"After a while, she looks up and says, 'Come sit with me,' and pats the upholstery beside her, so I go and sit there—a little nervously, but I sit there and her eyes go back to the script and she reads some more and then she says, 'Is this me?' And I say, 'What do you mean?' and she says, 'Is this me? This woman here?' and I say. 'I think you can play her, yes. I think it is a wonderful part for you.' So she looks at me, into my face, and says, 'Is this you? This boy?' And when I shake my head, she laughs and says, 'Show me your hands.'"
Rocca paused and looked at Lesley over the rim of his glass.
"Someone said, the lovers you regret are the ones you could have had but never did. Opportunities that were there, but never seized. Those are the ones that haunt you, he said, and that is true. 'Show me your hands,' she said, Stella Leonard, and I could have placed them in her own, reached out and touched her cheek, her hair. Then, who knows? Instead I sat there like a fool and she laughed and said, 'All right, I will be in your film,' and a year later, less, before we could start shooting, she was dead." Rocca sighed. "She died in a car accident, you know?"
Lesley nodded.
"Her father was with her in the car. Just the two of them. Stella was driving. For some reason, they went off the road. Both were killed."
He fixed her with his eyes.
"You've seen it,
Shattered Glass?
You know how she dies? Her character in the movie?"
"No," Lesley said, and a chill ran through her as she spoke.
"Ah, then you must see it. But not only for that. All other things aside, it is an extraordinary film. To have been made here in England at that time. And Stella—she is wonderful. She plays two sisters, you know. Twins. One is the good little patient wife who goes to church and does all the right things and the other—well, you will see."
"What's happening," Lesley asked, "to your plans for the remake?"
Rocca shook his head as if in pain. "Please, do not ask."
"I thought Natalie's father had agreed to put up the money?"
"What Natalie's father agreed was to make a loan against the profits from the movie. Not the same thing at all. And, even then, he demands to know how every penny will be spent before giving us as much as a sniff at his money. Meantime, we have a script, we have actors, we have a crew, we have nothing." Rocca sighed elaborately. "If he had wanted to prevent us from filming, he could not have done better."
He drained his glass. "A little more?"
"Thank you, no."
"You're sure?"
"Quite sure."
Rocca smiled, merriment in his eyes. "You should remember what I said, about opportunities that are missed."
"And that's what this is?"
Rocca shrugged easily and Lesley shook her head. "According to Natalie," she said, "you know the cameraman who worked on
Shattered Glass?
"
"Gordon Hedden, yes."
"If you have a number for him, I'd like to get it touch."
"Of course."
For a moment, Lesley wondered if she were going to have to rebuff another advance, but Rocca levered himself up from the settee and returned several minutes later with a battered-looking Filofax and a silver pen. "Here we are. The coast. Broadstairs. Not the best time of year to visit the English seaside, but never mind." He handed Lesley the piece of paper on which he'd written the details. "Please give Gordon my regards."
His daughter's music was still drifting down the stairs. Trombone. Organ. A woman's voice. A burst of shrill, almost psychedelic guitar, as if, instead of dying, Jimi Hendrix had emigrated to Brazil.
THERE WAS A SPRINGSTEEN SONG WILL HAD USED TO listen to a lot, back when he had listened to Springsteen. When he had listened seriously to anything.
"One Step Up."
One step up and two steps back.
In Will's experience, this was how investigations progressed, if progress was the word: like the slow dripping of a tap. Occasionally, if rarely, they could be jump-started by a sudden, previously unsuspected clue, a moment of inspiration, a bolt from the blue; at other times, and all too regrettably, the way forward was found to have been staring them in the face all the while; but most often what progress was made came through a process of accretion, check and cross check, dull routine, dribs and drabs.
The lab had confirmed that the stray semen found on one of Stephen Bryan's towels had, as assumed, belonged to Russell Johnson, and since Johnson was in no real sense a suspect, that simply proved to be another dead end.
