Maloney's Law (9 page)

‘So what will you do?’

My sigh is ragged and comes from the gut. ‘I’ll think of something. I’ll have to if I’m going to persuade a glimmer of truth out of Dominic, and that seems the only avenue to explore at the moment to get any of the answers. He’s not a murderer, but he might know something to implicate Blake.’

There’s a pause, and Jade folds her arms, skidding her chair back so she all but runs me over.

‘Oh yes,’ she says. ‘I forgot to ask, how was your meeting?’

‘I filled him in as best I could. He’s happy to wait for the official report.’

I go back to my desk. The rest of the day is spent catching up on paperwork and keeping my other clients at bay. The main subjects occupying my thoughts are what Jade’s discovery might mean and how I can make best use of it for my next meeting with Dominic.

Five hours and thirteen minutes later, a calculation that includes the seventeen-minute lunch-break I allot myself, we’re out of the office. A quick drink at The Bell and Book, which looks as if it could use the custom tonight, and then I’m waving her off on her bike. As she spins her way ’round the corner, I turn my steps in the opposite direction.

It’s only then that something occurs to me, something I should have picked up on earlier, if only my head hadn’t been full of Dominic and sex. The tramp. When he’d bumped into me at the office, there’d been no smell. And the bottle of whisky he’d been waving was full.

Chapter Seven

At home, there’s no-one lurking in the street or the small scraggly bushes, but my muscles only relax when I’m inside with the door double locked behind me. The wait for my first taste of the Highland Park is a long one.

By the second sip, I’ve checked every room — a mission that doesn’t take long — and shut out the world outside behind the comfort of curtains. By the third sip I’m sprawled on the sofa in the living room staring at the unlit fireplace. I haven’t got Dominic what he says he wants. No complete evidence that Kenzie & Co. are crooked and he shouldn’t be mixed up with them at any level, not even confirmation of shadiness; just half a document.

Is there a way I can get the information I need to clear my ex-lover’s name? And keep myself alive? Haven’t I experienced how quick Blake is to act? One meeting, that’s all it took, and he wants me dead. I didn’t even have anything useful on him when he made that decision. No, I’m wrong. He’d decided what to do about me before I’d even stepped over his threshold. He knew my connection with Dominic, and he wanted me dead.

It’s as simple as that.

Nothing I’ve seen or heard proves it for sure, but it’s Rule Number Seven in the PI book: In a dangerous situation, if there’s a choice between instinct and logic, go with instinct. It won’t fail you.

Add to all that a dead woman, threatening phone calls, and one clean, teetotal tramp and I’m spinning somewhere into depths I can’t recognise and don’t have the skills to handle. I’ve made my living from people committing adultery, fiddling the books, or cheating on their insurance. All the countless acts of disloyalty that taint a character, take who someone is and alter the colour of it so you can’t tell where the white ends and the grey begins, or how one day it may turn to black. Of the three occasions in my life where I’ve struck out beyond my reach, two of them have involved Dominic: once in our affair and now here when he asks for my help.

It’s no good, I can’t back out. Wherever this goes, I have to see it through.

My dreams that night are full of memories, but not the ones I expect when I finally crawl under the duvet, four whiskies and one small bowl of pasta later.

There’s a garden, rich and green, the height of summer. The sound of laughter, a swing hung between two plum trees, the hushed trickle and flow of water. I’m walking, fingers trailing through roses, yellow, pink, deep orange, and the scent of them catches on my skin. I’m a child again, the trees lining my path taller than I will ever be, no matter how much I long to touch their uppermost leaves. Another laugh, this time closer, to my right, and when I turn I see a young girl skipping towards me, nine years old, her hair held into plaits and her dress and shoes all the colours of the rainbow. ‘Dance with me,’ she sings, ‘dance with me,’ but I can’t and already the tears are welling up as the faraway sky darkens. Her eyes are a richer shade of green than mine, and her hair glows ebony against the grass. Behind her stand two figures, their faces obscured, their familiarity a catch in my throat, an accusation. I stumble towards her, and she holds her hand to her mouth as if shutting a secret in a cave. Before I reach her, she turns and runs, her bright dress carving its way through reeds and tall flowers. I chase after her, and branches and leaves cling to my clothes and strike my skin. Behind me, I know the two adults I have seen follow us both. Their presence makes me start to run, but in front of me the girl runs faster. Without forming the words in my head, I know I have to reach her before she can disappear or turn in a direction I can’t see. My skin is cold and my heart is beating, so loud, so loud it drowns out every other want and need I have ever known. I call her name, but the sound of it is dragged away by the wind and vanishes. Now I stand in a clearing, and the trees above me are dark, thin fingers laced against a threatening sky. Even though I swing ’round the full circle of where I stand I can’t see where the girl has gone, I can’t see, and I know the adults who follow me will soon be here and the one to be blamed will be me. I should have kept up with her. I should have...

