Maloney's Law (17 page)

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘For everything I’ve done. I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you after Jade died. I should have come, but I was too afraid.’

‘Why?’ she says, cutting me off. ‘Why didn’t you come to see us? Why were you so afraid? I would have liked to see you then. We both would, I think.’

‘I know.’ For the first time I look into her face. What I see there encourages me to stop for a moment and think a little deeper about what I’ve done. ‘I know that. I was frightened of what you might say.’

‘What did you think that might be?’

I take a breath, lean back in my chair, and gaze upwards at the white swirling ceiling patterns. ‘I thought you’d say it was my fault. I thought it was my fault. We were working on a case, Jade and I, a difficult one. I knew it was becoming dangerous, but I was stupid. I thought the danger was only for me, not for her. I never thought she’d be... God. Anyway, I should have been there, I shouldn’t have left early, I should never have left her on her own. I knew she’d work late, no matter what I said. I should have been there to help her. I should have been, but I wasn’t.’

‘Why did you leave her? If you thought the case might be dangerous?’

Swallowing, I place my hands on my knees and feel the slight shake of my leg muscles quivering under my palms. Then I look at her.

‘I left,’ I say, ‘I left because I badly wanted to have sex with someone I hadn’t seen for a long time. I wanted to be with...him.’

The word “him” pulls its slow meaning through silence. She nods, as if it’s something she’s always known, although it’s impossible for that to be true.

‘I see,’ she says. ‘Thank you for telling me that. I know you’re a very private person. It must have been difficult for you to say.’

I can’t reply. I’m empty, winded as if I’ve been running uphill. Never in my life have I had to tell anyone about myself in this way; they, like my parents, have either discovered it or it’s been obvious under the circumstances, like later on, with Jade.

Mrs. O’Donnell leans forward and pats my hands, just once, as if bringing me back from where I’ve been. I realise my shaking has stopped. I realise also, with a shock of something unfamiliar, that for once I don’t want to run.

‘It also explains something about how you and Jade were together,’ she says. ‘Thank you. I think then my daughter knew?’

‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘She knew.’

‘From early on?’

‘Yes. I didn’t know she...I swear it, I had no idea how she felt about...things.’

Jade’s mother sighs, ‘The letters then. Did you read them?’

‘Yes. Did you?’

‘No. They weren’t written for me. They were written for you, Paul, but when we found them I knew what they would say. I knew my daughter. I knew how she felt about you, and I also understood you didn’t see that, though I never knew why.’ She hesitates. ‘Now of course I understand. But it doesn’t matter, it’s still right that you should have Jade’s letters. I know you were very fond of her.’

‘I loved her, Mrs. O’Donnell. I loved her, in my way. She was my best friend, she knew all about me. Things I’ve never told anyone else I’ve told Jade. She saw me at my worst, but she never judged me. I depended so much on her, in so many ways. I miss her, too. I always will. Not...not in the way you and Mr. O’Donnell will, of course. That would be impossible.’

At this point, I can’t say any more; the tears are too overpowering. And too out-of-place. It’s me who should be giving comfort, not receiving it, but today I’m travelling down roads I haven’t been on before.

Jade’s mother hands me a tissue that I crumple between my hands as I cry. She waits for me to finish, but she herself is calm. Only when the fit is over does she speak again.

‘You did your best, Paul. We wouldn’t ask for anything more.’

‘Maybe you should have done.’

‘Hush, you shouldn’t say such things. They’re not true.’

Her words remind me of something a woman would say to a young child. Maybe right now that’s what I am. It’s what I feel like.

‘Maybe. Maybe not,’ I say, my voice not quite itself yet. ‘Still, I wish I’d known your daughter better than I did, Mrs. O’Donnell.’

‘Perhaps you can,’ she says.

For the next two and a half hours, we talk about Jade. For me, the sense of release is almost tangible, a physical unpeeling, and I hope it’s the same for her, too. She shows me photographs of my friend as a baby, and as we flip through the pile of albums, I see Jade as I’ve never seen her before. I see her as a toddler, running at the camera clutching a biscuit, with that huge smile on her face. I see her in school uniform with her classmates, standing tall and laughing, her fair hair spilling out of its plaits. Then she’s on a school exchange trip to France, sitting in a café with foreign signs and sunlight on the street outside. She’s eating pommes frites with a dark-haired, elfin girl whose name Mrs. O’Donnell doesn’t remember. Later there are photos of Jade at Colchester Zoo with her first serious boyfriend. Both of them are sixteen, and he is holding her hand as if he wants to be there forever. Behind them, a monkey is caught stretching from the bar up to a tree branch.

