Authors: Fiona McIntosh
Brodie nodded. ‘I’ll be here.’
‘Who’s on tomorrow?’
‘Me again, and Swamp’s in Brighton. Sarah’s in, I believe.’ Sarah nodded.
‘It’s your extension lighting up, sir,’ Kate called to Jack before answering. She paused, then said, ‘Yes, he’s here.’ She turned to Jack as the rest of the team began packing up for the night. ‘It’s for you.’
‘Who?’ he mouthed as he took the phone.
‘Someone called Sophie,’ she said sweetly. ‘She’s wondering if you’re planning on standing her up tonight.’
‘Oh bugger! It’s Friday!’ Jack said, wincing as he covered the phone. Everyone but Kate laughed.
‘Hot date?’ Cam asked.
‘Shit!’ Jack exclaimed again and realised he couldn’t move away from Kate’s desk. She packed up around
him. ‘Hello,’ he said into the phone, awaiting a barrage of abuse.
‘Hi there. It’s quite cold out, you know, and if you don’t hurry I’m going to take this guy up on his offer to go clubbing. His name’s Andy and he smells and doesn’t seem to mind my wheelchair.’
‘Sophie, I’m so sorry,’ he groaned. ‘Where are you?’
‘Where we arranged to meet fifteen minutes ago.’
‘And where was that again?’
He put a plea in his voice and noted Kate’s look of disdain as she reached beneath his arm for her bag. ‘Good night, sir,’ she said crisply, but all he could do was nod because Sophie was speaking again.
Why did Kate look so angry?
‘I’m outside the Chinese restaurant you booked,’ Sophie said. ‘I don’t mind going to the theatre alone, Jack, but I refuse to sit at a table alone, especially if I don’t have a guarantee you’re on the way.’ Again her voice held only amusement.
He couldn’t believe she was being so decent about this. ‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ he assured. ‘Give me twenty minutes. Please, go inside, order a drink — order one for me too — and some food. I’ll be there before the ice melts in your glass, I promise.’
He heard her deep chuckle and liked her all the more for that laidback attitude. Any other woman, in his experience, would have been screeching at him by now.
‘You’re being fantastic about this, Sophie. I can explain, but thank you.’
‘I’m a doctor’s daughter; it’s in my blood to understand other people coming first,’ she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. ‘Hurry up!’
22
The vintage ‘63 MG pulled up outside an old terraced house in Rottingdean, just three miles from the Brighton city centre. Its driver nimbly jumped out, ran up the front steps and eased his door key into the lock. He smiled as a familiar aroma greeted him.
‘Helloooo. It’s me!’ he called.
Clare Flynn emerged from the kitchen. ‘Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? I could have cooked for you.’
He grinned again. His mother had lived in England since she was nine, but still had that hint of an Irish lilt to her voice. ‘I didn’t know I was coming, Mum, until I got off work early. And anyway, you always cook enough for an extra person.’ He kissed her, gave her a hug and the flowers he’d brought.
‘Oh, thank you, darling. Why do you spend your money on me and not that young woman of yours? I —’
She couldn’t miss his wry expression as he cut across her words.
‘Where’s Dad?’
‘In his shed. Where else would he be when I’m serving up dinner?’
He sniffed. ‘What’s cooking?’
‘A lamb stew. We’re cleaning up from the weekend when your aunts and uncles were here. You should have been here too, Peter.’ She wagged a finger at him. ‘You were missed.’
‘I know. I told you, I had to do an installation at Burgess Hill. It was important, Mum, they’ll have understood. I’ll see them all next weekend at Michael’s christening anyway.’
She touched his face affectionately. ‘When are you going to give me grandchildren, Peter?’ He grimaced and she knew when to stop. ‘Go wash your hands.’
‘Are you doing champ?’
‘Of course,’ she said over her shoulder.
‘Let me just say hello to Dad.’
He walked through the familiar rooms of his childhood home and paused briefly to lift the lid of the pot on the stove and inhale the smell of onions mixed into the buttery mash. His mouth was already watering. He let himself out the back door.
‘Dad?’
‘Yeah?’ came the muffled call. His father stepped out of the shed. ‘Peter! Are you staying for dinner, lad?’
‘Of course. What are you doing?’
His father bent down to pick up some fishing tackle and Peter noticed how he winced as he straightened. He hated to think of either of his parents as getting old.
‘Are you alright?’
His father sighed. ‘Oh, I’m just getting some stuff
together. I thought I’d go fishing next weekend with Uncle Dougie, want to come?’
‘Sure, if I’m not working. You haven’t been fishing for years.’
‘No, but I’ve promised myself to start up again. I used to bring fish home for the table twice a week before you came along.’
‘You never told me that.’
‘Didn’t I? Well, I’ve only just realised how much I miss it. And life’s too short not to do the things that please us, son. Your mother can make fish pie for us.’
Father and son grinned and both made lipsmacking noises.
‘Is she screaming at me for dinner yet?’
Peter shook his head, feeling a fresh rush of affection for his parents. They talked about each other as though they were combatants sometimes, and yet couldn’t bear to be apart. ‘She told me to wash my hands. That’s usually the prelude to the scream.’
