Fragile Cord (19 page)

Salford was a city of extreme
contradictions, Coupland observed as he drove to the station
following a quick shower after his breakfast with Joe. It was still
early morning and the sun was beginning its slow ascent above the
tower blocks of Ordsall, the air was still cool but pleasantly so.
He’d taken the longer route to work, relishing the joy of chain
smoking without judgement. The rhythmic tones of Bob Marley rose up
from the car radio, reassuring him that every little thing was
going to be all right.

Lynn had insisted on business
as usual. She’d dressed for work, was hanging washing out in the
garden by the time he’d returned home. Her operation was scheduled
for the following week, it would be good if he could give her a
lift she’d said, but she knew it might be tricky with his job and
what have you. They’d tell Amy at the weekend, give her time to get
used to the idea before Lynn was admitted. Coupland marvelled at
her calm, as though now he’d been told she could get on with the
practicalities.

Prepare for her exit.

Pedestrians
strolled in short sleeved t-shirts, taking their time, making the
most of the freak Mediterranean-style weather. Canal-side cafes
spilled illegally out onto the pavements to tempt passers-by into
taking a pit stop. Even the junkies were enjoying their methadone
al-fresco, sprawled out on benches outside the local chemist, a day
of stupor-filled inactivity spanned out before them. There was
culture too, from the local artists who set up their easels close
to where the canal boats moored, to the exhibition of work by local
rent collector turned artist L.S. Lowry that hung proudly in the
Lowry Museum. As Coupland drove through Pendleton he studied the
graffiti sprayed carelessly onto boarded up shops and wondered if
in fifty years’ time this urban
art
would be put on display in some contemporary
museum and folk singers would write songs about the anonymous
artists’ work.

He sure as hell hoped not.

The city was a combination of
neglected, poor places with uneasy pockets of wealth; a sports car
garage, rows of executive-style homes, and the flagship apartments
at the Quays. A few yards along from a Frankie and Johnny’s diner a
working-men’s club stood empty. Behind it a row of derelict houses
awaited demolition, already stripped of their boilers and copper
piping, stolen by boys from the neighbouring estate and sold for
scrap. Not all the money went on drugs, Coupland knew that much,
some of it was handed over to their mothers for keep.

The mobile library had broken
down once outside Tattersall, a sprawling estate separating Salford
from Manchester by a ring road. By the time the librarian had
returned to the vehicle it had been stripped. What depressed
Coupland about that was not the theft – for the boys on the estate
thieving was the only gainful employment they knew – but the fact
that so many of the books would have been sold on unread - not
because the kids weren’t interested – but because they were unable
to read.

As he pulled into one of the
bays in the station car park he closed his eyes for a moment to
gather his thoughts, try to inject some enthusiasm when all he
wanted to do was howl at the heavens.

‘You OK Sir?’ Alex’s voice
startled him. She leaned into the open driver’s window, her face
creased with concern. Coupland followed her line of vision to where
his knuckles were gripping the steering wheel so tightly his hands
looked welded on.

‘Everything’s peachy.’ He said
flippantly, then: ‘Apart from the fact that Wilson didn’t make it.
Bastard ‘ad us goin’ for a while, thought he was gonna pull through
at one point, his missus ‘ad sent their young lad home for some
rest.’

‘Christ, what a way to lose
your partner.’

A wave of fear rose up inside
Coupland. So powerful he could only wait for the moment to
pass.

‘I’ll see you back inside,
Alex.’ He said, dismissing her.

As his eyes followed Alex into the
station building it occurred to him that even the people he came
across in his line of work were full of contradictions:

Ricky Wilson had put up a desperate
fight, clung on by the tips of his fingers as he tried in vain to
stay with the family who meant so much to him.

Tracey Kavanagh on the other
hand, couldn’t wait to leave hers.

A telephone message on
Coupland’s desk had been written in red biro. Forensics had given
the all clear for Angus to return to the family home. Coupland
screwed the note into a ball, aimed it at the wastepaper basket
beside his desk. People were complicated. What you saw wasn’t
necessarily what you got. He tried to second-guess what part of
Tracey’s life had made her so dissatisfied.

