In Cold Daylight (3 page)

My hands were trembling slightly as I put the photograph aside and began to sift through the debris, but as I methodically began to match up the discarded contents of the lever arch files with the names on their spines, they became still, my racing heart settled down and Alison faded away.

It was a boring job but I persevered. There were household bills, bank statements and insurances.

Finally I realised there was one blank file with no name on the spine and as far as I could see no missing contents. But there had been a label on it matching the others because I felt the spine and it was sticky.

There was a tap on the door and Rosie entered clutching a mug of coffee. Her eyes quickly scanned the devastation and then flickered up to me.

‘I didn’t know it was this bad, Adam. I shouldn’t have asked you.’

‘It’s fine. I’ve got nothing else to do.’
Except
paint
but that was out of the question.

She left me to it. I picked up the cellotape, scissors and other bits of stationery and put them back into a drawer. Jack’s sailing and car magazines I replaced in the magazine holders.

Then I tackled the books one by one, flicking through them and replacing them on the shelves.

There were several novels by Reginald Hill and Robert Goddard; a handful of sporting biographies, a small Bible presented to Jack as a young boy, along with two adventure books he’d won as prizes at school, a few travel books and some old editions of comic books.

I retrieved the smashed photograph frames, carefully lifting them so as not to cut myself on the broken glass, and laid them out on the desk with the photographs on top of them. There were photographs of Jack in the Navy before he joined the Fire Service; Jack in the football team at school aged eleven and Jack in the local cricket team. But there was one missing. I counted eight photograph frames but only seven photographs.

I looked again but couldn’t find it. Perhaps like the blank lever arch file there had been an empty frame to begin with. But as I closed the door behind me they weren’t the only things missing: where were Jack’s back-up disks and his diary?

Rosie looked up as I entered the kitchen. ‘Did you find anything?’

I knew she was referring to Stella Hardway. I shook my head. It was what I hadn’t found that worried me. I spread the photographs out on the kitchen work surface. ‘Do you know if any of Jack’s framed photos are missing? These are all I could find.’

She glanced down at them and her eyes filled with tears. ‘I’m not sure. I can’t remember exactly what he had on his walls. Silly, isn’t it, I should remember.’

‘Don’t worry. It’s not important.’ I quickly gathered them up. Then I held up the cycle ride photograph. ‘Do you think I could keep this one?’

She took it from me with a forlorn expression.

‘I remember the day this was taken. There have been so many changes on that watch since then.

There’s only Brian left now and he almost got killed with Jack. Des Brookfield is a divisional officer at headquarters, Sam Frensham has a hotel in the Cotswolds and Dave Caton lives in France.’ As she spoke she pointed to the men in the photograph. ‘I’m not sure about Sandy Ditton; I didn’t really know him that well or young Scott Burnham who was only on the watch a short time before he died of cancer. Now I come to think of it, Tony and Duggie also died of cancer. No, you keep it, Adam.’ She thrust it back at me. ‘I’ve got plenty of other photographs to remind me of Jack. Not that I need them, he’s so much a part of me.’

‘I couldn’t find Jack’s computer back-up disks.

Do you know where he kept them?’ I asked casually as I smiled my thanks. My heart was beating a little faster as I waited for her answer.

Was she about to confirm my belief that the intruder’s real intention had been to remove any evidence of Jack’s investigation, whatever that was, and the destruction created because of his frantic search of the house?

‘In his study, I thought.’ She looked surprised.

‘You haven’t got a safe?’

‘No.’

‘Would he have given them to Sarah or John?’

‘I doubt it, but I can check…’

I forestalled her. ‘What about his diary?’

‘Isn’t that there?’ Now she looked puzzled. ‘I’ll call Sarah, see if she knows.’

Whilst she was telephoning her daughter, I poured the remainder of my coffee down the sink and swilled it round. The kitchen had been cleaned and tidied since the breakin but I could still see the red and brown stains on the floor where the jam and sauces had been ground in during the breakin. Nothing short of new flooring would get rid of them.

I could hear the gentle rise and fall of Rosie’s voice while I went on thinking about those missing items. It all seemed incredible, like something out of a John Le Carré novel. I told myself for the hundredth time that I must be imagining all this and that there was probably some simple explanation for it.

