I congratulated myself with a “Nice work, Sherlock,” after which I lay against the back of the settee and thought about what to do next. The BMW in the garage aside, they’d obviously gone off with no intention of returning tonight, leaving lights and CD player on electrical timers to give the appearance of being home so as to thwart potential house-breakers. Although it seemed to me that if housebreaking was in order, the lolly would have to be carted directly to the Victoria and Albert. In fact, I thought, had I gone off for a romantic tryst with my young lover, I’d have left the front door standing open in the hope that someone would clear the place out and save me the bother.
For the first time I wondered how I would be able to manipulate a wheelchair round these rooms if that’s what it came down to. Unlike those in the barge, the doorways were wide enough, but the rest of the place was an obstacle course. I felt uneasiness begin to settle over me. It seemed that my future lay not in Staffordshire Terrace with Mother and her lad but in a nursing home or a hospital where the corridors were wide, the rooms were bare, and the terminal patients sat staring at the telly, waiting for the end.
Well, so what, I thought. Who cares? The point is to bring Mother into the picture so that when things get to the stage that Chris and I need help, she’ll be ready to offer it in whatever form she decides. Hospital, nursing home, a flat of my own made over to accommodate the medical paraphernalia I was fast acquiring, a bank account from which I could draw the funds I needed to care for myself, a nice blank cheque arriving in the post once a month. She didn’t need to refurbish this tomb to make room for me. She just needed to help us out. And she would do that, wouldn’t she, once she had all the facts?
Which meant I was going to have to tell her about ALS, not make veiled references to my condition. Which meant I was going to have to stir her heart and her compassion. Which meant I was going to have to talk to her with Kenneth Fleming sitting in the room. So where was he? she? they? I looked at my watch. Nearly half past twelve.
I let my head loll back against the arm of the settee and I stared at the ceiling, which, like the walls, had been hung with William Morris paper. The pattern, like that in the dining room, was of pomegranates, that magical fruit. Eat a ruby-red seed and…what? Make a wish? Have your dreams come true? I couldn’t remember. But I could have done with a pomegranate or two.
Well, I thought, so much for the plan. Got to phone Max to fetch me. Got to think of something to tell Chris. Got to develop Plan B. Got to—
The telephone rang, jarring me fully awake from the doze I’d been falling into. It sat across from me on the table in the window. I listened to its trilled double ring and wondered if I should…Well, why not. It might well be either Chris or Max, wondering how I was faring in the lion’s den. Ought to set their minds at rest. Perfect opportunity to lie. I reached for my walker, shoved myself to my feet, dodged past the chesterfield, and reached the phone as it completed its twelfth brinngg-brinngg. I picked it up, said, “Yes?”
I heard music in the background, as if at a distance: rapid classical guitar, someone singing in Spanish. Then something clinked against the phone. A harsh gasp came over the wire.
I said, “Yes?”
A woman’s voice said, “Bitch. You filthy bitch. You got what you wanted.” She sounded half-drunk. “But it’s not over. It…is…not…over. Do you understand? You’re a hag-face cunt. Who do you think—”
“Who is this?”
A laugh. A sharp, indrawn breath. “You know damn well who it is. Just you wait, granny. Lock your windows and doors. Just…you…wait.”
The caller rang off. I replaced the receiver. I rubbed my hand against the leg of my jeans and stared at the phone. She must have been drunk. She must have needed to vent her spleen. She must have…I didn’t know. I shuddered and wondered why I was shuddering. I had nothing to worry about. Or so I thought.
Still, perhaps I ought to phone Max. Return to the barge. Come back another time. Because it was obvious that Mother and Kenneth were gone for the night, perhaps two or three. I would have to return.
But when, when? How many weeks did I really have before the wheelchair was imperative and my life on the barge at an end? How many more opportunities would fall my way before that time, when Chris was out on an assault and I could once again claim to have made an appointment to see Mother alone? Nothing was working out as I planned. It was maddening to think about going through this charade with Chris another time.