Had Angus been unfaithful?

Did he abuse his son?

If only he could turn back the
clock and ask Tracey herself.

If only she’d spoken to someone
about how she felt, someone who could have helped her.

If only…

He needed to know more about
the family, about the couple – what made them tick. It would do no
harm to go back to the Kavanagh’s place, look it over with fresh
eyes. The news that Angus could move back into the family home
couldn’t have come at a better time. He decided to deliver this
information in person.

Coupland declined an invitation
to sit in the conservatory, instead he remained standing while
Angus perched on a kitchen stool, Harry and Diane relegated to
their sitting room. There was a hint of colour in his cheeks, and
Angus explained that he’d been for a run – a habit he’d picked up
since working from home – got him out of the house, he explained -
the blast of air in his lungs set him up for the day.

‘Do you find it oppressive then,
working from home?’ Coupland asked him.

‘Far from it. It’s the most
liberating experience – especially with a youngster. Instead of
lunch in a tired staff canteen Tracey would make up a picnic and
we’d take Kyle off to the park for an hour, or we’d head off to
McDonalds if it was cold.’

Whatever medication had been
prescribed it was certainly helping him function – and think –
rationally. Coupland took advantage of Angus’s good spirits:

‘Can you tell me a little bit
more about your work?’

Angus rested his elbows on the
kitchen counter and rubbed his chin. ‘Well, what do you need to
know? I’m a Management Consultant; I work for myself, I’ve built up
quite a loyal band of clients…’

‘Where do you find your
clients, Angus?’ Coupland interrupted. ‘Word of mouth? Do you
advertise?’

Not an unreasonable question,
he thought. At least Angus had had the grace to redden.

‘Many were
from the client list I account managed at the firm I worked for
before going self-employed…’ He tailed off. Coupland smiled to
himself. What different worlds we live in, he concurred. What
copper in his right mind would contemplate taking
his
client list
with him when he left the force? All Coupland’s
notable clients were behind bars.

‘How did you manage to poach
them?’ He asked, ‘Weren’t they taking a risk, moving to a one man
band?’

‘I offered them more for their
money, Sergeant.’ Angus said simply.

There was a time when this kind
of questioning might have made him defensive but the tranquillisers
softened all the edges. No frayed tempers in his world.

‘They were paying over the odds
for attending appointments in fancy offices with ornate cornices
and oak-panelled walls. For three members of staff to handle every
transaction. When I showed them how I could do more for their
business at no extra charge it was a no brainer. No one, no matter
how wealthy they are, likes to throw money away.’

‘Are all your clients wealthy
then?’

‘Several, but I’ve started to
move into business development, some of my newer clients are small
business owners who want to grow their company but don’t know how.
And before you ask what’s in it for me - if I advise them
successfully today they’ll be tomorrow’s wealthy clients, needing
even more of my services.’

It seemed logical. Coupland
moved on. ‘Did Tracy keep in touch with her family?’

‘Tracey’s parents are dead,’
Angus volleyed, ‘your assistant’s already asked me that question.’
Coupland smiled at Angus’s reference to Alex.

‘I was referring to other
members of the family – or was she an only child?’

‘There’s a brother she never
talks about, look, I’ve been over this-.’

‘-No aunts and uncles, old
neighbours, friends from school?’

‘Tracey wasn’t particularly
outgoing.’ Angus replied, pausing as though something had just
occurred to him. ‘It wasn’t that she was antisocial, just wasn’t
one of those insecure types who collect acquaintances. Tracey kept
most people at arm’s length, the most important people in her life
were at home.’

Or in the hospital mortuary,
depending how you looked at it.

Coupland kept this thought to
himself.

‘Is this part of the process,’
Angus accused Coupland, ‘you asking me the same questions as your
colleague, acting as though you’ve not read any of the notes in an
attempt to trip me up?