Afterwards the pictures become more like the Jade I knew at University. Her hair fluffs out, is a riot of curls, then smooths down for a while before giving up and returning at last to the curls again. Her earrings get larger, her skirts go up, then down, and up. I see her breasts swell into adulthood whilst her waistline shrinks. Though never as much as she would have liked, I remember. Mrs. O’Donnell laughs when I say this.

‘Yes, she always wanted to be thinner. I don’t know why. I thought she was perfect as she was, but then I would say that, I suppose.’

‘No, it’s true. She had a great figure. I just wish she’d believed me when I told her so.’

And all the time, I hear about the things I missed out on, some of which I know only by the telling: Jade’s love of horses when she was small but how she could never stay on long enough to make the lessons worthwhile; her travel-sickness and her fear of flying; the way she never felt properly dressed without her watch. I hear about how she always asked her mother to make her special chocolate mousse on her birthday; the books she’d loved as a child and how sometimes she would try to stay up all night reading them by torchlight and pretending she was asleep. And I listen to stories about the friends she’d had and the people she’d known then. The woman I am sitting next to on the sofa lets the memories run rich and free. Afterwards, when the albums are shut and Jade’s childhood and young adulthood packed away until another time and place, I tell her the little I know.

I talk about the favourite table we had at The Bell and Book for our Monday evenings and how she always liked us to order the same drinks first, just for the pleasure of saying, “The usual, please.” I tell Mrs. O’Donnell about how cross my friend could get if I accidentally rang her in the middle of any of the American soaps or if she was just about to go to her salsa class. Leaning back, I talk about Jade’s talent with the computer, how she could get to the sort of information I needed for my job, and how much I’d come to rely on her for it. This, I think, comes as a surprise to Jade’s mother, and I’m glad I’ve filled in a detail she didn’t know. I remember the films Jade and I saw together, the nights we went to a show, and the times we spent just chilling out. I recall how well Jade listened and how she could prompt a story to its conclusion in a way my counsellor has never quite done, preferring as he does to let me speak myself to stillness. I shiver when I hear myself saying these things, but the word “counsellor”, like the word ‘him’ earlier, is allowed to drift between us without comment.

When at last we both fall silent, the room fills with the glitter of early afternoon sunlight and something like peace. As if from a great distance, I hear the back door from the kitchen open and shut again. There’s a pause then, as if someone is waiting to see how things are, before the slow sound of footsteps along the hallway. They pass the living room door, but I can’t tell if there’s any hesitation. I realise I’m holding my breath and wonder if Mrs. O’Donnell is too. At the end of three heartbeats, the footsteps retrace their path. The kitchen door is opened and closed again, and another silence descends.

He must have seen my car through the glass door. He knows I’m still here.

This fact breaks the spell, and I spring to my feet. ‘I’d better go, Mrs. O’Donnell, I’m sorry to take up so much of your time. I’m sorry about everything, like I said. Maybe we can...? Anyway, I should be going, there are things I need to do in London, but I—’

She stands up and takes my face between her hands.

‘It’s all right, it’ll be all right,’ she whispers. ‘Thank you for coming, Paul.’

Then she stretches up and kisses me on the forehead. On impulse I hug her once before letting go, feeling the slightness of her frame against my chest. When we break away, I glance through the window to the garden.

‘Can I...?’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I think you should try.’

It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

In the garden, the breeze is cool. I stand on the small patio, tomato shed to my right and washing line to my left. Behind me, I know Jade’s mother is watching from the living room.

Mr. O’Donnell is bent over the pond, near to the place of our last abortive conversation.

I say nothing. There’s nothing I can say. After a while he must sense my presence because he uncurls himself upright and faces me. His eyes are dark like the sea. It’s as if he has gone away, somewhere I can’t reach him, maybe somewhere no-one can reach him.

