Maloney's Law (15 page)

And then, not looking behind me once, I stride over the soaking, sinking grass into the car and start the long drive home.

Where I pour myself a Glenfiddich and down it straight off. Fuck the 6pm rule. Flame sears my throat and takes away some of the pain. I switch on the TV, get up, prowl like an injured wolf into the kitchen, plug in the kettle, decide I don’t want anything that isn’t whisky, look into the freezer but there’s nothing there and I’m not hungry anyway.

Back in the living room, the TV is an irritation so I switch it off, and the silence plunges in like water. The onslaught of tears in the cemetery has cleansed and rewired my mind.

Dominic isn’t a client any more, that much is obvious, but there’s no way I can give up the investigation. Whoever killed Jade took that CD, and I wonder if they know I have the original. The idea that I might be in danger myself seems mere objective fact. Not something that should give me pause. All I need to know is why the information is so important. No, more to the point, I need to have evidence of what I suspect, and I need it quickly. Without Jade, I don’t know the way forward. I have to find one. I need to think laterally. Let all the facts shake down and become part of the way I live. I have to come up with something to take me to the next stage of whatever Delta Egypt is doing.

So for a while I sit and let the things that have happened and the things that I know slide by without snatching at them. When I’m ready, I call Dominic.

Chapter Twelve

I get his PA and wonder at the hours she works. I’m not complaining; this is what I should have done in the first place. I keep the conversation brief. She recognises my name, gives me the information I need and I ring off.

What she’s told me will make life easier. The next time Dominic is seeing Blake Kenzie is Thursday this week, better than I’d hoped for. Something I’ve done, or they think I’ve done, is worrying them. The best thing about it is that Blake is coming to London for ‘discussions’, and I won’t have to fly to Egypt. Cairo can wait. Will Blake’s arrival here increase the danger? I think the answer is yes, but it doesn’t worry me. There’s way too much other stuff to focus on. Jade is dead and someone has to pay. What I want to know is how much Dominic knows and how involved he is in Jade’s murder.

One item I need is the second half of the hidden folders Jade found. If I can get hold of them and interpret them, then I’ll be sure. What I don’t know and can’t begin to work out is what I’m going to do with the information.

There’s no point obsessing now or upping my whisky intake while I wait. Whatever happens, I need to be sharp. It strikes me that when I act there’ll be no room for error. I have forty-four hours and thirty-two minutes before I can see Blake and Dominic together. It will be interesting to see how they react. Until then, all I can do is wait and work.

And how I work.

I re-read the article from my mother’s paper. I look at every single item on my CD, still wondering exactly who has Jade’s copy now. Last of all, I turn to the reports on Bluesky’s death again. I have to swallow down bile as I read: the body’s cruel bruising, the sexual violence, the blotting out of one unknown woman’s life. No mercy, no justice. As I work, the phrases my friend showed me and noted as being important echo through my mind, a background canvas to the slotting in of facts and supposition: 31 Jan, call; when ready, Starlight, Dancer, Mar 20; carry on, Jun 0, Aqua and always, always, Bluesky. I wonder if I’ll ever be rid of them.

The hours flicker by and I carry on reading. The air grows ever colder until at last I get up and switch on the boiler, not yet set to its winter programme.

In the bedroom, I don’t bother with the light. A flicker of movement outside the window on the street, dark outline into darker shadow, makes me look and look again. From instinct I step away from the glass, my eye retaining an image of a man, tall, still. My muscles tense, ready for action. I can feel my heart thudding blood around my body. Three seconds pace by, but when I peer back into the night, there’s no-one there. Am I overreacting, seeing a threat in every passing stranger? If I keep on doing that, then I’ll be lost. I check the doors and windows are locked anyway.

After that, it’s back to work, to draw as much from the time I have as I can, and when at last I drag myself into bed at almost 3am, I fall asleep at once.

When the light through the windows wakes me up in the morning, for a second or two it’s as if everything is as it should be: Jade is alive, I’m seven-eighths of the way home on solving a major case in which Dominic has no involvement. Even now, I’m terrified to think he has. Then the great, slow cloud of realisation rolls upon me, and I lie, immobile, staring upwards at the cracks in the ceiling. I’ve overslept. It’s after 9am and it’s time to get up.

The hot shower feels good on my skin, invigorates me. I make coffee, black and strong, and sip it as the laptop hums back to life. The hours race by, but the fact that a second reading of everything on the CD gives me nothing more than a headache makes me wonder why I’m even bothering. I should be out there trying to get the information that will make the file complete, but the truth is there’s no point doing this until Blake gets here. Not that I have any clue yet as to how I’m going to get that information. I’ll have to rely on either inspiration or luck. I hope I’m not out of either. For now I need to ignore the throbbing behind my eyes and take in as much as I can, on the grounds that you can never know too much: PI Rule Number Thirteen. It’s not true though, is it? Jade’s death tells me that. I rub my eyes, take a swig of water, and concentrate on the screen.