‘Pah! She knows I like to watch the news.’
‘Well, I’m here now, so you won’t get told off if you eat your dinner on your lap like a peasant.’
It was an old family saying and his father laughed as they walked towards the house.
‘How’s business?’ he asked.
‘That’s why I’m here. I have some good news.’
Garvan paused, stared at his boy. ‘The contract?’
‘Let me tell you both together.’
‘No, tell me now. I want to savour it myself.’
Peter grinned. His father could be quirky at times. Another reason to love him. ‘I got the government account.’
He thought for an instant that his father was going to weep but saw him rein back the tears.
‘Peter, that makes me very proud, son,’ he said, his voice trembling.
He reached for his boy and pulled him close, hugging him hard. Peter’s dark brown hair wasn’t black like his father’s and his skin wasn’t as pale, but they had matching bright blue eyes. They were unmistakeably father and son.
‘Let’s have a drink,’ Garvan said. ‘We should have a toast.’
Inside, Clare was ladling the stew into a big dish, the champ steaming on a plate, a well of melted butter in its centre. ‘Come on,’ she said, waving a hand in exasperation. ‘This’ll go cold. Now don’t say you want to watch the news.’
‘Just the opening minutes, love, please.’
Clare sighed. ‘Okay, okay, I’ll bring it into the lounge. Just go and sit down.’
‘I’ll help,’ Peter said, winking at his dad and wiping his newly rinsed hands on the kitchen towel. ‘You go, Dad, or you’ll miss the headlines.’
His father smiled conspiratorially and disappeared into another room.
‘Your father gets a bee in his bonnet at times, I tell you.’ Clare began setting up trays so they could eat off their laps. ‘He’s obsessed with those murders.’
‘Which murders?’ Peter asked, fetching cutlery and napkins.
She gave him a look of surprise. ‘You can’t be so busy you don’t know about the two murders?’ He frowned and she attempted to jog his memory. ‘The one in
London. Then they discovered it was identical to the killing up north of some poor fellow.’
‘Oh, that — the murder in Lincoln, you mean?’ Clare nodded as she put their plates onto the trays. ‘Why is it so important to Dad, though?’
‘Search me. They’re saying it’s a serial killer.’
‘Two murders in two different counties gives us a serial killer?’ Peter scoffed, placing glasses on each tray. ‘Dad wants wine.’
‘Wine? You know what the doctor said.’
‘Mum, a glass of wine never hurt anyone and I’ve brought something special to go with your dinner.’
‘You and your fancy stuff. I don’t know where you get it from, son. We never had all this when you were growing up.’
‘No.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘But if you didn’t want me to enjoy the finer things in life, you shouldn’t have given me such a good education or pushed me so hard.’
‘Oh, go on with you. You were just clever. Take this to your father. Tell him to go ahead and eat like a peasant,’ she said, handing Peter a tray.
He took it, noticing how she’d neatly folded the ordinary paper napkin on his father’s tray but not on his, or her own. For all their gentle bickering, he knew how much they loved each other and it made him feel safe.
Peter arrived in the lounge to see his dad glued to the TV. It looked like a police press conference onscreen. ‘Here,’ he said, putting the tray on his father’s lap. ‘Don’t let it go cold.’
‘Shh,’ came his father’s reply.
Peter sat down to watch as well, giving his mother a smile when she came in with his tray.
‘If anyone has any information that can help us with our inquiries, please call our incident room on the number now showing onscreen, or you can call freephone to Crimestoppers where your details will be treated anonymously,’ a silver-haired policeman said. ‘These are particularly brutal killings and anything at all, no matter how irrelevant it may seem, could further our investigation.’
The report cut to a reconstruction scene and a presenter’s voice narrated: ‘Clive Farrow was last seen at a fish and chip shop in Hackney in London’s north. A witness saw him get into a red BMW Z3 Cabriolet.’ A large man with dark floppy hair was shown balancing two packets of fish and chips and lowering himself carefully into the passenger seat of the car. ‘The female driver had dark hair, and police believe Farrow left the area with her at around 7.10 p.m., supposedly on the way home to his fiancee with their takeaway dinner. He was not seen alive again. He was reported missing at 8.32 p.m. that same evening. Police would like to question the driver of the BMW. Anyone who has any information pertaining to the scene, the driver or the car should please come forward.’
‘Dad, I’ve got some bubbly,’ Peter said. ‘Do you want me to get it?’
‘Just a minute,’ Garvan said, his tone vexed.
‘Dad!’ Peter couldn’t hide his exasperation. ‘What’s wrong with you? What’s all this interest in murder?’
His father looked suddenly ashamed. ‘I think I might have known that man.’
‘What, that one? The bloke who got into the car?’
His father nodded and reached for the remote control to flick off the TV.
‘Then you’ve got to ring the police,’ Peter said, shocked.
His mother walked in with her tray. ‘Police? What are you both talking about?’
‘Dad knows the dead guy — the one killed in London.’
His father wore a pained expression. ‘I don’t know him for sure. I said I think I might have known him. I’m talking thirty years ago. I haven’t seen him since. I’m no help, and only the name is familiar, nothing else.’