‘We talked, Mr. O’Donnell,’ I say, and my voice is low, barely audible. ‘We talked about Jade. I hope...I hope you’ll let me come back one day and talk about your daughter again.’

After a long moment, Jade’s father nods once and crouches again to the pond.

On the journey home, the lightness and memory of Mrs. O’Donnell’s kiss on my cheek as I got into my car warms my blood, and I know I will return again.

Right now though, I have a meeting to attend.

Chapter Fourteen

The heavy traffic brings me into the City later than I’d planned, and it’s already dark by the time I reach Dominic’s office. Dominic and Blake will have had plenty of time together, and as each second ticks by the chances of success of any sort grow ever slimmer.

Not that I know what I’m doing, and maybe today, now, isn’t the best time to be doing it. At least something has begun to be resolved between the O’Donnells and me. It’s right that should be so, but it’s as if my insides have been scraped out with a sharp-edged knife. PI Rule Number Fourteen: Don’t do more than one difficult act in a day. Any more than that and you won’t be performing at your best.

Too late. I have to do this now. I’ll just have to throw whatever resources I have left at the problem as best I can.

Once in the reception area, I flash my card at the brunette on the phone, ignore the lift, swing through the set of glass doors to the stairs, and start to hot-foot it up to Dominic’s floor. Behind me, I can hear a shout of concern and know security will be onto me soon. Still the woman being on switchboard has given me a vital four-second start, and I’ll just have to use it. I’m relying, too, on the fact they don’t know who I’ve come to see and therefore who to warn. Unless of course they’re geared up to possible attacks on their CEO and have a strategy in place. I wouldn’t put it past him.

Dominic’s office is on the third floor, and I race upwards, knocking unsuspecting people aside, yelling apologies to try to avoid early suspicion, and cursing my own lack of fitness. On the second floor landing my luck runs out. Turning the corner, I come face to chest with a security guard built like a rugby player. I try to dodge him. He feints in my direction. I go the other way, he follows.

There’s only one thing for it. I lunge at him and clamp my teeth down hard on his ear. The man shrieks and strikes at me, trying to ward me off, but I hang on, the taste of blood in my mouth. He shrieks again, and this time I let go, shove him backwards, and run for the next flight of stairs.

By the time I punch open the door to Dominic’s PA’s office, she’s already on the phone, and there’s another security guard standing ready for action. On the principle that in this kind of situation, it’s better to fight than run, I spring at the guard, but he meets me halfway and lands a well-aimed blow to my stomach. Winded, I collapse over the PA’s desk, slamming the corner of my mouth on something metal. There’s an ominous cracking sound and the taste of more blood, this time my own.

As I struggle for breath, the guard grabs me by the neck and pushes me to the floor. Somehow I manage to stay upright and lurch at Dominic’s door, and together the two of us crash against it. His PA screams. As the door springs opens, the security guard and I fall sprawling onto the carpet.

In five strides, Dominic is up, around his desk and upon us. When I glance at him, I see he’s shaking.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he says.

‘I wanted to surprise you,’ I manage to pant. ‘Did it work?’

Two seconds after that, I’m shoved against the wall, arms and legs spread, and surrounded by numerous DG Allen Enterprises’ security professionals. There’s a rip in my shirt and shattered enamel in my mouth. I spit it out, an action that earns me a thump from the first guard whose ear is still bleeding. When, at Dominic’s command, they turn me round, the only other person in the office I recognise is Blake. He looks on, glass in hand, faintly amused.

‘Big welcome for just one bloke, eh, Dominic?’ I say, my words slurring through my broken tooth. ‘What happens if there’s an emergency somewhere else? Boy-band here have to leg it there all together again? What is it, safety in numbers?’

‘Shut up,’ he replies, and I do. I can tell from the sound of his voice that if I open my mouth again he’ll sling me out now. He won’t even think about listening to what I have to say.

‘He’s clean, sir.’ The only injured security guard speaks for the first time. ‘No weapons.’

Dominic nods. ‘All right. Thank you. You can go then, Jackson, and for God’s sake get a First Aider to have a look at you. I don’t want clients seeing you in that state. In fact, all of you, go. I’ll handle this.’

There’s a moment’s hesitation when Jackson looks like he might be bold enough to argue the case. Then he straightens himself and marches to the door, taking his troops with him. Though not before giving my arm one quick twist that sends a fresh spiral of pain shooting upwards.