Rosie returned to tell me that neither Sarah nor John knew anything about disks or Jack’s diary. ‘I know they weren’t in his locker at work.’

‘Perhaps he gave them to someone else on the station. I could check.’

‘You will tell me if you find out anything about
her
, won’t you? Jack might have confided in a colleague. They won’t want to tell me for fear of upsetting me, but they might tell you the truth.’

And there was that word again.
‘I’m almost
there… at the truth.’
Why would Jack say that if it were another woman? Put simply, because it wasn’t.

The phone was ringing as I let myself in. I thought it might be Faye.

‘Adam, it’s Simon.’

I couldn’t speak.

‘Adam, are you there?’

I thought about putting the phone down, or saying wrong number. It had been fifteen years since I’d seen or spoken to my brother. Why now, I thought, when I had enough to occupy my mind without having to cope with all the emotions that Simon conjured up in me?

‘What do you want, Simon?’

‘It’s Father; he’s had a stroke. He’s in St Thomas’s, London. You’d better come up. How long will it take you to get here?’

‘About an hour and a half –’

‘I’ll meet you in the reception.’

‘Simon, I can’t…’ But the line was already dead.

I replaced the telephone slowly, feeling as if the tide were rushing in at me from all sides leaving me stranded on a rock with no way out.

First Alison had returned to haunt me and now a summons from my estranged brother to see the father from whom I had distanced myself for what I had thought was forever. Simon still assumed he could command and I’d simply obey.

But then why shouldn’t he? He had always got his own way in the past.

I didn’t want to go but I knew I had to. There were many times in my life when I wouldn’t face my fear but this, I knew, wasn’t one of them.

This time I had to do it. Damn! Jack’s code would have to wait; nevertheless I stuffed his postcard in my pocket.

I made good time. Simon was waiting for me but not in reception. I found him sitting on the edge of one of the beige, vinyl-covered armchairs that lined the small, grey institutionalised room just down the corridor from the Intensive Care Unit. He was leaning forward, his knees apart, hands clasped between them, staring at the floor, his left leg jigging impatiently.

His head came up sharply as I entered and he frowned, but then his expression cleared as recognition dawned. He leapt up and stretched out a hand, with a smile that was perfunctory and condescending.

As I felt the dry, vice-like grip all my memories flooded back: the fair-haired boy eight years my senior, clever, confident, forceful, Father’s favourite; the successful son not the one who had failed and so abjectly and publicly.

‘He’s still unconscious.’ Simon moved away, running a hand through his hair. He was going grey at the temples, I noticed. There were no preliminaries; no ‘how are you’ and ‘it’s good to see you.’ I hadn’t really expected them. If we’d been reunited after thirty years instead of fifteen Simon would still have dispensed with the small talk.

‘God knows when or even if he’ll ever come round,’ he continued. ‘I’m waiting for the doctor but you know what these places are like, we could be here all night.’ He began to pace the room and his presence seemed to take up all the space and air, making me feel insignificant. I wasn’t, I told myself, but couldn’t believe it. Not here.

Simon had put on weight and had acquired an extra layer of sleekness to go with it. The well-cut and expensive light grey suit fitted him to perfection. His black shoes were polished to within an inch of their life and his jewellery, a wedding ring and Rolex were discreet. He exuded confidence, wealth and power. He wasn’t at all what you expected from the traditional image of a scientist. With a first class honours degree in Molecular Science, Simon had followed in Father’s footsteps. Next had come a PhD in Biomedical Sciences and then a Member of the Royal Society of Chemistry. Simon had been an expert in DNA technology at a young age, which had made his name in scientific circles and had helped him to build up a substantial biotechnology company and a considerable amount of money if the broadsheets were to be believed.

‘Who found him?’ I asked, unzipping my leather jacket and pulling it off.

‘His housekeeper, this morning.’

‘You’ve been here all day?’

