Exposure (21 page)

‘I know,' she said. ‘She will freak, though.'

‘She'll get used to it. She was crazy about you two – she'll love it; you'll see.' She leaned back and sighed. She took out a pink tissue which he suspected was torn off a lavatory roll, and blew her nose.

‘You're a real star, Dad. I'll get a good degree and I'll get a job. I won't be a burden to you, I promise.'

‘Don't be bloody silly,' Ben told her. ‘It's my grandchild, too, you know. How does your friend Pete fit in – is he going to be around?' She shook her head. He felt a jolt of anger. ‘No. He's called it off. I don't blame him. He's got enough to pay for with three kids already. I'm on my own and that's better really. I'm not scared, it was just I didn't see how I was going to cope and I did want to finish college. You are a star. I mean it.'

‘No problem,' Ben smiled at her. She was an independent free-living product of her age, but her vulnerability touched him as much as her courage. He wished he'd been part of her growing up. Her question took him by surprise.

‘What about you? How's your life going?'

‘It's OK. I've got a top job and I earn a hell of a salary. No complaints.'

‘Girlfriend?' his daughter asked. ‘I thought you'd have got married by now.'

‘My track record wasn't very good,' he said. ‘And I didn't meet anyone –' He looked at her. ‘But that's changed. There's someone very special now. I don't know how it'll work out, and we're not rushing into a commitment. I'd like you to meet her one day.'

‘I'd like it too,' she answered. ‘We'll come and visit, me and my illegit.' He realized what an attractive smile she had. The clouds had lifted with the rapidity of youth and optimism. Thanks to him.

He'd planned on staying the night in Birmingham and seeing some old newspaper colleagues if he could contact them. He changed his plans.

‘Let's get the bill,' he said to his daughter. ‘I'd like to come and see some of your work. And then I'll take you out to dinner. How's that?'

‘I've got my portfolio in the flat,' she said eagerly. She was studying textile design. ‘And dinner would be great. I
am
eating for two,' and she began to giggle. They left the café, and, after a few yards walking on the pavement looking for a taxi, Ben's daughter slipped her arm through his.

Joe Patrick was silent and bad-tempered after King left. He was always nervous, keyed up before a serious job. And there was so little time to prepare. He cursed Harold King, and raised a threatening fist to his hapless girl when she interrupted to ask him something. She fled, and he sank into contemplation. He roused himself and phoned Julia Hamilton's number. He mustn't neglect other tasks, just because King had tossed hot shit in his lap. Hamilton's flat hadn't been bugged. The agency said she'd driven off with what looked like a little overnight case and headed out of London. She was logged in on the M25 by seven o'clock that evening. The phone rang four times and then the answerphone cut in. He listened. It wasn't a normal message.

‘Ben darling. I've gone down to my parents for the night. Please call me.' The number was a code and four figures. ‘I hope it went all right. Love – J.' The place was empty. He could send his electronic man along with the lock picker he'd used when he broke in before. They'd fix the phones up and have time to put simple bugs in the rooms. She wouldn't be able to sneeze without Joe having it on tape.

He decided to eat something. He came out and yelled and the girls came out looking apprehensive. His temper was always unpredictable. One or both of them could get a punching if they weren't extra careful.

‘Get me somethin' to eat,' he snapped. They knew his preferences. He liked simple stuff when he was alone and not showing off in restaurants. Eggs, burgers, chips – the junk food of his youth when such fare was a treat.

He poured himself a measure of whiskey. Irish whiskey, that slipped warm down the gullet and heated his cold belly. But not too much. Just one to set him up. ‘Fix it, Joe. No affidavit.' A beating wouldn't be enough. He'd read King's mind and knew what was expected. No contract worthy of hire could be bought at such short notice. It wasn't a job for a greedy heavy, who might foul up and get caught. It called for an expert. Himself, as he'd offered. He ate in the kitchen, washed his food down with a cup of strong tea. Then he looked at his girls. The apprehension in their pretty faces stirred him. He liked to feel a woman's fear. And that gave him his plan of action. He glanced at his Rolex, a present to himself.

