"Who is it, Vera?"
"A Roger Harris. Says you used to work together at Global in Swindon."
"Rog? Good God, yes." He snapped out of his reverie. "OK, thanks."
"Hi there, mate." Harris sounded upbeat, different.
"Hi you too. How's it going?"
"Pretty damned good on the whole, mind you, there's always too much in the old in-tray. Always someone on your bloody back..."
"Nothing's changed then." Graham pressed the receiver closer to his ear. Something about his friend's tone, his expressions weren't quite right. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
"Hell, no. Old Liversedge was still wielding the big stick, beefing on about the Euro till he sodded off a month ago. Now it's a new broom."
"Who's replaced him?" Graham Lodge surprised he'd not heard that one on the MTEC grapevine.
"Oh, some guy called Dennis. Queer as a coot actually. Can't stand that sort myself."
Graham stalled, his frown deepening. Roger Harris was himself gay. Not exactly in your face but not ashamed of it either, and a cameraman with Channel 4, had been his partner for years.
"Who is this?" he demanded.
"Who d'you think?"
Then the dialling tone filled his ear followed by nothing.
Graham Lodge stabbed the O button.
"Vera Southgate here,” came the operator’s practised response. “How may I help?"
"What was my caller's number?" Graham asked her. No niceties, just a growing anxiety.
"Withheld."
"Look, if this Roger Harris phones again, ask him his date of birth, name of partner etcetera, OK?"
"Are you alright, Mr Lodge?"
"Yes and no."
He swivelled round to the view of cranes pecking at the unfinished shell of some new apartment complex. All glass and single breezeblock walls. His office now felt just as flimsy - its defences breached. But by whom, and for God's sake, why?
Five minutes later he told Vera to ring MTEC Global in Swindon and, as he waited for their switchboard to reach Personnel, his fingers drummed out a tense rhythm on his desk.
"Hey, Marj?” He began. “Graham Lodge here."
Marj Powell had never approved of him dumping his childless wife, but her professionalism had always overcome her personal judgements. He guessed she must be in her late forties by now.
"Good to hear you, Graham,” she said. “How's London treating you?"
"Could be worse. Just two questions if you've a mo... "
"Fire away."
"Is P L still cock of the heap with Global?"
The woman chuckled. Here was some common ground at least.
"'Fraid so. Hiring and firing for Britain.
Plus
ça change
..."
"So no-one by the name of Dennis has stepped in?"
Pause.
"Sorry, don't know what you mean. Like I said, it's more of the same here."
"And Roger? Roger Harris, Sales. He OK?"
A pause, in which he could hear other voices in Personnel's open-plan suite. Staff moving to their desks and switching on their computers.
"Haven't you heard?" Marj quizzed gently.
"No. What d'you mean? I took a call from him just now."
"Are you sure?"
"Sort of sure. Why I'm phoning you."
"Oh Lord, this isn't making any sense at all... Something happened to Roger a fortnight ago."
"Go on," Graham urged. His pulse changing pace.
"He was knocked off his motorbike on the M4 and is still in the General, in a coma."
"No."
"Funny thing though," Marj went on." About three weeks ago, someone called Chris Cookson phoned in to ask similar questions. Said he'd worked for Global in 03 and was just catching up on news. Naturally I ran a check and there's been no-one of that name in any department since 1989. He left no number so I couldn't get back to him, but he was very convincing I must say."
Graham Lodge paused, then pulled himself together.
"Thanks for your help. I'll speak to the hospital straight away. Meanwhile, if you hear from Roger’s partner first, please give him my sympathy..."
"I will."
He hung up, watching the nearest crane on the site dipping and rising like some huge, grey heron, and, although it was barely 8.30 a.m. he left his office and took the lift downstairs. Five minutes later, having knocked up
The Sailor's Arms
’ landlord to open half an hour early, he was downing a double malt.
32
A week to go until Christmas, and by the following evening, Rita would have enough money for the Peugeot. Its road tax and comprehensive insurance were already paid for and, as part of the deal, Mr. Reynolds had arranged a full service and professional valeting.
However, desperation wasn’t far away. Her visit to Jez's grave straight after her driving test, had yielded nothing save a small bunch of white roses from ‘your ever-loving Dad,’ while at the police station, although PC Jane Truelove had been her usual concerned self, she'd admitted the case was closed.
Rita had been even more tempted to write to Tim Fraser, but the risk of him thinking she was paranoid about Pete Brown, decided against it. However, she did make extra trips to that graveyard to check nothing had been disturbed there, and was on full alert every time she left the flat. Both kids too, had been told till she was blue in the face, never to speak to strangers. Especially tall, young men with light brown hair and strange, brown eyes.
*
Drizzle again, and the kind of morning that made going to Best Press a pleasure. At least there she had company, and was beginning to get the interior smartened up. She stood in the bus queue along with other city centre workers complaining about the weather and the cost of tickets to see Derren Brown, when her new mobile began to ring.
"Rita? That you? It's Frank."
"Get lost."
"Please."
"Just get a life. Like I've had to do."
"I can't. That's the bloody trouble."
Silence. His breathing sounded bad, as if he was right next to her. But for Rita, pity wouldn't come.
"Where are you phoning from?" she asked without interest.
"Can't say." He stalled. It sounded like he was near a motorway. "I jus' wanted you to know there's not a day goes by when I don't think of...”
Rita held her phone away from her ear as a number 86 bus swerved into the kerb, drowning his words.
"Heard all that before, Frank. Once a year on Jez’s birthday, remember?"
"Mine an' all in October. You forgotten?"