‘Oh,’ Peter said, ‘then don’t worry about it. That sort of information is no help to the police. Look, let me get that bottle — I need a drink. Tell Mum my news,’ he said to his father.
‘What news?’ he heard his mother say as he stepped out into the corridor and reached for his mobile. He quickly tapped out a text message, added an X at the end and smiled. She should receive it moments before the rehearsal began. Peter couldn’t imagine a happier moment than now. His good news about the contract meant steady, profitable income for the next five years at least. And Ally’s acceptance into the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra meant she too was on cloud nine. Everything was coming together. They could buy a house in Southampton, get married, start a family. He just had to tell his parents.
He returned to the lounge brandishing a bottle. ‘I lied,’ he said, grinning, ‘it’s proper champagne!’
‘Peter,’ his mother exclaimed, putting her dinner aside so she could clutch her boy in a firm embrace. He assumed she’d heard the news. ‘We’re so proud of you, son. You must be excited.’
‘I am.’ Peter took a silent deep breath. It was now or never. ‘There’s more news.’ They both looked at him expectantly. ‘I’m getting married.’
Various eating implements went flying as Peter found himself hugged by two of the three people he loved most in the world. His mother began to babble. ‘Patricia is going to —’
‘Wait, Mum, please. It’s not Pat.’
He had anticipated the expression of shock on his mother’s face, but not the cutting silence that followed.
‘Her name is Ally . . . er, Allison,’ he went on.
His mother looked as if he’d made a joke she hadn’t quite understood the punchline to. ‘Allison?’
He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Sit down, both of
you.’
They did so, as robots might on command.
‘This isn’t easy for me. I hope you know I’ve never lied to you about anything.’ They nodded, still robotic, although he could imagine the tendrils of panic fluttering through his mother’s mind. ‘Except this,’ he added, rushing on with his tale before his mother could react. ‘I broke up with Pat eleven weeks ago but didn’t know how to tell you. She and I weren’t meant to be, Mum,’ he implored, watching his mother shake her head in disbelief. ‘The night we finished, I went out alone, to a pub. I needed a drink. I knew we were over for good, but we both decided to keep it secret for a while. We needed some distance from each other before we could tell all of you. Anyway, I met a girl.’
‘Peter,’ his father began softly, but Peter spoke over him. He needed to get it all out.
‘Her name is Allison Renn. She’s a professional musician. She plays violin and has just been appointed to the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra. I know that won’t mean much to you, but those sorts of jobs come along once in a lifetime. Well, they chased Ally — she’s that good, you see.’ They didn’t see, he could tell by the quiet shock still haunting the room. ‘I came out of the pub and her car had broken down. She desperately needed a push but we couldn’t get it going and she was running late for rehearsal, so I did something barmy. I drove her to Southampton. And I waited for her and brought her home. I fell in love that night,’ he said, hoping that might melt them.
‘And Pat?’ His mother’s voice was edged with bitterness.
‘She’s glad to be rid of me. I’ve told her about Ally and although that started another blazing row, she understands.’
‘Understands?’ his mother echoed incredulously. ‘Sheila and I have already begun planning the wedding! What about our grandchildren?’
‘Mum, that’s all part of the problem. You and Sheila love the idea that your English-born son and her Irish-born daughter are going to marry and give you English-Irish grandchildren and we’ll all be an even bigger, happier family eating champ and stew forever.’
‘Our families have known each other all of our lives, Peter, since your grandparents came here from Ireland,’ his father joined in. ‘Do Sheila and Harry know?’
Peter nodded sadly. ‘They will by now, I think. Pat was going to ring them just before they left from Dublin to come home this evening.’ He shrugged. ‘She didn’t want to spoil their holiday.’
Clare stood, rolling a napkin around her fingers. ‘You don’t even know this girl. It’s only weeks! Are you mad?’
‘Madly in love, yes.’
‘Pah!’ his mother said, swiping the napkin at him and dissolving into tears. ‘We loved Pat.’
Peter felt the burden of guilt settle itself around him like a smothering blanket. He had anticipated how hard it was going to be to tell his mother especially, but he resented the shame she managed to prompt in him, just with her injured expression alone.
‘Yes, but I don’t, Mum. It doesn’t mean you and Dad have to stop loving her. You’ve known her since she was a little girl; the problem is, so have I. We’re friends at best — and distant cousins — but we’re not in love. Never have been, if the truth be told. The way I feel about Ally, I’ve never felt that way towards Pat.’
Clare began to sob and Peter looked to his dad for help, who couldn’t help but move to his son’s aid.
He put his arm around his wife. ‘Come on, my love, now don’t upset yourself too hard. We want our boy to be happy, don’t we? No good him marrying someone for us — that won’t do. Tell us about this girl, Peter,’ he said, nodding at his son to say something and make it good.
‘She’s wonderful. You’ll fall in love with her as I did. Look, I have a photo,’ Peter said, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet and pulling out a picture of a slim, blonde-haired girl with a shy smile and clutching a violin case. ‘I took this in Bournemouth the third time I drove her there.’