When there are only the three of us left, Dominic, Blake, and me, Dominic walks up to where I’m still standing against his wall. He’s breathing fast, and there’s a line of sweat on his forehead. I have no idea what he’s going to do.

When he’s so close to me that I need lean forward only a little to be able to kiss him, he reaches out with one finger and wipes the side of my mouth. When he withdraws his hand I can see there’s blood on it. For a pulse or two, it’s almost as if Blake has vanished and there are only the two of us. He takes a pace back, and I begin to breathe again.

‘Go and clean up,’ he says. ‘In my bathroom. Then we’ll talk.’

I obey. Filling the sink from tall, gold taps, I wash out the blood from my mouth and wince at the sting of it. Whisky, I think. I’ll have a shot of The Macallan later. That’ll numb the bastard. Or at least take my mind off it. If I get that far. Then I splash my face, more to kick-start my head than to make myself clean. When I look up at the mirror, the eyes staring back at me are dull and haunted and my lip is already thickening. This isn’t the expression of a man on top of the situation he’ll have to confront in a minute or two, but it’s the only one I’ve got. I’ll just have to wing it. Again.

Trying to conjure up confident and masterful thoughts, I dry myself off on the towel’s deep comfort. I give myself the thumbs-up sign in the mirror and open the door to the office.

At once the conversation stops. Before it does, I catch Blake’s low tones, ‘You have no option, my friend.’ Dominic’s response, whatever it might have been, is cut off by my re-entry, but I wish I’d been able to hear it. As it is, it’s too late now. Still, no harm in trying.

‘What option might that be?’ I ask, looking not at the Egyptian, but at my ex-lover. ‘And, by the way, Dominic, I question your choice of who to call “friend”.’

He doesn’t respond, but his eyes flicker in the office light, and he turns away. Blake, on the other hand, joins me on the battle field, such as it is. ‘You, Mr. Maloney, don’t have the status to ask questions of anyone. I may be ignorant of the finer points of UK law, but it’s my understanding that you forced your way into this meeting. We didn’t invite you here and, therefore, you don’t ask questions.’

‘That depends on what kind of questions I’m asking, doesn’t it, Blake?’

He just laughs.

‘No,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing you can ask me that would make a difference to my business. You may be extraordinarily lucky, but you’re not a commercial threat.’

‘Lucky? Why might that be then?’

I stare at him for three or four seconds, but he shakes his head and takes another sip of wine. I wonder what he would do if I strode over to him and knocked the glass from his hands so it shattered against the wall, the fragments scattering over the oh-so-civilised carpet. What would he do if I pushed him to the floor and shoved his face in the splinters? I want to hurt him, badly, and the thought of it makes the room in front of me mist over. My breath is ragged, and I can’t catch hold of it.

From the corner of the room, Dominic breaks into the sudden stand-off. ‘Just say what you want to, Paul, and go. I think that would be best.’

The moment is stretched tight between Blake and me, though I have no idea if he knows it.

Then I say, ‘All right. You call the shots.’

His eyes darken, and I have no idea what he’s thinking, not that I ever really have. In the pause between one word and the next, the realisation kicks in that I’m standing here in a room with one man who has tried to have me killed, threatened me, and murdered my best friend and with another who has hired me, fucked me, and is now in the process of blackmailing me.

I now say what I’ve planned. I hope it might fire up some kind of reaction that will bring this whole bloody and impossible case to an end.

‘Yes,’ I continue. ‘You both call the shots, but I wonder how long for.’

Blake snorts and looks as if he’s going to speak, but I cut him off. ‘No, for once you shut up and listen. I’ve learnt from the information I gleaned from Delta in Cairo. There are two dead women, two that I know of, and somehow, somewhere, you’re at the bottom of it, Blake Kenzie. And whatever happens I’m going to find out what you’ve done and prove it. Starlight, Dancer, Aqua, Bluesky. It sickens me. You both sicken me, and it’s...it’s enough.’

There’s more, but already I’m crying, unable to finish, my voice thick with grief. I wipe the wetness from my face. Blake gives a short laugh, but Dominic looks pale, one hand gripping the edge of his desk and staring at a point somewhere to the left of me. He’s not even looking at me. God.

