Chris Collett - [Tom Mariner 01] (9 page)

But Knox was just soaking it all in, and hardly seemed to notice. ‘I like it,’ he said finally. ‘It’s got style.’

‘That’s not what Greta, my girlfriend, thought. She spent most of her time complaining about the damp and the huge spiders. I didn’t dare tell her about the rat.’

‘You’re a lucky bastard,’ Knox said, after some consideration.

‘You’ve got it made; good job, a great house and you’re still single. Birds must be throwing themselves at you.’

Mariner had a sudden mental image of sparrows and pigeons hurling themselves at his windows. ‘Oh, all the time,’ he said. But his sarcasm drifted off into the darkness.

‘To single life,’ said Knox, raising his glass.

His heart not really in it, Mariner joined in the toast, ‘So, are you going to tell me why your missus threw you out?’

‘It’s complicated,’ said Knox, vaguely, which Mariner decoded into ‘mind your own business’. He didn’t pursue it.

Instead, it made sense to bring Knox up to date with what he’d learned at the Birmingham Echo, and what he’d found on Eddie Barham’s bank statements.

‘What do you think those payments are?’ Knox asked.

‘I don’t know. They could be anything; fees for a story…’

‘Or his sister could have been subbing him.’

‘Whatever it is, we’re going to have to ask a few more questions. And check out more paperwork.’

‘I can’t wait.’ Swallowing the dregs of his beer, Knox got to his feet. ‘But first I’ve got some kip to catch up on.’

He held up the empty glass. ‘And this stuff may not taste much, but it’s knocked me out.’

‘Mission accomplished,’ said Mariner.

After Knox had gone in, Mariner sat on his own a while longer, breathing in the cool air as best he could through his blocked nose, and listening to the low, distant rumble of the city, punctuated incongruously by the occasional croon of nocturnal wood pigeons. The chirping of the phone jolted him back to the here and now and he scrambled inside to get it. Knox had disappeared upstairs, but, Mariner noticed with some appreciation, had cleared up the debris from the living room before he went. Maybe this arrangement wouldn’t be so bad. He picked up the phone.

‘Tom? It’s Bill Croghan.’ Christ, the Home Office pathologist must be working late. It was nearly eleven. ‘I know it’s late, Tom,’ he said, echoing Mariner’s thoughts.

‘But I’ve just finished writing up the case notes on Edward Barham,’ he said. ‘I thought you might like a preview of the main findings.’

‘Technically, it’s PC Knox’s case,’ Mariner reminded him, without real conviction, thinking at the same time that Knox was only a few metres away. ‘You should talk to him first.’

‘Like I said,’ Croghan repeated cheerfully, ‘I thought you might like the main findings on Edward Barham. We’ve turned up some interesting stuff.’

Upstairs, everything had gone quiet and Mariner caved in immediately, feeling only slightly guilty about his failure to summon Knox to the phone. ‘Let’s have it then,’ he said grabbing the nearest piece of paper, which happened to be a grease-stained napkin from the Rising Sun takeaway.

Taking Jamie into her flat for the first time was like guiding a blind man. Anna could sense his fear, but at least he wasn’t actively resisting. Switching on all the lights, she hung back to allow Jamie to set his own tempo. Gradually, reassured that it was safe, he began to pace, touching the walls and surfaces, checking them over. A Waterford crystal candleholder smashed loudly to the ground, but Jamie ignored it. Anna followed him at a distance; when he moved a photograph she moved it back again. Jamie slapped his hand to his mouth and bit down hard, Anna returned the photograph to where he had placed it.

Eventually, having completed his tactile circuit of the room, Jamie gravitated to the TV, which he switched on without hesitation and using the unfamiliar remote control almost instinctively, channel-hopped until he found something he liked, loud and brash with canned laughter. Then, choosing a corner of the room, he lay down on his back on the polished wood floor, his knees raised and both hands in front of his face, peering through his fingers at the light cast on the ceiling by the standard lamp.

Anna stood watching for a moment, waiting for him to get up again but he didn’t. She suddenly recalled his favourite ‘spot’ at home behind the sofa, where the sun shone in through the window to highlight the top of the radiator in a series of lines and curves, that kept him transfixed for hours on end. Right now Anna couldn’t see what had attracted him to this particular place in her flat but in time she would. Meanwhile Jamie seemed contented enough and she had things to do. In less than an hour she had to be at da Paglia, looking her most alluring. And before she could even think about that, she had to enlist some help.