Rita hesitated. Even though he’d ignored her 30th, she wasn't that callous.
“We left a card for you at the pub. Kayleigh drew it."
"I never saw no card."
"Maybe that tart of yours doesn't want reminding you've got kids. Anyhow, why get Kayleigh to hand over that drawing of Pete Brown?"
Pause.
"Her idea, not mine."
"Liar."
Frank hesitated.
"I 'ad to feel I was doin' summat.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Never mind. Jez was my lad an' all ye know."
"More's the pity." She struggled on to the bus and almost fell into an old man's lap as it careered round a left turn. "Look, I want it back. It's ours."
"You will, OK?" His voice dropped. "So, can't I see ye then?"
"What's the point? I've got Warren now, and you got Denise. Why spoil things?"
"Warren?"
She fumbled for her purse with a spare hand. "An Electrician, which is handy. And he’s kind. Now, can I go?"
"Rita?"
"What?"
She finally got a seat squashed up next to some wino. Her phone's money running out.
"I'm in deep shit if you must know." Frank persisted. "I miss the kids summat rotten, and your cheese butties. How you put yer 'air up at bedtime..."
"Sorry, but I've moved on since all that. Had to. If you'd been around when Jez…" Her voice dwindled. She gripped the seat in front with her free hand." He wouldn't have got into bad company. And the rest. You think chucking flowers on his grave makes you a good Dad? Well, think on."
The line faded and she pressed red with no sense of victory. This was a game for losers and, in the scheme of things, his significant birthday made no difference.
*
Litter had drifted into Best Press’s doorway around the solitary pint of milk, usually nicked by the time she got there, while sodden heaps of rubbish lay under its window.
However, in this particular parade of shops off the St John's Ringway, it was the only one neither boarded up nor in the throes of closing down. In fact, like Mr Waring had said at her interview, another branch in Bowater Road was opening in the New Year, and business was thriving.
All the while, her worries about Freddie and Kayleigh fermented in her mind as she advised one client after the other on pocket cleaning, button protection and pill removal, so that at the end of her stint, she'd sometimes remark, "kids these days. Who'd have them?"
*
There were three messages on the shop's answerphone. To her intense annoyance, the last one at 8.32 a.m. delivered that familiar, wheezy voice. Frank must have tried again before she'd got in.
"No messin' this time," he insisted. "Meet me at Farrell's Caff at one. Can't talk no more."
"Neither can I." Rita scowled at the machine and switched on the gleaming new kettle. It was her boss's day off on Thursdays, so she could brew up whenever she liked. She could also phone home to check the kids were getting off to school. Like now.
Kayleigh reassured her all was well, and she’d be bringing a fruit tart home for tea.
"Can't wait,” smiled a relieved Rita to herself. “Just check that front door's properly closed after you, and tell that brother of yours to lock his bike at school or it'll be gone.”
Not Jez's bike. No, that had been dredged up near the underpass the Monday after he'd been found, but she'd been unable to look at it, so the thing had been re-sprayed and given to a Barnardo’s shop.
"OK. But Mum…" Kayleigh sounded excited. "There's summat else."
Rita's heart sank. A smartly dressed female customer had come in clutching a bundle of clothes for cleaning and was heading her way, clearly short of time.
"Dad’s just phoned,” said Kayleigh. ”Urgent, he said."
"Don't be fooled."
"Mu - um..." whined her daughter, just like when she was little.
"Did he say where he was living?"
“No.”
"Look, got to go. See you later. Be good."
With that feeble reminder, she replaced the receiver, knowing deep in her bones something was up. Maybe Tim Fraser could look at Transline's operations again. At least an excuse for her to make contact.
"I'm in a huge rush, d'you mind?" the youngish woman almost threw her trouser suit at her. A pinstriped affair with a gold initial B still embedded in its lapel. Rita forgot about Transline and tried to remove the brooch, but her bitten nails found no purchase.
"Here, I'll do it. Haven't got all day." The stranger promptly prised the thing off while Rita compared the woman's wedding ring to the one which now lay in the tea caddy in Wort Passage. Double the thickness, in pale, pricey gold.
“Can I pick the suit up Friday?"
Rita checked the computer.
"Only if it's Super-Express, which is four pounds extra."
"Whatever. I’ve a big conference at the weekend. Hinckley."
"Oh?" Rita scrolled down the day’s entries. Hinckley sounded glamorous.
"What name, please?"
"Fletcher. Barbara. Mrs."
"Address?" Rita didn't look up.
"14, Meadow Hill..."
The pc’s mouse wavered on its funky mat.
"Oh Jesus…"
"Why Oh Jesus?" Mrs Fletcher held out her hand for the ticket. "We spent ages finding it. I'd got to the point where I said to my husband, enough's enough. Anyhow," her eyes narrowed, "what's wrong with Meadow Hill?"
"Nothing. Sorry. Must’ve been thinking of somewhere else." Rita tore the matching stub from its pad and passed it over.
She recalled PC Jarvis driving her and the kids there on the Sunday morning after the Perelman's musical evening to see where Jez had been found. Every step across their weird, yellow lawn had been like walking towards Hell. And that black piano thing stuck out there all wet and shining, made it even worse.
As for Jez, she'd had to wait till the paramedics had ‘cleaned him up a bit,’ and bandaged most of his face to spare her feelings. But later, having identified him at the hospital mortuary, she'd collapsed into PC Truelove's arms. His one eye which they couldn't close seeming to meet hers…
"Mind you," the young woman snapped Rita out of her nightmare by zipping up her purse and reclaiming her umbrella, "we found some pretty odd stuff hidden away there. Funny what people get up to in private."