A glimpse of lemon and green and red dress, a flurry of black hair, rich and strong, at the corner of my eye and once again I’m in pursuit. Blood pulsates through my veins, and my breath comes in harsh gasps. Why doesn’t she stop? Can’t she tell I need her to stop? Please, please, I...

Again we run, through weeds and thistles that snatch and tear at me, though they don’t slow her down, and the distance between us remains the same. All I can do is keep her in sight; I can’t gain on her, not unless she lets me. She runs like someone whose body is water, flowing over and through any obstacle it faces. I am nothing but flesh; I cannot catch her.

Still I keep trying, trying in a way I don’t think I’ve done before, in a dream I know will lead nowhere. This time it might be different, please God, this time. The girl and I keep running, and behind us the crashing noise of the adults grows quieter, drifting away at last into memory. When I try to wake, it’s impossible. I must keep dreaming, keep running.

After a time I can’t count, there’s the sound of water, torrential, unforgiving, to our left. The sky darkens again, my heart pounds harder, and the girl swerves towards the river.

‘No.’ My silent voice echoes only in my head, and she doesn’t hear me. The sound of water beats faster, louder, as if it could break from its thin banks and overwhelm both of us. ‘Please.’

Above me the trees vanish, and I’m left standing on wet grass facing a silver river. Somehow the girl has already crossed the racing flood, I don’t know how. She stands, still as a cat, on the other side, sunlight glistening in her hair, and her dress is as bright as roses. For a long moment she remains there, arms stretched high above her head as if in blessing or a curse. Before I can shout a warning, or try to move to help, her slim, white body has plunged into the water, a faint glimmer of yellow, red, green, a swirl of dark hair, and then she’s gone.

‘Teresa!’

When I wake, I’m crying.

The place is the same as it always is. A wide courtyard leading to a large Victorian house glowing with the colours of earth. I park the car on the gravel, making sure my exit is clear, and when I get out, the smell of grass and clean air almost overwhelms me. For the price of my conscience, I would slip back into my dirty grey Vauxhall and take the road north and home, but if I did that there would be no way back. Something in me still wants that path to be open.

Because here is somewhere I have never invited Jade. I have never found anyone who could take that journey, not even Dominic. My fault. It’s something I never told him at the beginning, though I wanted to, and then the moment for it passed.

Before I can knock on the freshly-painted blue front door, it is opened and a tall woman, early sixties, white hair, hazel eyes, gazes at me.

‘Hello,’ she says. ‘It’s good to see you.’

Always the same greeting, the two times a year I make this visit, once now on August bank holiday and once just before Christmas. Not Christmas itself, as that would entail too much compromise. Christmas, for me, is a time to be alone.

I smile and wonder if my smile reaches my eyes, as hers almost does.

We drink sherry in a room painted in white and silver. Outside, the lawn is striped as far as the eye can see, and the taste of the sherry is nutmeg on my tongue.

‘How is work going?’ she asks, putting down her glass and folding both hands onto her lap as if covering secrets.

‘Oh, you know. How is everything here?’

‘The same as always.’

Always the same. Days of brightness and boredom, the long drift of the countryside, how Surrey is. Similar in some ways to the life Jade’s parents live, but very different, too. Different by means of the parties, the entertaining, the focus on position and appearance, the sense of responsibility and of things being more complex when you dig deeper. I am what I’ve always been to them: an enigma, an embarrassment.

‘And are you okay?’ I ask.

‘We tick along. How is London?’

‘Dark and dreary. Have you been up at all? For a show or anything?’

‘No, not recently. I think Jonathan may be planning something soon, perhaps for Christmas? Of course he has his work commitments.’

Yes, of course he does. All those times when he has to be up in London without her, and he won’t be thinking of me at all. Not that I blame him. Not after what I did.

We lapse into silence. After a while, as we watch five sparrows and a blackbird hop along the patio and peck at the shrubs, she gets up, nods, takes my empty sherry glass, and trots into the kitchen. For lack of anything else to do, I follow her and wonder if it will always be the same. When I enter the kitchen, she’s leaning over the oven from which a great grey gust of steam and salt-sea spices fills the air.

‘Baked salmon,’ I say. ‘Summer food.’

She jumps at the sound of my voice, and I take two steps away, but she turns ’round and shakes her head. ‘I know you like it, Paul.’

‘Yes, and there’ll be plenty left for...later. Can I help?’

