke the silence.
‘But if you say you’re not, I believe you.’
Before they could get into further argument, Carver’s mobile rang.
‘Who?… Sarah?… Yes, she’s my sister…. WHAT? Where?… How is she?…’ He listened, then, ‘I’ll come straight there.’ He hung up.
‘What’s happened?’Jess said.
He saw her concerned look. She knew about Sarah. Not all of it, but enough. ‘Sarah’s in Salford Royal. She stepped out in front of a bus.’
CHAPTER 11
It was long past two a.m. when the three young men - all Brits - finally found their way back to their budget apartment complex. As they approached the marble steps leading up to Reception, the tallest of the three, Mickey, shook off his companions’ supporting embraces, making ready to attempt the climb unaided.
He managed the first step before catching his foot on the second and starting to keel over. As luck would have it, and despite the nine Keos and uncounted B-52s he had consumed that evening, there was vestige enough of his Sunday League Football training left in him that he managed an almost graceful mid-air twist so that he ended up in a sitting position on the third step, instead of face down on the marble.
‘Jees-USS, Pikey,’ Mickey slurred. ‘I must be pissed.’
‘Nahh,’ the one called Pikey gave back. ‘You’re just rat-arsed,’
‘PISSED AND RAT-ARSED,’ the third of their number, Damon, called into the night, thus sharing the information with any holidaymakers who might still be awake at nearly three in the morning.
Their guffaws echoed around the complex.
‘SSSSSHHHHHHHHH,’ Mickey said, index finger hovering over his lips and spraying spittle over his friends as they took his arms and lifted him again. ‘We’ll get another fuckin’ bollocking from Georgey-boy, if we’re not careful.’
‘So what?’ Damon said, brave for once. ‘The Cypriot twat’ll get a smack if he starts anything, right Pikey?’ Being the youngest, he was also loudest.
‘I’ll give you a smack if you get us chucked out again,’ Pikey answered. ‘We had enough of that in Majorca.’
Chastened by their pack leader’s reminder of their last holiday-in-the-sun disaster, Damon decided to contain himself as they staggered up the remaining steps. Eventually they spilled out into the semi-lit reception area.
George was waiting behind the desk.
‘Georgey,’ Pikey declared, as if delighted to see him. ‘You’ve stayed up for us. Are you coming up for a drink? We’ve got some cans in the room.’
In his mid-fifties, George Opodopolis, had worked as the Limassol Almethia Garden’s resident night-porter for fifteen years. He was well-used to dealing with drunken Brits. He smiled the patient smile he had learned to use in any number of ways as he regarded the trio.
‘Thank you boys, but no. You need your rest before tomorrow. So you can start early for your last night in our beautiful Cyprus.’
Mickey’s face fell. ‘Las’ night? Tomorrow?’ He breathed the words out in a haze of alcohol before turning to Pikey. ‘S’not our las’ night, is it Pikey?’ Pikey nodded. ‘Aww, fuck.’ Mickey meandered over to the desk. ‘Giz the key then George. We better fuck off to bed so’s we can recover.’
‘Your friend has already taken it. You will have to knock him up.’
The three exchanged puzzled looks.
‘What friend?’ Pikey said. ‘We’re all here.’
‘Yeah,’ Damon confirmed. ‘We ain’t got no friends.’
Beginning to feel sick, Mickey collapsed into one of the vestibule’s whicker chairs. ‘Yeah….’
George frowned. ‘You know. The other one. The one who has been with you all week.’ He looked across at Pikey. ‘The thin, bald one. I am thinking he is this one’s brother.’ He nodded towards Mickey, now slouching in the chair.
Stifling the belch that if he wasn’t careful could become a hurl, Mickey managed to sit up. ‘He might look a bit like me… burp… but he’s not my brother. I haven’t got a fuckin’… urrch… brother.’
George’s frown deepened as Pikey stepped forward.
‘He’s just some local who mated up with us at the beginning of the week. He ain’t one of us, George.’
‘But he has been staying in your room. I am thinking he was with you?’
Guilty looks passed between the three. ‘Errm… we’ve just been letting him crash with us, that’s all. We just said he was with us so he wouldn’t have to pay. We haven’t seen him all night.’
George froze, his dark, Cypriot eyes sliding from one to the other, realisation dawning.
‘Tch. You silly English sods.’ He reached behind the desk for his passkey. ‘Come on.’
George waited in the doorway as the three tried to work out what was missing. Given their condition it was a stop-start process.
‘Me tablet’s gone.’
‘It’s on the table, you wanker.’
‘The bastard’s had it away wiv me iPad.’
‘Wot’s that on the bed?’
‘My spare fifty quid’s missing.’
‘So’s mine.’
‘Bastard.’
George raised his eyes to the ceiling and sighed. ‘Passports?’
‘What?’