Simon shook his head and frowned at my apparent stupidity. ‘Of course not. She discovered him at the bottom of the stairs this morning when she arrived for work and thought at first he’d had a fall, or a heart attack. I didn’t get the message until I returned to the laboratory after lunch. I came straight up from Bath. Had to cancel God knows how many meetings.’

Inconvenient, I felt like saying dryly, but sarcasm had been my father’s trait not mine. I wondered what I was doing here. I felt no affection for my father. There was too much in my past that I couldn’t forgive him for: the hurtful words, the disdainful looks, the sneers, and put downs, the lack of love. But here I was.

Simon said, ‘I’ve spoken to someone who called herself a doctor, looked more like a child on work experience to me. I said I wanted to speak to the consultant or the senior physician at least but that was hours ago, and this is the NHS, so goodness knows when that’s likely to be.’

I hoped Simon hadn’t made his feelings that plain. It seemed that age hadn’t mellowed him, quite the opposite. All the way up here I’d wondered if he would have changed. And Father?

If he was conscious and I was to see him, how would he react to me? Would he have changed?

I wasn’t counting on it, in my experience people rarely did. I sat down, which seemed to goad Simon further.

‘I suppose you’re just going to wait for someone to show up,’ Simon scoffed. ‘I’m not.

I’ve already wasted half a day and I’m damned sure I’m not going to waste a complete evening.’

‘Simon…’ But he was heading out of the door just as a man with a stethoscope draped around his neck was entering. They almost collided. The doctor stepped back but I was pleased to see he didn’t flinch under Simon’s hostile glare.

‘Mr Greene?’

‘Dr Greene,’ Simon corrected. ‘How is he?

What’s the prognosis?’

‘I’m Dr Newberry, the senior physician in charge of the Intensive Care Unit and looking after your father,’ he announced, seemingly unfazed by Simon’s domineering behaviour. I warmed to the man. He was in his mid forties, about the same age and height as Simon, but slender and balding, and where Simon looked the picture of affluence and health Dr Newberry looked as if he was on his last pair of trainers and trousers and wouldn’t be able to get through the night without falling asleep on the job. Simon refused to sit and loomed over us.

Dr Newberry addressed us both, his eye contact flicking between us. ‘Your father is unconscious but he is comfortable. We’re arranging for a scan, which will give us a clearer image of the blood flow, and of how much damage there is. Then we will be able to give you a better prognosis.’ His voice was gentle but firm. ‘If it’s any consolation he’s not in pain. You can see him if you wish and of course you are welcome to stay as long as you want but there really is very little you can do. If you return tomorrow you should be able to see the consultant who will be in a better position to give you more information.’

‘And that’s it?’ Simon declared.

Dr Newberry remained silent but held Simon’s stare, which seemed to infuriate him.

In order to prevent another outburst I rose and surprised myself by saying, ‘I’d like to see him.’

With a grunt Simon followed as Newberry led us along a short corridor and into an open plan intensive care unit. It was dimly lit and hushed save for the bleeping of machines and the swish of uniform as the staff went about their business.

The heat clawed at my throat and I tried not to look at the comatose figures on the beds either side of me. At the far end of the room the nurse rose as we reached the last bed and stepped away to allow us privacy.

I felt my body tense and hoped that Simon hadn’t noticed it. I silently urged myself to breathe steadily and to keep calm. As my eyes fell on the motionless figure lying on the hospital bed I experienced a shock. Surely this wasn’t the man who had bullied me for most of my childhood, who had made me feel so inadequate?

There were no clear blue eyes boring into me accusingly, no sardonic smile, no disdainful or pitying looks. It was fifteen years since I had seen my father and it was that final image that had stayed with me. Here in front of me now was a frail body, the grey face lined, the thin, wispy white hair flattened against a narrow egg-shaped head, bristle on the chin, chest skeletal.

I turned away feeling angry, not that my father should end up like this but for all the years I’d wasted being afraid of him, of living in awe and terror of him, yet he was nothing but flesh and blood after all, just like the rest of us.

I heard Simon hurrying after me. ‘You’re leaving?’

‘There’s nothing I can do here.’

‘I’ll have to come back tomorrow to hear what this consultant has to say unless you…’

‘I can’t,’ I said sharply, feeling the panic rising.