A second’s tension then she seems to decide to ignore my gaffe, instead flapping her wrinkled hands as if to flap away the steam. ‘No. Thank you. I’m happy here, pottering about. You go back to the living room, there are papers to read. If you like, you can help me wash up afterwards.’

Given my dismissal, I wander back and pat the Staffordshire dogs on the mantelpiece, nearly the twins of mine, before sitting down and rifling through the enormous pile of papers.

I’ve no idea why they always order all the Sundays; there can’t be enough hours in the week to read them before the next supply come in. Still, it fills my time so for the next forty-two minutes, I skim-read. It’s only when I’m two pages ahead of the phrase I’ve seen that I realise I’ve recognised it and have to turn back. The headline of the article, and the links it makes between something I know and something I don’t, causes my stomach to lurch in excitement mixed with fear. Eighth rule of PI work: Always know which of these two is stronger. This time, I don’t.

Sod’s Law clicks in, and I can’t find what I think I’ve seen. Is it this article? Or perhaps it’s one I was reading earlier on, about crime figures in the country or the one about the falling numbers of policemen. Or were they the same? Feeling my skin prickle, I start flicking back and forth in ever-increasing numbers of pages. From the kitchen the sound of the pressure cooker being allowed its moment of release whistles a time warning.

Where did I see that phrase, that word? Where?

‘Paul! It’s ready. Can you open the wine?’

Damn. No time for more searching now; it’ll just have to wait. Grabbing the whole of the Sunday Telegraph, I lay it on the arm of my chair and make my way into the kitchen, where I struggle with the cork on the Rapel Valley 2003 Sauvignon Blanc. The wine tastes like honeyed spice.

As we sit at the kitchen table, the salmon, new potatoes, and assorted greens creating an elegant concept on the Wedgwood, there’s only one question on my lips.

‘May I take one of the papers home? The Telegraph?’

‘Today’s?’

‘Yes.’

‘But I don’t think your...I mean I don’t think it’s been read yet.’

I say nothing but start to cut into my food, releasing that salmon-spice pink scent in a fuller wave into the room. She must take pity on me, as her next words come full circle.

‘All right, dear. If you’re sure you need it?’

‘Yes, I do. Thank you.’ On impulse I lean over and kiss her paper-thin cheek. Physical contact isn’t a journey we’ve taken in a long time, too long to count, and I can’t imagine it will happen again for a while as she doesn’t reciprocate. The knowledge of this burns me, and for the rest of the meal we remain almost silent.

Afterwards I wash up and gaze at the old clock near the sink as its hands march on to a kind of freedom, however temporary. Then we drink coffee, strong and black enough to cover over the gap between us. We comment on the weather, the situation in Iraq, the forthcoming American election, and I smile again at the differences between today and the day spent with Jade’s parents.

The conversation runs out a full thirty-nine minutes before I judge it appropriate to leave, and I watch as she dozes, the afternoon light flooding through the window and creating a halo of her hair. I think about searching through the newspaper again but don’t want to wake her. I’ll have to buy it later if I can’t take it now without a conversation about...him. The house around me huddles closer, bringing with it little flashes of what I’ve been and what I choose not to remember. When it’s time to go, I nudge her arm.

‘What? Is everything all right? Is—’

‘Yes, it’s fine,’ I interrupt before she can say what can’t be said. ‘Everything’s fine. It’s just time for me to go.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see.’

She uncurls herself from her chair. Limbs creak and stretch, and skin patterns itself into place, a new shape, a new idea of age. With half a smile, she sees me to the door, but then turns back for the paper.

‘Here,’ she says, taking the Sunday Telegraph from where I’d left it on the arm of the chair and waving it in my direction. ‘Don’t forget this.’

‘Thanks. I won’t.’

When I wave goodbye and steer the Vauxhall out of the gravelled driveway, the visit isn’t quite over; there’s still one stop left before I can return home.

The church of St. Peter’s glistens in the sunlight, and I notice the weathervane has vanished. Another accident during the course of the year, I imagine, and I wonder if it will ever be replaced.

The churchyard is free of people, and it looks as if the grass has been cut recently. Its fresh green smell wafts the summer along into the approach of autumn. Time passing and the loss of it has been a weight over my head stronger than any sword since that day, though sometimes, if I’m relaxed enough, I can almost remember back to a place in my life when I was free of it. It doesn’t matter. It’s beyond me now. If I’d been there, maybe she wouldn’t have gone. If I hadn’t been intent on my own six-year-old interests, sneaking into my father’s shed and playing with the child’s toolbox he kept for me there, then maybe I would have been in time for her to be safe.