“I’d
love to. I will. Another day, perhaps.”
“Spoilsport.”
She brushed her hair back behind her ear with her free hand, sipped her coffee
and put the mug down. Hooking her thumbs in her waist pockets, she reclined
against the work surface, ankles crossed, tanned knees showing through the
ripped jeans. “But my cooperation has a price. Copper.”
“Name
it.”
“I’ll
answer your professional questions if you answer mine.”
“What
if you ask for particulars that are privileged, sub judice, prejudicial or just
plain embarrassing?”
“Stomach
the risk or don’t play the game.”
“Don’t
you play rough? Your boss could learn a thing or three from you.”
“Tell
him that next time you see him. If he’s stopped sulking. Shall we play?”
“I’ll
go first. Did your mother ever report the Murphys to Social Services?”
“That’s
a powerful serve you’ve got there. Bloody hell. I don’t know but maybe; that’s
the short answer. The long answer: It’s possible. They haven’t – sorry, hadn’t
– lived there for long when she got a real bee in her bonnet about them and it
never stopped buzzing. I mean, I got it all whenever I visited and sometimes on
the phone. And then when I inherited Nigel Firth and discovered the Murphy
connection, well it was a handy excuse to visit a bit less, if I’m being
honest. God, look at me. Trusting you. Anyway, you’ve heard most of this.”
“Please.
Carry on. I need to know.”
“I
can’t embroider it much more. Mum just got cranky about them. Not without
reason. The previous residents, Hilda and Derek something or other, were quiet,
polite, nice as pie – you know, a ‘good morning’ at the gate, growing roses,
picking up litter, helpful, trouble-free. Then Hilda very inconsiderately died
and within months Derek’s mind was broken, he was sent to some home and the
house was sold on. To the Murphys.
“Who
were different. Lively, certainly. Noisy parties. Barbecues from spring ‘til
autumn with lots of music and drinking and lariness, when Dale wasn’t on shift.
She always complained about the noise. The noise and the smoke. If they weren’t
incinerating meat, they were smoking in the garden or in the house – my mum
claimed the fag smoke even crept through the walls. She also claimed it made my
dad worse but I never heard him say it himself. Not that he would. We’re all
very good at silent suffering. Up to a point.
“There
might have been more but she was cryptic. I wasn’t to worry myself about it,
she always said. Which made me worry, of course. But what a life ‘that poor
woman’ must lead. And Lord help those kids ‘when he gets tired of her’. There
was ‘banging all through the night’ and ‘it wasn’t just that wretched music’.
She wouldn’t elaborate. I got my lawyer’s head on once or twice but she just
told me not to worry, she’d been exaggerating and she really had nothing to
tell me about. But now, with all that’s happened, I wish I’d been stroppier
with her, made her tell me more. I suppose I was too busy. As usual.
“So,
to answer your question: It’s possible, even probable. My turn. How did Nigel
Firth die?”
A
toothsome smile parted her lips but her eyes turned to flint.
“Badly.”
Harkness
suddenly found himself grateful for the opportunity to tell the story to
someone whose interest was more than professional, caring nothing for the
consequences which may as well have been eons away.
“I
was watching his flat from my car. He somehow left without my noticing, found
petrol somewhere, came back and waved at me. By the time I caught up, he’d got
to his flat, poured petrol all over himself and got a lighter out. I pleaded
with him. Reasoned with him. You know, the usual desperate, last ditch bluster.
He smiled, even laughed at me once or twice, gave me his reasons and lit
himself up. I tried to put him out. Burned myself. He died in hospital. I
didn’t.”
“Why?
What did he say?”
“I
don’t remember it verbatim,” he lied. “But he saw no reason to keep living his
life and wanted to end it in a way that would somehow purge him and teach the
world a lesson. I won’t pretend to understand. It’ll be……on my mind for a long
time to come.”
“So
why did you push him so hard?”
“Isn’t
it my turn now?”
“Res
gestae. Germane to the original question.”