It was nine-thirty. He'd be in Midhurst before eleven.

‘I'm goin' out,' he said. ‘You two tar babies wait up for me, see? I'll be ready for some fun when I get back …' He got up and went to each girl and pinched their cheeks. They'd never heard the term tar babies till he used it. It was Dublin slang for coloured girls, exported from the slave states of America. They hated it, as Joe Patrick knew. He lingered by the older girl, Tina; she was his favourite of the two. ‘You be ready for me. I'll want something special tonight.'

‘You'll have it, Joe baby,' she promised. She poked out her tongue at him provocatively. When he'd gone she closed her mouth and looked at her friend. ‘One day I'm going to bite it clean off—' she hissed.

‘Like fuck,' the other girl said. ‘He'd kill you. What's up? Where's he off to?'

‘Some poor bugger's going to get done over,' was the answer. ‘Joe always gets a hard on afterwards. Come on, let's watch telly.'

Jean Adams ate her supper on a tray by the fire. She let the puppy in to sit with the old labrador bitch, who raised a sleepy head and sniffed, before going to sleep again. It was warm and peaceful and she enjoyed the TV. She loved police series, and never missed her favourite programme. Then there was the news, and if she wasn't too tired, she watched
Newsnight
. Then bed, with the old lady in her basket upstairs by the radiator in her room, and the puppy snug in the kitchen with paper laid out on the floor in case of accidents. She was still young and not always able to last the night. Jean was content. She had made her decision and lifted the burden of that old guilt from her mind. She would sleep with a clear conscience. At eleven-thirty she let the dogs out into the rear garden for a last pee, and then locked up.

Slumped down in his seat in the car parked opposite, Joe Patrick saw the square of light in the upstairs window go out. He waited.

At ten minutes past twelve he broke into the house through the kitchen window.

‘You're looking bright eyed and bushy tailed,' Julia's father remarked. She had come back into the sitting room after a long telephone call. She had taken it upstairs. He and her mother had exchanged looks. She had arrived with flowers for her mother and a bottle of special malt whisky for him. She looked relaxed and happier than they could remember and they felt it wasn't connected with her new career. Her mother couldn't resist the question.

‘Who was that, darling?'

Julia smiled. Why not say something? She knew they'd be pleased, especially her mother who was convinced that fulfilment lay in a comfortable marriage like her own. ‘He's called Ben Harris,' she said. ‘We're working together. You'll be glad to know that Felix and I broke up.'

‘Thank God for that,' her father exclaimed. ‘I thought he was rather a lout – terribly pleased with himself. I didn't say anything at the time—'

‘Dad darling, you didn't have to – I could see it on your face. He was all right. I think he needed someone nearer his own age who wasn't always competing with him.'

‘And winning,' her mother interposed. She was shrewd, as Julia knew. Her wisdom came from long experience of life and people.

‘And winning,' Julia admitted. ‘Ben's quite different. He's older, he's got a big job, and we're very good together. I think you'll like him. I hope so, anyway, because I do.' She looked at them and smiled. Her mother said, ‘He's not married, is he?'

‘No, Mum,' Julia said gently. ‘He's divorced. A long time ago. He's in Birmingham meeting his daughter. She's got some problem she wants sorting out. I'll bring him down one day.'

‘Do, we'd love to meet him.'

They'd gone to a hotel for dinner, and come back in happy mood. They had recovered ground lost through lack of contact over the years, and to her relief the subject of her brother and sister-in-law and their children had only been touched upon, instead of dominating the conversation as before. Julia had been irritated and vaguely jealous; it wasn't an incentive to see more of them when they had so obviously closed the circle. Now, ever since that visit for Sunday lunch when she was upset by Felix's absence, the gap had opened, and she was inside a circle of their own. Just her father, her mother and herself. Ben would like them, she was sure of that.

He'd talked to her about his daughter, Lucy; his attitude surprised her. She hadn't seen him as paternal. He sounded pleased about the pregnancy, proud of his daughter's decision to keep her child and resist the easy option. Proud of her work, which he said was very original. And then, before she had time to feel a twinge of jealousy, he asked about her, told her he missed her. And said he loved her, rather abruptly, before hanging up.