‘Where are your passports? You didn’t hand them in to the hotel for safe-keeping. You must have them.’
Damon stood up, swayed, then went over to the chest of drawers. He opened one and started pulling out handfuls of shorts and socks, dropping them on the floor.
‘S’alright. They’re here.’ He held the maroon booklets aloft.
‘How many?’ George said.
‘Three.’ Only then did he think he ought to check. ‘Shit. Two.’
‘Fuck,’ Pikey said. ‘Whose is missing?’ The three huddled, looking for the pages with the pictures.
‘This is….’
‘…Mine.’
‘And this one’s…’
‘Your’s.’
They all turned to George, beginning to appreciate the fact he was sober.
‘Bollocks,’ Mickey said, his head clearing, rapidly. ‘The bastard’s nicked mine.’
CHAPTER 12
Carver cradled the phone between neck and shoulder so he could carry on typing. He had promised his Regional Director he’d let him have the assessment he’d asked for on Albanian involvement in High School drug-dealing around the North West the next day. But returning from his latest meeting with Neil Booth that afternoon, he’d decided to call in on Sarah again. Now he was way behind.
But at least Rosanna wasn’t making an issue of him being late again, though he knew that the guilt-credit he’d earned when she ripped into him for missing her College of Music performance – before he managed to tell her about Sarah’s ‘accident’ – would not stretch too much further.
‘She’s about the same,’ he said in response to Rosanna’s question. ‘Still limping. But it’s not her body that bothers me. It’s her lac
k of interest in everything. It’s as well Patsy’s so capable otherwise I don’t know where they’d be.’
‘It is so sad,’ Rosanna said. ‘They are such lovely children…. To have a mother like that.’
Carver squirmed. Though not blind to his sister’s failings, he still found it hard to acknowledge them to others, even Rosanna. ‘If she could just get herself back to work, it would do her the world of good. I’m sure if someone gave her a break she would respond.’
Rosanna’s silence spoke to her scepticism. ‘What was the house like?’
Carver breathed deep. ‘Not as bad as it has been. But I think that’s mainly down to Patsy, and that neighbour of hers, Joyce. She’s been great.’
‘Perhaps you should send her something. As a thank you. Flowers perhaps?’
‘Maybe,’ though he knew he wouldn’t. Joyce was a divorcee, and not bad looking when she put her mind to it. The couple of times they’d met at Sarah’s, he’d seen the way she looked at him. Flowers - any gift for that matter - ran the risk of sending the wrong signals.
‘Anyway,’ Rosanna said, making an effort to sound brighter. ‘What time will you be home? I am doing Espatadas.’
An image formed of the wine-soaked Kebab dish that was one of Carver’s favourites, and he wondered again how to get the message across without hurting her. He much preferred to leave that sort of meal to his days off, when he could enjoy it properly. Now, as he had known he would, he regretted being tempted by the lunchtime steak-pie and chips that had been on offer in Longsight’s cafeteria. He thought to try and put her off.
‘Erm, not sure yet. Might not be until nine-ish.’ Too early. ‘Towards ten, more like.’
‘S’okay,’ she said. ‘I will do it slow. It should be fine.’
Putting the phone down, he thought it was time he remembered. In Portugal, nine o’clock is considered early dining.
He focused on finishing his assessment, but his mind kept wandering. The conversation with Rosanna had set it off, even more than his late-afternoon drop-in at Sarah’s. After a few minutes he gave up, saved his work and closed down. He would come in early next morning and finish it. After all he would be up, Alun was still seeing to that.
Reaching down, he opened the desk bottom drawer. Two thick folders, one green, the other buff, sat side-by side, staring up at him. They were both bound with thick, white elastic bands, and as his gaze settled on them the illusion came, as it had done before, that they were in some way vying with each other to see which he dared lay hands on, which set off memories, regrets, doubts and fears he would choose to immerse himself in this day.
But even as he reached for the green one - in years gone by a green crime folder denoted ‘Series Crime’ - he felt the other tugging at him. But with nothing new to add to it - as there had not been for many months now - he managed to resist. The last time he had opened it, the best part of an afternoon disappeared in fruitless what-iffing. She may be dead - keep telling yourself that - but her ability to invade him remained undiminished.
He closed the drawer more firmly than was needed, placed the green folder square in front of him. As he did so, he felt the churning that always came in the moments before he opened it - just like the one still in the drawer.
He opened the cover and there she was again. The happy, smiling teenager who, knowing he was growing up behind her, used to take the rise out of him every opportunity she could get. He took a deep breath to purge the emotions that were a distraction, then started turning pages until he found what he was looking for, the sheet of paper headed simply, ‘LIST OF EXHIBITS’ Returning to the front of the folder, he picked up the list he’d compiled himself, the last time he read through all the depositions.