“Ok,
enough legalese. Why did I push? Because I had good reason to think him
responsible for a clutch of nasty murders. Because your boss prevented me
getting a sensible account out of pique. Because for all I knew he might have
taken more lives if he wasn’t stopped.
“Did
we talk off tape? Yes, or at least I politely appealed to him to tell the truth
and he grunted. Did I feel the need to keep tabs on him when my so called
superiors prematurely bailed him out? Yes. Did I knock him about or scream
abuse at him until he was ready to piss himself and sign anything? No. Did I
damage him enough to bring him to this? No. To him, I was a symptom, not a
cause. Happy?”
“That’s
not the word I’d use.”
“What
must you think of me?”
“Is
that your question?”
“Do
you think I’m the enemy? A cop from another decade, responsible for a malicious
prosecution and suspicious death? Something you could expose and build a
reputation on?”
“Why
do you care what I think?”
“I
shouldn’t care what you think. But I do and I’m not sure why.”
“More
coffee?”
Sharon
turned and tipped black dregs into the sink.
“Definitely.
And I will take it Irish this time.”
“That’s
a rotten idea, all things considered. But it was mine.” She turned and
stretched to reach the top shelf of a kitchen cupboard, her t-shirt lifting to
show the smooth, faintly tanned flesh at the small of her back. She turned,
producing a half-empty bottle of Jameson’s. “So I’m all for it.”
“And
you are on holiday. My turn?”
“Go
on then.”
“Tell
me more about your family.”
“Why
is that relevant? Don’t you want to probe me about my dealings with Firth?”
“It’s
my question. Besides, I think you’ve got guts and a conscience. If Firth had
given you any indication that he’d killed and would kill again, I think you’d
have found some way to tell me.”
“Flattering
and presumptuous at the same time. What should I make of you?”
“Doesn’t
matter. Tell me about your family.”
“If
I must.”
She
threw heaped spoonfuls of coffee into the cafetiere then half-filled the waiting
mugs with whisky.
“Where
to start? Dad was a successful architect in his day. A clever man with dirt
under his nails. He could handle the law, he could handle the engineering and
he could handle stroppy site-workers and still have time to read to me and tell
me how clever I was. He choked down a lot of asbestos during the sixties and
seventies. Asbestosis clogged up his lungs when I was a teenager. Now he’s
grappling with lung cancer. For most of my life, he’s been quietly withering
away. Now he’s declining fast. And I want to care more but it’s been so long
since he was the man I grew up wanting to please… God, would you listen to me.
I haven’t touched a drop yet.”
She
filled the mugs with the thickening brew, drew in a breath of its bitter spice
and handed one to Harkness. Harkness relished the few seconds of silence she
allowed him without small-talk or self-conscious posturing.
“Jeremy
is my younger brother, by two years. He’s…..very special. You know that. If
you’re looking for a label, he’s ‘HFA’ – ‘High-Functioning Autistic’. His
memory is amazing. He picks up interesting words like a magpie but doesn’t
always know what they mean. No, that’s not fair. He could give you the
dictionary definition but doesn’t always know how to slot them into a sentence.
We’re lucky. He likes routine but doesn’t scream the house down the second it’s
broken, provided somebody explains it to him and tells him precisely when order
will be restored. He rocks and flaps when he’s distracted. He finds comfort in
order. I love him to bits and we always have a giggle. I just have to remind
myself that he has only an academic grasp of how other people think and feel.
He’s like a missionary marooned in a culture he can’t understand; he just
repeats the words and apes the behaviour and gets on with his own life.
“I’m
telling you this just in case you want his statement. It would be challenging
and disorientating for him. Besides, mum says he didn’t see or hear anything.
And there’s always the danger he’ll mimic something he’s heard in the police
station or anywhere else in a bid to please the strange, babbling natives.”
The
sun had crept past its zenith and shadows marked time in the back garden.
Harkness uncoiled, drinking in the heady vapour from the coffee and the
spectacle of this sparring, sparking young woman.