Despite Joyce’s well-intentioned encouragement, Anna had already made up her mind that her priority was to find residential accommodation for Jamie as soon as possible, preferably tonight. She was not about to be sucked into playing a more active role in his life than she needed to. It wasn’t as if it would make the slightest difference to Jamie anyway, as long as he had his Hula Hoops he’d be happy enough.

Picking up the phone, she tried the number for Oakwood, without giving her name, but it was as Joyce had predicted, they were full. A search of the Birmingham business directory turned up the next number she needed, and after being re-routed three times by recorded messages finally spoke to a human voice. ‘Hello, is that the Social Services department? I’m looking for somewhere for my brother to stay. He’s autistic’

But several minutes of questioning established that the voice at the other end was unable to assist. Unless Anna was homeless herself it was assumed that she would be responsible for Jamie. She was not considered to be an emergency. Long-term they may be able to help her to find residential care, and could even furnish her with a list of establishments that was only slightly out if date, but could offer nothing at seven fifteen on a Wednesday evening. ‘So sorry.’

That was a blow. Time for ‘Auntie Anna’ the one-time babysitting queen to call in a few favours. But Nigel and Sue were going out themselves tonight, to the gym Nigel cheerfully told her, having recently taken on this wonderful new au pair.

‘Have a great time,’ Anna said, distractedly, her mind already exploring the next possibility. She had obliged Kate on odd occasions, well once at least, and an exhausting experience it had been taking care of the two little dears.

Now would be a good time for Kate to reciprocate. Her kids must be old enough to look after themselves by now.

Anna punched in the numbers. ‘Hello, Kate? It’s Anna.

I’m fine, how are you? Look, I need a favour. My younger brother is staying with me at the moment but I’ve got a really important business dinner tonight. Is there any chance you could sit for me?’

Kate was clearly confused by the request, having forgotten about Jamie.

‘He’s twenty-nine,’ Anna reminded her. ‘But he’s…’ but by now Kate’s memory was restored and in the same instant she also suddenly remembered a prior but unspecified engagement that she couldn’t possibly rearrange. Anna brought the conversation to a polite close between gritted teeth and tried Becky’s number.

‘I’m sorry,’ declared the irritatingly cheery BT reply.

‘There is no one here to take your call …’ Anna slammed down the phone in frustration. She searched through her address book. She flicked through it again. One last hope.

She pushed buttons and thankfully a real voice answered.

‘Hello? Auntie Helen, it’s Anna, your goddaughter.’

Auntie Helen sounded surprised to hear from Anna. ‘Yes, I know, it’s been a long time,’ Anna conceded, but ignoring the pangs of guilt, she came straight to the point.

‘Actually, Auntie, I’m in a bit of a fix and wondered if you could help. I need someone to take care of Jamie for me…’

It was to no avail. Learning that Auntie Helen had only left hospital the previous day following an angina attack made Anna feel worse than ever. ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said. ‘No of course not. Never mind. You just concentrate on getting yourself well again. I’ll be in touch soon. Bye.’ She hung up. ‘Shit.’

| And now it was twenty to eight. If she was to stand any chance of getting to the restaurant on time she needed to get ready right away. By five past eight she had showered and dressed in a smart two-piece, not too casual, not too formal. She’d also reached a decision, and walked purposefully into the lounge where Jamie sat in a corner of the room flicking through an Ikea catalogue he’d found. In an hour he’d hardly moved.

‘Right Jamie,’ Anna announced to no one, in an attempt to strengthen her own resolve. ‘You’re going to have to stay here on your own.’

Before leaving, Anna made a quick tour of the flat, unplugging any unnecessary appliances to minimise the risk of fire or electrocution. In the kitchen she stowed away the food processor and removed all the sharp implements from the drawer, tucking them into a high cupboard out of sight.

Throughout, Jamie stayed where he was, on the same spot on the floor.

Anna walked down the hall. ‘See you later, Jamie. Be good.’ And she closed the front door on him, listening for the Yale to click. On her way out she would just alert Ted, the doorman, to the fact that Jamie was in her flat, then if there was a fire—A fire. Her train of thought suddenly began moving along an unwelcome track. What would happen if there really was a fire? Ted wouldn’t go up there to get Jamie out. And if the fire started on her floor? Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. There had never been a fire.