As he set about comparing the two, checking the reference numbers against the relevant witness statements in which they were referred to, he felt himself beginning to relax. It was the sort of work he was comfortable with - checking the evidence.
‘Now then,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s see where everything is.’
He was still there at half-past ten when Rosanna rang to tell him her Espetadas were ruined.
CHAPTER 13
Lucy Donovan checked her watch. It was nearly seven o’clock already. If she didn’t catch the ten-past bus, the seven-thirty wouldn’t stop if it was full. Swinging round the newel-post, she shouted up the stairs.
‘What have you done with my black jacket, Mama?’
‘I haven’t seen it Lucine.’ Her mother’s plaintive cry echoed down to her. ‘Is it under the stairs?’
‘NO!’
Lucy scurried back down the hallway into the kitchen. Her mother’s obsession with tidiness was becoming worse and Lucy was spending more of her time each day looking for things. A muffled shout came from above. Lucy shut the kitchen-cupboard door - there was no room for the jacket in there anyway - and poked her head out.
‘What Mama? Did you say something?’
‘I said will you check on Dadda before you go out? I don’t think he’s feeling well.’
‘I’M LOOKING FOR MY BLOODY JACKET.’
She regretted the snap at once. The years seemed to be catching up with her mother faster than ever of late, and Lucy knew she found it hard during the day when she wasn’t around to help. Of course she would check on him. She always did. He was still her father. That never changed.
Where’s the damn jacket?
A minute later, having found it hanging in the utility room next to the kitchen, she pushed open the door to the downstairs front room and poked her head in. As always, she ignored the voices telling her she should leave him to stew in his own juices, just once.
The room was in semi darkness. Her mother had only drawn the curtains a few inches when she brought him his early morning darchin. He was sitting up in bed, waiting for her.
‘What’s wrong with you now?’ she said.
He grunted, the way he usually did before speaking to his only daughter, so she would know how he begrudged having to rely on her. ‘My stomach. It hurts. What was in that goulash you gave me last night?’
‘Only what I usually put in it. Have you been to the toilet yet?’
‘Paprika. You always use too much paprika. It does my stomach no good.’
You miserable, ungrateful old- ‘Mama and I had it and we are fine. Go to the toilet.’
‘Help me then.’ He held his arms out. She checked her watch. Five-past already. Not enough time.
‘OOHH!’
Coming round the bed, she lifted the seat on the commode, holding her breath so as to stifle the heave that always came despite her keeping it spotlessly clean. As she helped him swing his withered legs round, she saw that the sheets would need changing again. Mama would have to do it. She stood under him and let him use her shoulders and back to lever himself up, round and onto the chair. She pulled his pyjama bottoms off – they needed cleaning as well – and left him to it.
She walked out, dropping his pants in the bin next to the door, then closed it behind her. She didn’t expect to hear, ‘Thank you.’ She wasn’t disappointed.
Leaning back against the door, she waited, letting her breathing calm. It was becoming harder to show patience with him these days, his surly demands more difficult to cope with. She wasn’t sure whether it was him or her, but suspected it was due to seeing what the strain was doing to her mother. And the other thing of course. That never went away either.
It made her think again about what would happen when her mother could no longer look after him, which, the way things were going, might not be as far away as she had once imagined. She also wondered whether the ridiculous thoughts that came to her now and again as she lay in her bed were so ridiculous after all. The old conflict. Justice versus family.
Her mother’s mottled legs appeared at the top of the stairs.
‘Is he alright?’
‘He’s fine. He’s on the loo. His bed needs changing. See you tonight.’
As she shut the front door behind he
r, she stopped on the step and breathed in deeply, letting the morning air flush away the old-person-in-care smell that pervaded the house and that not even fresh flowers and Lavender-Haze ever fully masked.
‘Morning Lucy.’
She looked to her right. Mr Norris was next to his car on the hard-standing that had once been the small garden. He gave her his fatherly smile, the sort she wished she could have known when she was growing up, though she suspected that given half a chance, any attention Mr Norris might bestow on her would not be of the fatherly variety. She had noticed the way his bursts of enthusiasm for gardening always seemed to coincide with those odd occasions when she managed to find time to relax on their small patio at the back. What the hell, she thought. Nothing wrong in that. He was pleasant enough. She wondered how old he really was. Fifty? Well-past the ‘mid-forties’ he had once hinted at, that was for sure. Apart from the grey hair, the paunch that hung over his belt was the giveaway. Nevertheless, the thought that someone appreciated her - as a woman - made her feel better. She tossed her head back so her long, dark hair blew in the morning breeze as she returned his smile.
‘Hello, Mr Norris.’
‘How’s your dad this morning?’
She managed to keep the smile going as she said, ‘Okay thanks. Sorry, got to rush.’ Giving a quick wave, she hurried off towards the main road.
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