I hear the post arrive and catch the noises of the city: laughter, shouts, the background hum of cars. It crosses my mind that there might be someone out there, watching my flat, waiting for me to appear. They’ll have a long wait then. All locks are secured and I’m going nowhere. Lunchtime comes and goes, with the sounds beyond my walls changing in tone and emphasis: more laughter now and more traffic. My stomach protests at the lack of food. I answer it with more of the coffee I make double-strength in the cafetiere. I reheat and refill it five times during the course of the afternoon.

When I’ve typed up all the notes I can make and the combined knowledge of Jade and myself is saved on three disks, I’m no further forward. But at least my understanding of the business is greater.

I can do no more. Slamming the laptop shut, I spring up, wipe both hands across my face, and stretch the muscles in my legs and arms. I need a drink. What time is it?

8.32 pm. I’ve worked all day. In the kitchen, I pour myself a well-earned Highland Park and feel the fire of it warming the back of my tongue. The first glass I gulp down, wanting the comfort of it more than the savour, but the second I take my time over. I’m only on the third sip when I remember the post.

It’s still on the hall floor. As I pick it up, I notice a thick, oblong package with familiar handwriting on the address label. For a ridiculous moment, my mind says bomb: danger, before I recognise who’s sent it and give a short laugh. God, I must stop reading all those crime novels, I must stop imagining I’m in a Tarantino film. Yes, I think, I may be a small-time investigator, but I’ve been knifed and shot at in Cairo, and my best friend has been murdered. I’m in deeper than I’ve ever been, and I’m mixed up with a man who might, if my instincts are correct, be playing a very dangerous game. I have to be careful.

The handwriting on the label reminds me of Jade’s. The postmark is Essex.

I tear open the wrapping and then gaze at the tied-up bundles of letters. The covering note is signed by Mrs. O’Donnell. ‘We found these in Jade’s private belongings,’ it says. ‘We think she would have liked you to have them.’ I pull the first one out of its green ribbon and read it. Then I find myself crouched on the floor, back resting against the wall, and I read it again. Then I read another and another and another, all from different bundles, and still I don’t understand.

I get up, gather the letters to my chest, and abandon any thought of dealing with the other post. In the living room I spread them on the table gently, as if the slightest movement might tear them.

There are thirty-four letters. Tears slide down my face as I slowly read them all again.

They’re love letters, written by Jade and addressed to me. Never posted. She mentions conversations we’ve had, evenings out at The Bell and Book, meals we’ve shared or that time when I took her to see
Cats
, and details of cases only the two of us would know about. All the inner workings of our friendship. And laced between all this are expressions of love, commitment, evidence of a desire I never knew. When I’ve finished them, I fold the last one up and sit holding it. My eyelids are hot and prickling, sore with crying. It’s as if all the things I’ve relied on, all the history I thought was mine, has been snatched from my grasp and returned to me in an unfamiliar guise. Why didn’t she ever say anything?

What could I have done if she had? God. I bury my face in my hands and groan. I’m sorry, Jade, I’m sorry. Even as the tears continue to fall, the doorbell pierces the still flat and pulls me back into the present. It’s late for visitors, too damn late, 10.23 pm now. I’ve just decided to ignore it and concentrate on dealing with the aftermath of the package in front of me when it rings again. This time it doesn’t stop.

‘Okay, okay, for God’s sake,’ I mutter. ‘Can’t you just bloody well leave me alone, whoever you are?’

I peer through the spy hole before opening the door. It’s Dominic, and I know from experience that he won’t go away until he gets what he wants. The sight of him glowering on the doorstep makes me change my mind, and I try to shut the door again, but he’s too quick for me.

‘No,’ he says, sidestepping past me and into the hall. ‘I want to talk to you, and it has to be now.’

I’m pleased to see his lip is a little blue from where I hit it yesterday, but already he’s in the living room, shrugging off his coat and laying it across the back of my sofa. He sits down without me inviting him, spreading his arms wide and gazing up at me, one eyebrow raised, as if he owns the place. I go to gather up Jade’s letters, but there are too many of them. He stands, picks one up, and glances through it before tossing it back onto the table and sitting down again.

‘How charming. Are they all like that?’ he asks.

‘Fuck off.’

‘Rather a purple prose she had. Not the class of love letter I’d send to anyone if I sent any at all.’