I sighed. If Plan A wasn’t working, Plan B was worth a try. Near the door that led to the dining room sat Mother’s davenport. There would be paper and pens within it. I would write her a letter. It wouldn’t have the same power of surprise, but that couldn’t be helped.
I found what I was looking for and sat down to write. I was tired, my fingers didn’t wish to cooperate. After every paragraph, I had to stop and rest. I was four pages into the project when resting my fingers became resting my eyes became resting my head on the davenport’s sloped writing surface. Five minutes, I thought. Let me take five minutes, then I’ll go on.
The dream took me upstairs to the top floor of the house, into my old bedroom. I had my rucksacks with me, only when I opened them to unpack, they contained no clothes but instead the bodies of those long-ago kittens we’d rescued from the spinal cord experiment. I thought they were dead, but they weren’t. They began to crawl, dragging themselves across the counterpane on the bed with their twisted little back legs stretched out uselessly behind them. I tried to gather them up, these kittens. I knew I had to get them out of sight before Mother came in. But every time I caught one of the kittens, another appeared. They were under the pillows and on the floor. When I opened a drawer in the chest to hide them, they had already multiplied in there as well. And then, in that bizarre scene-switching way of dreams, Richie Brewster was there. We were in my mother’s room now. We were in her bed. Richie was playing his saxophone with a snake on his shoulder. It crawled across his chest and went beneath the covers. Richie smiled and gestured with his saxophone and said, “Blow, baby. Blow, Liv,” and I knew what he wanted but I was afraid of the snake and afraid of what would happen if my mother came in and saw us in her bed but I went beneath the covers anyway and I did what he wanted but when he said, “Huh huh huh,” in a groan, I raised my head and it was my father. He smiled and opened his mouth to speak. The snake slithered out. I gave a gasp and woke up.
My face was damp. My mouth had hung open as I slept and I’d smeared the page I’d been writing on. I thought, Thank God one can wake oneself up from dreams. Thank God dreams don’t really mean anything. Thank God…and then I heard it.
I hadn’t awakened myself at all. A noise had. A door was closing somewhere beneath me, the garden door.
The phone call, I thought. So I said nothing as my heart began to pound. Footsteps climbed the stairs from the kitchen. I heard the door open at the rear of the corridor. It closed. More footsteps. A pause. Then they came rapidly on.
The phone call, I thought. Oh God, oh God. I looked towards the telephone and willed myself to fly across the room and punch those triple nines so that I could yell my head off to the police. But I couldn’t move. Never had I been so aware of what the present meant and what the future promised.
CHAPTER
24
Lynley concluded his meeting with Superintendent Webberly by gathering up the manila folders as well as the last three days of newspaper coverage. This latter material began with Jimmy Cooper’s plunge into the Thames on Tuesday evening. It continued with accounts of his being taken into custody on Wednesday morning—led from the George Green Comprehensive School with his head hanging and his shoulders sloping as he walked between two uniformed constables. Thursday, with headlines announcing that murder charges were about to be brought against the son of Kenneth Fleming, it pursued everything from graphics depicting the workings of the juvenile justice system to interviews with Crown prosecutors expressing their opinions about the age at which children sho
uld be tried as adults, and it ended with this morning’s recapitulation of the crime itself along with pertinent information about the Fleming family as well as a review of the career of the eminent batsman. All of the stories bore the same subtextual message: The case was closed and the trial was pending. Lynley couldn’t have hoped for more.
“You’re certain the Whitelaw woman’s story checks out?” Webberly asked him.
“In every respect. Has done from the first.”
Webberly heaved himself from the chair he’d taken at the circular table at the beginning of their afternoon meeting. He strolled to his filing cabinets and scooped up a picture of his only child, Miranda. She was happily posing on the river terrace of St. Stephen’s College in Cambridge, her trumpet tucked under her arm. Webberly regarded her reflectively. He said to Lynley without raising his eyes, “You’re going to be asking a lot, Tommy.”