Enquiries into McKusick's background had, so far, proved equally fruitless, the testimony of friends and colleagues suggesting the outburst Jack Rouse had witnessed was very much the exception rather than the rule. The picture that came across was of someone who held quite strong opinions and would express them forcefully where necessary, but without any loss of temper; there were times, it was agreed, especially where more than a few academics were involved, when McKusick seemed to feel shut out of the conversation, and then he might adopt a sullen, almost surly pose, but nothing more demonstrative than that.
"Maybe we're barking up the wrong tree entirely," Helen said. "The wrong trees. You ever think of that?"
They were standing in the market square close to the Guildhall, Will biting his way into a bacon and tomato roll, Helen sipping a takeaway coffee through a hole in the lid. Fifteen minutes stolen from the middle of the day.
"Only all the time," Will replied.
Ever since the Yorkshire Ripper investigation back in the seventies and early eighties, it was something close to every police officer's mind—falling foul of tunnel vision and allowing one particular line of enquiry—in the Ripper case, the belief, fueled by hoax letters and tapes, that the murderer came from a particular area of the northeast—to steer them away from the truth. And both Will and Helen knew the same could happen here; and that if following the wrong trail allowed their true suspect to remain free, then he could kill again.
Will screwed up the paper in which his roll had been wrapped and tossed it toward the nearest bin.
They arrived back at Parkside in time to see Christine Costello's BMW gliding into view.
"Great!" Will said.
"She doesn't have to be coming to see us."
"Don't hold your breath."
Not so many moments later, the solicitor was bearing down on them, leather jacket, leather trousers, spiked up hair.
"Ms. Costello," Will said, forcing out a smile. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"
"I've just come to warn you."
"What about?"
"Harassing my client?"
"Which client is this?"
Costello's face tightened. "Don't play silly buggers, Grayson."
"You mean McKusick?"
"You know bloody well..."
"I don't think we're aware of any harassment, are we, Will?" Helen said sweetly.
"How about parking a police car outside his house for all the neighbours to see? Driving past every few hours?"
"Not necessarily anything to do with us," Will said. "Neighbourhood security."
"Don't bullshit me."
"Bullshit?" Will said innocently.
"How about knocking on doors, stopping neighbours in the street? Contacting friends, people he's worked with previously, digging for dirt?"
"Seeking out relevant information," Helen said. "It's called police work."
"When you're actively encouraging people to support unsubstantiated allegations, it's called something else."
"If you've any evidence," Will said, "of officers overstepping the mark, I trust you'll complain through the usual channels."
"Putting my client in a compromising position by publicly questioning his manager and colleagues at his place of work, not once but several times, how's that for overstepping?" Costello jabbed a finger in Will's direction. "And I'm complaining now. To you. Understood?"
"This is a murder investigation," Will said, stony faced.
"And one in which I understood my client was no longer a suspect."
"Your understanding. Not necessarily mine."
Costello laughed in his face. "This is a witch hunt, and you know it. Ease back on the heavy stuff or you'll get your official complaint soon enough." Stepping back, she winked. "Nice talking to you both, as usual."
"Don't say it," Helen whispered, as they watched her walk away.
Will thought it instead.
When he arrived home there was still some vestige of light in the sky and Lorraine and Jake were playing football in the garden, Jake scampering after the white ball and kicking it as hard as he could, regardless of direction. Snug in her padded all-in-one, Susie was strapped into her Rock-a-Tot, swinging her legs back and forth and gurgling happily.
"Dad! Dad! I scored nine goals and Mum's only got one."
"Well done!" Will hoisted his son off the ground and planted a kiss on the top of his head, then held him closer in a hug.
"If you'd like to take over," Lorraine said, "I could do something about the tea."
"I think it's time to pack it in, don't you?"
"No!" Jake shouted, defiant. "Not yet."
"It's too dark to see what you're doing."
"Not!" Without warning, Jake took a wild kick at the ball, and it went sailing too close to Susie for comfort.