I’ve blown it. Even if I say anything else, no-one will believe me, no-one will feel any fear. Why should they? It might as well have been nothing. The response I’ve hoped for, the small push to send one of them, either of them, over the edge into making a mistake won’t come. It won’t ever happen. No matter what I say. Stumbling out of Dominic’s office, down the stairs and past the receptionist onto the wet City streets, I leave behind me two men, one I love and one I hate, carrying on their deeds as if nothing has happened. And for them, nothing has.

I’ve not even been an hour at DG Allen Enterprises, but I can’t imagine the effort it would take to claw myself back to where I was when I first walked into reception. I can’t face driving. I’ll have to abandon the car. Setting my face into the wind, I begin the long journey home. The drizzle seeps through the collar of my jacket, sending cool fingers down my neck. I continue to walk, not seeing the tall City buildings I pass, the offices, the clubs, the restaurants. At the end of Old Street, after a few paces my feet turn aside from the noise and thunder of the Hackney Road with its hospitals and never-ending movement. Instead I creep home through Columbia Road and the quiet order of Quilter Street. I pass the vibrant colours of Bethnal Green and then veer northwards at last on Mare Street like a fox seeking refuge from the hunt.

Car lights glitter in the darkness, sweep over me, and are gone. For once in my life I’ve loosened my grip on time, and I don’t even want to know what it might be. As I walk, the headlights sliding, fading, sliding, fading over my skin, I undo my watch strap and let it slip away. For a pace or two my stride lengthens. All the while, I can smell the day’s dirt being washed away in the rain. And perhaps a hope for tomorrow in the passing of bodies in the street, the sound of their laughter or their grim silence, the purposeful tread of their feet.

I keep on walking. As I walk, all the acts and memories I’ve counted as mine seem to fade away, washed clean in the damp city streets. Each step nearer home and familiarity frees me from the things I cling to. It’s as if I’m walking my own history to nothing.

I don’t understand what is happening, but for the first time in a long time the ropes holding me to the past are for the moment gone.

The houses around me begin to take on recognisable shapes, their dark outlines hovering through the dampness and gloom like ancient creatures. I’m nearly home. The freedom I can taste like the rain on my tongue, the chill on my flesh, is too precious to relinquish now. But where to go to keep it? I could carry on walking, but the final touch of control still lingers on my skin. It would be beyond me to walk without a purpose. Maybe it’s the sense of an end point to come that has given me the illusion of freedom.

Without conscious thought, I turn off down the first side street to my left, then right and left again. My home and the call of it vanishes, and in front of me I see only the neutrality of the office. On my journey there, I pass one or two groups, laughing, talking, challenging each other with youth in their voices and their walk, on their way to a night out. They take no notice of me. It’s then that the memory plunges in of how it might have been Jade and me doing the same, on the way to the pub, the cinema, a meal out, and I quicken my pace. The office, at least, will bring her close again.

Once there, I remove my jacket, fling it over my chair and pace between the desks. I touch each item I come to as if committing it to memory: shelf, computer, desk tidy, mouse, cabinet, window, and shelf again. Here. I’ll stay here, I think, for a while until I’ve reached the end of this waiting time. I’ll know when that happens, I’ll know it though I can’t think how. Then when it’s over, I’ll go home, make one of the thousand possible decisions I have to make, and run with it. Commit to it this time and not be afraid. I can’t comprehend yet what that one decision will be: breaking into Dominic’s office or even his home to search for the other half of the file; trying Blake again to see if he has it, though it will make no sense if he has; telling what little I know to the police and hoping it might be enough. I have to decide soon, it’s all I can do, but later. Later.

Later, but not now. Now my legs are shaking and I can’t feel my fingers. In my flesh, there’s a sense of anything that’s left inside being drained away suddenly. The next thing I know I’m slumped against the desk.

I’m so bloody tired. I must sleep. When did I get to be this tired? I crawl ’round to my office chair. I fall, rather than sit, curving my arms onto the cool wood, my head feeling the softness of my flesh, nestling into bone.

And there’s one beat of my pulse, two, then...nothing but darkness and a dreamless clarity.

I don’t know how long I sleep, but, when I wake, it’s with a sense that something is terribly wrong.