Why should there be one tonight of all nights?

Then, as she was getting into her car, Anna remembered her bedroom window, the one with a broken lock that she’d yet to report. Had she closed it? She couldn’t remember.

Straining her eyes in the darkness, she turned and looked up at the building, searching for her own flat and at the same time thinking about Jamie’s penchant for climbing.

Then she saw it. Open. Abandoning her car Anna ran back into the building and up the stairs. She fumbled at the lock to her front door. ‘Jamie!’ she yelled bursting back into the flat. Jamie looked up disinterestedly from where he lay on his stomach, turning the page of the Next directory, in exactly the same spot as she’d left him. Her heart pounded and her knees had gone weak. She felt faint. Oh God, she couldn’t do this. How could she possibly concentrate on a business meeting, knowing that Jamie was here alone? It wasn’t even as if she could phone to check up on him. But she had to get to that meeting.

‘If you can’t stay here, Jamie,’ she said out loud. ‘You’ll have to come with me.’

But time was running out. Jonathan would be at the restaurant now, the Robinson’s team due to arrive at any minute. Taking Jamie’s arm Anna encouraged him to his feet. ‘Oh God, look at you.’ The ill-fitting police issue clothes smelled of the day centre and he badly needed a shave. On the plus side, he could get away with having designer stubble where they were going. But the clothes …

Then Anna remembered Jonathan’s emergency overnight bag. Not much in it, but there were the basics: a Ralph Lauren shirt, dark chinos and underwear.

Still clinging to the shopping brochure, Jamie sat impassively and allowed Anna to dress him. Jonathan was bigger than him though and the clothes swamped him, the main problem being the trousers, which were several inches too big in the waist. From Anna’s own wardrobe she unearthed a broad, black leather belt to tighten them up but the length left them baggy at the ankles, Charlie Chaplin style. He didn’t look great, but it would have to do. Then she washed Jamie’s face and combed his hair, before foolishly attempting to relieve him of the catalogue. Jamie held on tight.

Anna tried again, eliciting a sustained moaning until, finally, she wrested the catalogue from him with a jolt, leaving him jumping on the spot, flapping his hands and wailing loudly.

That was when Anna reached the crushing realisation that whatever Jamie might be wearing she wasn’t going to be able to pass him off as a fellow executive. She’d been mad to think that she could pull it off. Practically throwing the catalogue back at him, she sank down on to the sofa, raking her hands through her hair in frustration. Finally she made herself pick up the phone. Luckily, Jonathan had his mobile switched on.

‘It’s me,’ Anna said, in a small voice.

‘Hold on.’ There was a pause and some scuffling, during which Anna heard Jonathan making excuses before moving to somewhere more private. ‘Where are you?’ he said at last. What’s happened?’

‘Nothing, at least nothing more. I couldn’t get anyone to have Jamie.’

Another pause while Jonathan took this in. ‘Well can’t you just leave him in your flat? He’s a grown-up, isn’t he?’

Immediately Anna could hear the contest between lover and boss playing itself out. ‘In years, I know, but …’ She looked over at Jamie who was already tugging at his trousers, fidgeting with the unfamiliar underwear. ‘It’s complicated.’

‘Damn. What am I supposed to say to our guests?

They’re here. We’re waiting to order.’

‘You’ll just have to tell them I’ve been taken ill or something.’

‘Leaving me to do all the work. Thanks. I really wish you’d thought of this earlier, Anna.’ Short contest, settled already, and suddenly Anna felt angry. Whatever happened to sympathy?

‘Well, I didn’t know it was going to be such a problem, did I?’ she snapped. ‘Where do you think I’d rather be? Do you think I planned for Eddie to top himself?’ That last was a cheap shot, but it had the desired effect.

Jonathan was grudgingly contrite. ‘Okay. I’m sorry.

Look, I’d better get back.’

‘Good luck.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’ll be…’ But he’d cut her off.

By now, Jamie had discovered a programme he liked on the TV, and Anna had little choice but to sit miserably beside him in her Karen Millen cocktail number and ridiculous strappy sandals, drinking her way through a bottle of red wine. She had a sudden horrible premonition that this is what her future life would be like, and she’d be consigned forever to drinking cheap wine and watching the sickeningly smug Chris Tarrant striving to turn Mr or Mrs Boring from East Sussex into millionaires. It had been a long day and much later she was roused from a drowsy reverie by the phone ringing.