‘Is there anything to trip up?’
Coupland asked, calmly.

Angus sighed as he shook his
head. ‘You’ll say and do whatever you want to anyway,’ he said as
he raised himself from his chair, ‘I’m as well to let you get on
with your job.’

Coupland waited while Angus went
back up the stairs to pack the items of clothing he’d brought over
from his house, all neatly laundered and pressed by Diane.

He watched Angus hesitate as he
descended the stairway, as realization dawned that he was returning
to an empty home, a home that days before had lived and breathed
his family. Coupland offered to take his bag but Angus declined, as
though he needed to show he could do this small thing for himself.
And so they walked the short distance between the two houses, each
lost in their own thoughts. Coupland took a deep breath before
asking the next question:

‘Was it a happy marriage,
Angus?’ He slid his gaze over to the widower to gauge his
reaction.

‘Christ,’ railed Angus, taken
aback, ‘what kind of a question is that?’

‘A pretty straight forward one,
I’d have thought.’

‘Of course we were happy. Very
Happy.’ Coupland pictured the PC’s notebook, the number of times
he’d underlined the word. Had he been influenced by his
surroundings, he wondered, mistaking the trappings of wealth for
security?

‘Tracey had no reason to feel
insecure,’ Coupland ventured, ‘competing with another woman
perhaps?’

‘Are you asking me if I was
having an affair?’

‘Were you?’

‘Jesus Christ!’ Angus shook his
head as though the idea was pathetic.

It was Coupland’s job to ask
awkward questions. He didn’t enjoy it. Didn’t get any sadistic
thrill out of twisting the knife. Sometimes, like right about now,
he felt like a hypocrite.

Late last
night while they’d lain in bed staring into the dark Lynn had asked
Coupland if he wanted to leave. She’d understand, she whispered, if
he wanted to start a new life with this other woman.
‘Will you get it into your head there is no
fucking other woman!
’ he’d yelled,
‘
She was a mistake, a five minute grope
that led to fuck all! There’s never been anyone else for me Lynn,
and there never bloody will be!’
His
temper had scared both of them; Lynn had flinched when he reached
out for her, trembling into him as he whispered over and over into
her hair that he loved her.

Was he a good enough husband?
He sure as hell hoped so.

Coupland waited while Angus
fumbled in his pocket for his house key, saw the slight quiver in
his hand as he inserted it into the lock. He wondered if Tracey
could see what she’d done, the life she’d resigned him to. Time to
change tack again. ‘Would you describe yourself as a good father
Angus?’

Angus stopped in his tracks.
Turning to Coupland he shook his head from side to side. Not in
answer to the question, but through sheer helplessness.

‘I thought I was.’ He replied
so quietly Coupland had to lean forward to hear him, ‘Only not good
enough though, eh?’

Angus closed his eyes as though
imagining Kyle’s face when he realised too late what his mother was
doing. His eyes snapped open as though under a hypnotic spell. They
were standing in the hallway and Angus looked around him as though
seeing his home for the very first time. He turned back to
Coupland.

‘What did I do?’ His question
was simple enough.

‘I ask myself over and over.
Was it something I did, or didn’t do, that convinced her they’d be
better off without me?’

He looked Coupland straight in
the eye.

‘Be sure to
let me know, Sergeant, if you find the answer to
that
.’

As he eased
his car onto the East Lancs Road Coupland rifled one handed through
a selection of new tapes on the passenger seat, inserted one he’d
picked up cheap on Pendleton Market. An Oasis tribute band
assaulted his favourite track and he cursed inwardly for allowing
himself to be ripped-off. Turning the volume to
low
he lit a cigarette, not for the
first time wondering about the purpose of his life. The fucking
point of it. The news about Lynn had tilted his world, made him
maudlin. He thought back over his career, at his paltry attempt to
repair lives torn apart by circumstance. What he did never brought
peace, only closure. He thought of Tracey Kavanagh hunched forward
on a makeshift noose, of Kyle, just yards from her, lying in his
watery grave.