“It’s our only hope, sir. In the last three days, I’ve had the entire team go over every shred of evidence and every interview. Havers and I have been out to Kent twice. We’ve met with the Maidstone crime scene team. We’ve spoken to each neighbour within sighting distance of Celandine Cottage. We’ve combed the garden and the cottage itself. We’ve been to all of the Springburns and nosed round there. We’ve come up with nothing more than what we have already. As far as I can tell, there’s only one avenue left and that’s the one we’re following.”
Webberly nodded but didn’t look particularly happy with Lynley’s answer. He replaced Miranda’s photograph and wiped a speck of dust from its frame. He said in the same reflective tone, “Hillier’s worked himself into a froth over this.”
“I’m not surprised. I’ve let the press come in close. I’ve abandoned established procedure. He wouldn’t like that, no matter the circumstances.”
“He’s called for another meeting. I’ve managed to put it off till Monday afternoon.” He shot Lynley a look that successfully communicated the unspoken peroration to his remarks: Lynley had until Monday to bring the case to a close. At that point, Hillier would pull rank on them all and assign another DI.
“Right,” Lynley said. “Thank you for keeping him out of my way, sir. That can’t have been easy.”
“I won’t be able to hold him off much longer. And not at all after Monday.”
“I don’t think you’ll need to.”
Webberly cocked an eyebrow at him. “That confident, are you?”
Lynley tucked the folders and the newspapers under his arm. “Not when all I’ve got to work with is a single untraceable telephone call. I can’t build a case on that.”
“Have at her, then.” The superintendent strolled back to his desk where he unearthed another case report from the general litter. He nodded Lynley on his way.
Lynley went to his own office where he deposited the case files but not the newspapers. He met Sergeant Havers on his way to the lift. She was flipping through a sheaf of typescript, frowning and muttering, “Hell, hell, hell,” and when she saw him, she halted, reversed direction, and matched her stride to his. She said, “Are we off somewhere, then?”
Lynley unhooked his pocket watch and flipped it open. Quarter to five. “Didn’t you mention a party this evening? ‘Wonderful Games Will Be Played/Delicious Refreshments Will Be Served’? Shouldn’t you be heading out to get ready?”
“Tell me, sir. What the hell am I supposed to buy for an eight-year-old girl? A doll? A game? A chemistry set? Nintendo? Roller blades? A flick knife? Water colours? What?” She rolled her eyes, but it was largely for effect. Lynley could tell she was pleased to be troubled with the task. “I could get her a Diablo,” she went on, chewing on the pencil she’d been using to tick against the typescript. “At Camden Lock, there’s a shop that sells them. Magician’s gear as well. I wonder…What d’you think about magician’s gear for an eight-year-old, sir? Or a costume? Kids like to play dressing up, don’t they? I could get her a costume.”
“What time is this party?” Lynley asked as he rang for the lift.
“Seven. What about war toys? Model cars? Airplanes? Rock and roll? D’you think she’s too young for Sting? David Bowie?”
“I think you’d be wise to start your shopping immediately,” Lynley said. The lift doors slid open. He stepped inside.
She was saying, “A skipping rope? A chess set? Backgammon? A plant? Great. What an idiot. A plant for an eight-year-old. What about books?” as the lift doors closed.
Lynley wondered what it would feel like to have so little to worry about on a Friday night.
Chris Faraday walked slowly along Warwick Avenue, from the underground station towards Blomfield Road. Beans and Toast loped ahead of him. They obediently dropped to their haunches at the street corner, anticipating the shouted command, “Walk, dogs!” that would permit them to cross Warwick Place and continue on their way to the barge. When the command didn’t come, they dashed back to rejoin him, and ran yelping circles round his legs. They were used to a consistent run, start to finish. He was the one who’d always insisted upon that. Given their preference, they would have chosen to dawdle, snuffling round rubbish bins and chasing stray cats whenever the opportunity arose. But he’d trained them well, so this break in routine left them confused. They expressed their bemusement with their vocal cords. They yapped. They collided with each other. They bumped into his legs.