“And
then there’s mother. Once an A&E nurse. Then we came along and she
resigned, hoping one day to return. And she did find a career in caring, but
not quite the way she’d planned. She was always the capable one, unflappable,
even when Jeremy’s specialness became unmistakable. The house was – still is –
like an old-fashioned hospital ward. Healthy meals, on time, no arguments.
Lights out at bedtime. Everything very clean and neat. Hospital corners on the
beds. Now more than ever.
“It
wasn’t just Jeremy, of course. Dad has needed care, very little at first then
more and more as the years rolled by. Between them, they struggled to make ends
meet. They both did whatever work they could get, my dad limited by his ‘leaky
lungs’ as he called them, my mum by the time and energy it took to care for her
boys.”
“So
you became deputy mother?”
“I
always was. I never knew any different. University was a wrench. But I cut the
cord and never quite got back into mum’s good books. She always supported me,
consciously at least. But she found it hard to take when I went. And I hate to
admit it but I relished the freedom, the distance. Still do. I don’t visit as
often as I should, even though they’re only a mile and a half uphill from me.
“Things
did get easier for them when the class action settled. My dad’s contractors had
admitted their negligence years earlier but the bickering over money dragged
on. The eventual pay-out meant they’d never have to worry about work again. It
paid off my student debt too. I couldn’t persuade them – I mean her – to move.
I wish they had. Christ, imagine it. None of this…..
“Irrelevant.
They wouldn’t. Jeremy needs his safe, permanent, orderly environment. Dad…I’m
not sure. Sometimes he rebels but he hasn’t the strength or the will. Mum
doesn’t see why they should move. There’s always some excuse: the money’s got
to last; all our memories are here; the neighbours are so nice; this is our
home and the wretched neighbours won’t force us away.
“So,
there you have it.” She glanced at the kitchen clock and at the empty cafetiere.
“How did you get all that out of me? I’ve spent too much time on my own this
week. Must have wanted to talk.”
“Jeremy
has quite a way with words.”
“Oh,
no you don’t. It’s my turn. More?” She waggled the whisky bottle at him.
“Depends
on the question.”
“You’ve
had full disclosure on my family background,” she began, voice softened by the
whisky, “so you may think you know how I came to be a bleeding-heart,
ambulance-chasing, do-gooding, Guardian-reading lawyer. Now you need to tell me
how you came to be such a bloody-minded, door-bashing, grammar-abusing,
collar-feeling copper. Did that come out right? Too rude?”
“Not
at all. I think you could be far ruder if you really wanted to be.”
“God,
could I? I’ve always wanted to be rude to a copper. I mean, properly rude. Not
just making sniffy comments about oppressive tactics over some sticky, horrible
interview room table, but I mean effing and blinding and getting chased and
arrested. Don’t suppose you brought a hat I could steal?”
“Didn’t
even bring cuffs to restrain you with.”
“Hey,
come on,” she shouted, bluster covering her blushes. “Stop being inappropriate
and answer the question.”
Harkness
gripped the tumbler half full of whisky with a sobering jolt of pain from his
digits. He lifted it reverentially to his lips and allowed the amber fluid to
trickle its heat over his cracked lips and under his tongue.
“Nobody
knows this. Nobody in this city knows what I’m about to tell you. Not my boss.
Not Slowey. Not Hayley. Even if you end up suing me or testifying against me in
a court of law, this cannot go beyond the two of us.”
“How
can I promise that?” Her words were vigorous again, the haze in her eyes
evaporating. “Without knowing what you’re about to say…..”
“I
know.” He held up his hands. “Listen, what if I promise you that nothing in my
past could give rise to any kind of legal action whatsoever, with or without
your testimony?”
“The
terms of the contract are agreeable.” She hoisted herself onto a kitchen stool
and clutched her own whisky glass between both hands to help master the urge to
grab a notebook and pen. “I herewith accept the aforementioned terms.”