Typical Ben. Soft words were still drawn out of him like teeth. She went to bed earlier than usual, because her father looked tired. He was close to seventy; she often forgot that. Loving someone else had sharpened her perceptions, made her think of other people more.

She woke, made herself some breakfast, and slipped out without disturbing them. She left a little note on the kitchen table.

See you both very soon. It was lovely
. And signed it with her childhood pet name, Juliette. She drove through empty roads, listening vaguely to taped music. It was a lovely day, and the autumn colours blazed from the trees in the early-morning sunlight. She switched on the news as she came into London, and met the early traffic. It was the usual; signs of a slight economic upturn. A report of bomb explosions in Belfast, Palestinian riots on the Israeli West Bank; a statement on the rise in petty crime in London.

And the murder of an elderly widow in Midhurst.

Ben was waiting for Julia in her office.

‘Ben?' She came up to him smiling, surprised to see him so early. ‘Did you drive down last night? I thought you were staying—'

‘Jean Adams is dead,' he said. Julia stared at him in horror. ‘There was a break-in and she was murdered last night. I got the latest update. Here.'

Julia sat down. She blanched as she read.

Jean Adams had been found dead in the early hours of the morning. She had been sexually assaulted, and bludgeoned to death. Neighbours were alerted by one of her dogs howling and barking and called the police. The animal had been kicked and had to be destroyed. Robbery was the motive because jewellery and money had been taken and the room ransacked.

‘I can't believe it,' Julia said. ‘Ben, I can't believe it's true!' He pulled a chair close to hers. She looked terribly white and shaken.

‘I can,' he said.

She went on, her voice uneven, ‘What sort of man would
do
a thing like that? She was near seventy—'

He lit a cigarette. ‘It's happened before. They break in to rob, the woman wakes up and they get turned on because she's terrified. Then they kill her to stop her identifying them. Makes you think about the death penalty. Come on, have some coffee.'

‘I don't want any,' she said. ‘Have the police got any clues?'

‘They're going through the place,' he said. ‘I had a word with the local crime boys. It's the first murder of its kind down there and they're pretty fired up about it. I said we knew her and they promised to call in if they find anything. J, I don't want to sound callous, but I don't think she signed that affidavit.'

Julia looked at him. ‘No, I realize that. I suppose we could ring the solicitor to make sure. Later on. God, I hope they catch that brute—'

‘He won't have a nice time down at the station if they do,' Ben remarked. She was upset, and he didn't labour the point about the affidavit. He was sure Jean Adams had told him she was signing it that day. It was a very long shot to imagine she'd advanced the timing. But he had to take it. He, not Julia, would call the solicitor's office. He would be better able to cope with the response.

He went downstairs and, after an hour, he made the call. At first the receptionist said her boss was out, then suddenly he came on the line. His voice was shaking with rage and emotion. ‘You ring up at a time like this about your bloody affidavit! No, she didn't sign it! You're the scum of the earth, all you media people!' And the line cleared as he banged down the telephone.

It was a busy morning and a hectic afternoon for Ben Harris. He cut his lunch-time drink and sandwich with Julia. The murder wasn't top priority, such cases were no longer headline news. There had been too many of them. Political crisis, disasters, a plane crash in Northern France killing a group of British students – the stories came pouring in and the widow lying in the mortuary in Midhurst rated a few column inches on the inside page. Then Harris's phone rang in mid afternoon. It had been quieter for the last hour, and he swore. He loved pressure, it brought out the best in him, but it frazzled his nerves and primed his temper with a very short fuse.

It was the Detective Chief Inspector from Midhurst in charge of the Jean Adams murder. He talked to Harris for a few minutes. Ben said briefly, ‘Thanks – thanks very much. No, we won't print anything. Not without your say-so. Keep me posted.'

One of the fingerprinting team had chanced on something. Faint marks on the telephone upstairs in the bedroom. Similar marks on the instrument downstairs. They'd taken them apart and found that Jean Adams' phones had been bugged.