‘Shut the fuck up,’ I snap back. Then I stare into his eyes. ‘You don’t sound surprised?’

‘I’m not. But that isn’t what I’ve come to discuss with you.’

‘Look, what the fuck do you want? Why don’t you just say it and go?’

He gives a short laugh. ‘As you wish. What I’ve come to discuss with you is the case. I’m taking you off it.’

‘You don’t have to. I’m working for myself now.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘What do you think?’ I thump my fist down on the table, scattering Jade’s letters onto the floor, and wish for the second time I’d never let him in.

‘Don’t do that, Paul. You’ll break it. What do you mean you’re working for yourself?’

I can’t believe he doesn’t get it, and I can’t believe he’s behaving so coldly, but when I look at him there’s no deceit in his face. ‘Jade is dead. You were the indirect cause of her death. I no longer want your dirty money. All I want to find out is the truth and how much you know of it. How much do you know, Dominic?’

I speak slowly so there can be no misunderstanding, and as I do so Dominic gets to his feet, half-turns away from me, picks up one of my mother’s Staffordshire dogs from the mantelpiece, and sighs.

‘I’ve never understood your taste,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry about Jade, more than you know, but I didn’t kill her. It does, though, make it even more imperative that you realise the case is over. Leave it alone.’

I shake my head. ‘You must be out of your mind.’

‘Please.’

‘No.’

He puts down the dog and swings ’round to face me. ‘Then you leave me no choice.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re a reasonable man. Or you can be when your heart isn’t involved. Or your cock. And, my God, talking of your cock, you’ve had your share of lovers, haven’t you? Not including me. Though my sources reveal you have at least calmed down since your early twenties, and really I would have thought that would have been a relief to you. Let’s see, shall we?’

He reaches into his coat, takes out a sheaf of papers, and unfolds it. Unable to speak, unable to move, I watch him.

‘What does this tell me?’ he continues. ‘Hmm, regular use of the physical facilities on offer in the gents’ toilets of a Soho nightclub, advertising for a sex partner for pleasure only in the gay press, shagging strangers in the less pleasant areas of Hampstead Heath and — ah, your pièce de résistance, my friend, very impressive indeed — being questioned and cautioned for underage sexual activity with a minor, the son of one of your parents’ neighbours, I believe. You’ve been busy. God, Paul, the boy was only fifteen. Fifteen. A child. What the fuck were you thinking of? You were lucky not to end up in court for that one. Good job it wasn’t — according to the records, though, knowing you as I do, I don’t believe it — actual penetration, and that your father’s a judge. Oh and that the lad was said to be willing of course. That helped. There’s more. Shall I go on?’

By now, I’m sitting slumped on the sofa, trying to catch my breath. ‘How did you know, you bastard? How long have you known about me?’

He waves the papers. ‘Since we started to fuck each other. All these things that could bring the police down on you, take your livelihood out of your grasp, ruin you even, I’ve always known. Trust me, I’ll do it if I have to. And more. You don’t want to be responsible for destroying your father’s glittering career, not to mention the distress it will cause your mother. I’m telling you the truth, and you’re condemned by your own beliefs. Maloney’s Law — you should apply it now.’

He waits while I struggle to breathe and regain control.

‘When are you going to destroy me?’ I ask him. ‘And my parents?’

‘I won’t. On both counts. If you agree to my request. Abandon this case.’

‘Blackmail then. God, Dominic, is this what you’ve held against me all this time? Is this what you’d drop me and my family into if — when — this whole case goes down?’

‘Of course.’

His bloody honesty. It takes away any shaky ground I might have been able to find.

I stand up. ‘And what if in turn I tell everyone about our affair? How will your company, your shareholders, your wife, and your children feel when they know the sort of lies you tell?’

He shrugs his broad shoulders. ‘With your record, who would believe it?’

It’s only when he’s left me and I have drunk three more shots of the Highland Park, straight off, that I admit he’s right.

I walk out into the bleakness of the night. My conscious mind is busy bringing logic to all the things I have experienced in order to survive. In spite of the dullness of autumn, for me there’s a clarity in the air that makes everything seem sharper. I mull over tasks while, underneath, at my heart, I am remembering another place, another time when the man I love gave me no choices.

Thursday 12 April 2001. The day Dominic ended our affair. April is the cruellest month, they say, and since then I’ve always believed it. He’d promised he’d be with me at 9pm though he would have to leave by midnight. Cassie was expecting him. That would give us three hours of love-making. Enough, I’d hoped, to get me through another week or two until he decided he could see me again. Please God, let it not be any longer than that, I remember thinking, please, not this time.