Chris knew they were there, and he knew what they wanted: speed, action, and the late-afternoon’s breeze flapping back their ears. They wouldn’t have objected to dinner as well, or a rubber ball thrown in the air for them to catch. But Chris was preoccupied with the Evening Standard.
The newspaper, which he’d purchased along the route of their run, featured yet another variation on the story it had been printing since mid-week. It had managed the coup of having a photographer on the Isle of Dogs when the boy had made his break from the police, and its editors appeared to be underscoring that fact. Today—Friday—with the accompanying headline “East End Drama,” the newspaper was committing a full page to the murder of Kenneth Fleming, the subsequent investigation, the Isle of Dogs chase after Fleming’s son, the near-drowning which had concluded that chase, and the sensational one-man rescue that followed. The river photographs were grainy because a telephoto lens had been used to shoot them, but the point they made was clear enough: The long arm of the law reached out to ensnare the guilty no matter what efforts were made to avoid it.
Chris folded the newspaper. He tucked it under his arm with the rest. He scuffed through the cherry blossoms that covered the pavement on Warwick Avenue, and he thought about his conversation with Amanda, late last night after he’d settled Livie in bed. All he’d been able to tell her truthfully was, “I don’t think it’s likely to work out the way we hoped.”
He had heard the fear in her voice despite her effort to sound collected. She’d said, “Why? Has something happened? Has Livie changed her mind?” And he could tell from her tone that she wasn’t so much afraid of the truth as she was afraid of being hurt by the truth. He knew she was saying without really saying, “Are you choosing Livie over me?”
He’d wanted to tell her that it wasn’t a matter of choosing anyone. The situation was far simpler than that. The path that had previously seemed logical and essentially uncomplicated was now not only tortuous but nearly impossible. But he couldn’t tell her that. To tell her that would be extending an inadvertent invitation to ask more questions, which he would want to answer even as he knew that he couldn’t.
So he’d told her that Livie hadn’t changed her mind, but that the circumstances revolving round her decision had altered. And when she asked how and said, “She’s rallied, hasn’t she? Oh God, what a horrible question to ask. I’ve been reduced to sounding as if I want her to die, and I don’t, Chris, I don’t,” he said, “I know that. It isn’t that, anyway. It’s just that Livie’s—”
“No,” she’d said. “You’re not to tell me. Not like this, with me wheedling on the phone like an adolescent. When
you’re ready, Chris, when Livie is, you can tell me then.”
Which made him want to tell her all the more and to ask for her advice. But he’d said only, “I love you. That hasn’t changed.”
“I wish you were with me.”
“I wish the same.”
There was nothing more to say. Still, they had remained on the phone, prolonging the contact for another hour. It was after one in the morning when she’d said gently, “I must ring off, Chris.”
“Of course,” he’d said, “you’ve work at nine, haven’t you? I’m being selfish, holding on like this.”
“You’re not selfish. Besides, I want you holding on.”
He didn’t deserve her. He knew that, even as he kept himself going day after day solely, it seemed, with the thought of her.
The dogs had raced back to the corner of Warwick Avenue and Warwick Place. Tails wagging, they awaited his command. He caught them up and checked for traffic. He said, “Walk, dogs,” and sent them hurtling on their way.
Livie was on the deck where he’d left her, huddled into one of the canvas chairs with a blanket round her shoulders. She was staring at Browning’s Island where the willow trees looped leafy branches towards water and ground. She looked more wizened than he’d ever seen her, a presage of what the coming months held.
She roused herself when Beans and Toast clambered up onto the deck and snuffled at her left hand, which hung limply from the chair. She raised her head and blinked.
Chris laid the newspaper on the deck next to her, saying, “Nothing’s changed, Livie.” He went to fetch the dogs’ bowls from below as she began to read.
He gave the dogs fresh water. He poured out the food. Beans and Toast tucked in. While they gobbled and slurped, Chris leaned against the top of the barge’s cabin and turned his attention to Livie.