"For Christ's sake!" Will shouted, seizing his son by the arm. "Look what you're doing."
"Ow!" Jake yelled. "That hurts."
"Will," Lorraine said, hurrying toward them. "There's no need."
"He only nearly took Susie's head off, that's all."
Head down, Jake retreated, rubbing his arm. Susie, aware of something untoward going on around her, had started to cry.
"It's all right, sweetheart," Lorraine said, unbuckling her straps. "It's all okay now."
Susie shook her little fists and cried all the more.
Will went over to Jake and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Give me five minutes to get changed, and then we'll play a quick game. Best of five. What d'you say?"
Petulant, Jake said nothing.
"Suit yourself," Will said, rebuffed, and turned away.
In the kitchen, Lorraine was somehow managing to fill the kettle, while still holding the baby to her chest. "You're rough with him sometimes, you know."
"I don't mean to be."
"He's only little."
"I know."
Through the window they could see Jake continuing to stand with his back toward them, letting them see his hurt and indignation.
Will leaned across and kissed both of Susie's hands and then kissed Lorraine on the cheek. "I'll go and get out of these things."
"So you keep saying," Lorraine said, smiling.
After Susie had been fed and the rest of them had eaten, Lorraine chivvied Jake through his various bathroom tasks while Will washed up; later, he dozed over the paper while Lorraine watched a programme in which several dowdy middle-aged women were encouraged to dress like Joan Collins.
Watching Lorraine get undressed, ready for bed, Will wondered if they might make love, but almost as soon as his head touched the pillow he was asleep, leaving his wife with the new Joanna Trollope she'd got that morning when the traveling library had come to the village.
Unusually, Will slept through the small hours, a deep dreamless sleep from which he was woken by his wife's voice, urgent, from below. "Will! Will! Switch on the radio."
He fumbled with the small portable on the bedside table.
"...has been taken to the intensive care unit of Addenbrooke's Hospital after undergoing emergency surgery. The officer, who was off duty at the time, is said to be in a serious but stable condition."
Pushing back the covers, Will turned up the volume.
"Detective Sergeant Helen Walker was on her way home in the early hours of this morning, after a night out with friends, when she attempted to intervene in a fight that had broken out between a number of men close to the Magdalene Street Bridge.
"In the course of the fracas, Sergeant Walker was beaten about the head and received stab wounds to the body, one at least of which is said to be serious, but not life threatening. Since she was off duty, Detective Sergeant Walker was not wearing body armour at the time of the incident."
Will was tucking his shirt awkwardly into his trousers, buckling his belt. His face was white. When Lorraine, from the doorway, started to ask another question, he shushed her angrily and put a finger to his lips.
"One man who was injured in the incident," the news reader continued, "is being treated for serious head injuries. A second man was kept in hospital overnight for observation. Both are believed to be students. Police have cordoned off the area where the attack took place for forensic examinations. Traffic is being diverted."
Will pulled on his shoes.
"Detective Superintendent Malcolm Rastrick, who is leading the investigation into the incident, urged anyone who was in the area at the time, or has any information, to come forward without delay. 'This was a cowardly attack on an unarmed female officer,' the superintendent said, 'and we are determined to apprehend those responsible as soon as possible.'"
"You got time for a cup of tea?" Lorraine asked. "Anything?"
"Best not." He kissed her quickly as he went past and continued on down the stairs.
"I hope she's okay."
Will nodded.
"Give her my love. And drive safely."
He called the hospital from the car.
Will hated hospitals. The smell, the poverty, the lack of hope. He had watched his father slowly dying, had sat hour after hour beside his bed. Only when he had turned away, walked outside for a change of air, had his father ceased the struggle for breath, as if Will's absence had somehow given him permission.
The intensive care ward was divided, for the most part, into bays of four beds, with individual side rooms at the furthest end. Helen lay in one of these, an IV line attached to a vein at the side of her neck, the clear plastic tube opening into a blue triple pigtail through which blood and fluids were being pumped systematically into her body.