"What you mean," Lesley said, leaning back, "you still haven't got a bloody clue who killed Stephen or why."
"Look..." Will said angrily, then stopped. "As you say, there is the possibility that burglary was a motive..."
"You really think so?"
"Well, your brother's laptop was stolen. His wallet, credit cards, and so on. Much of the place had been turned upside down, the office and bedroom especially, as if perhaps whoever it was had been searching for something else worth taking."
Lesley continued to stare at him, and, even though he partly believed what he was saying, to Will his words sounded hollow.
"One thing's clear," Will said, "there was no sign of a break in. So the chances are whoever was responsible was almost certainly somebody Stephen had invited in. Which might mean it was someone he already knew, perhaps knew well—or it might have been someone he'd just met for the first time."
"For sex, you mean?"
"Possibly."
"Well, that's what you're implying, isn't it?"
Will spread his hands. "It's a possibility we have to consider. That's all I'm saying."
"And the motive is what? If it's not burglary?"
"I don't know. We don't know. Unless..."
"Unless what?"
"Unless it was some sort of hate crime..."
"And all this gay-bashing stuff half the media's reveling in is true. Homophobia rules. Stephen went out and picked up the wrong man, simple as that."
Will sighed and said nothing.
"Is that what you believe?" Lesley asked.
"I keep telling you, I don't know."
"You must have an opinion, surely?"
"All right, yes, it's a possibility."
"That's all?"
"A strong possibility."
Lesley slowly shook her head from side to side.
"You don't believe that?" Will said.
"No."
"You really don't believe it, or you don't want to believe it?"
"If you're asking me do I like the idea my brother used to go looking for casual sex and that was what got him killed, then no, of course I don't. But if he ever picked up people in that way, for that reason, I just don't know. It's not something he would have talked about. Not to me. Close we might have been, but we didn't exactly have detailed brother and sister chats about our respective love lives."
The door opened abruptly, far enough for Helen to look in and realize Will had company; a quick word of apology and she withdrew, closing the door again behind her.
Will hesitated. "You know Mark McKusick?"
"Mark? Yes, of course I do. Why do you ask?"
"He and your brother, as I understand it, they broke up quite recently."
"A month or so ago. Not long after I got back from New Zealand."
"And they'd been together a long time."
"The best part of three years, it must be."
"He would have been pretty cut up, then? Mark? When it finished."
"I suppose ... No, wait. Wait. You don't think Mark...?" Lesley looked at him in disbelief. "You've met him? Talked to him?"
"Yes."
"He loved Stephen. Really loved him." A smile quickly crossed her face. "He'd have had to, the way Stephen treated him sometimes."
"How do you mean?"
"Oh, keeping him at arm's length. Not allowing Mark to move in, even after they'd been going together for ages and it was clearly what Mark wanted. It wasn't as if Stephen didn't have the room; the place he had in Leicester was big enough to have students lodging there, three or four of them, to help with the rent. But, from what I could tell, if Mark was lucky enough to stay over more than two nights in a row, that was the best he could hope for, and, even then, I think Stephen complained."
"What about?"
"Oh, you know, he couldn't concentrate, couldn't get on with his work. I was surprised Mark put up with it as long as he did."
Perhaps he didn't, Will thought.
"Then when Stephen moved to Cambridge," Lesley said, "and Mark gave up his job to follow him, I think he imagined things would change. And when they didn't, he gave Stephen an ultimatum. And that was that. As far as Stephen was concerned, it was over."
"That's what he told you?"
"Stephen? Yes."
"And how about Mark? I don't imagine he just accepted it like that?"
"What else could he do? I presume he was angry and upset. He would be. So would anyone. But he'd been with Stephen for a long time, and I don't think he would have given up altogether. From what I know of Mark, I think he'd have been more likely to wait and bide his time. Hope that eventually Stephen would change his mind."
"And you think he might have?"
"It's possible. It suited him somehow, the relationship, no matter how much he might have complained. It was almost as if when Mark were there that side of his life was settled and he didn't have to give it any more thought; didn't have to make too much of an effort."
"You make it sound more like a convenience than anything else."
"Maybe, for Stephen, it was in a way. Though that makes it seem as if he was deliberately taking advantage, and I don't think that's true. He was never less than honest with Mark. As far as I know, he never made promises he didn't keep."
"And there wasn't anybody else, aside from Mark, your brother was involved with?"
"Not that I know of, no."
"Okay." Will looked pointedly at his watch.
"That's it?" Lesley said.
"I'm afraid so."
Reluctantly, Lesley got to her feet. "Here," she said, fishing into her bag. "Let me give you my card. If anything does materialize, perhaps you could let me know."
"Of course," Will said.
She couldn't help wondering if he would.
When Will got back from showing Lesley out, Helen was sitting in his chair, one foot resting on the edge of the desk.
"Who was that?"
"Bryan's sister."
"Isn't she in New Zealand?"
"Clearly not. Not anymore. Back here working for local radio."
"In Cambridge?"
Will shook his head. "Nottingham."
"And did she have anything useful to say?"
"Not really."
Helen got to her feet. "You fancy lunch?"
"Can't. I've got a meeting over at HQ."
"My heart bleeds."
Will lifted his anorak down from the door; the forecast had been for rain. "That list we got from McKusick, how're we doing with that?"
"Pretty well on to it, I think, but I can check."
Helen walked with him as far as the stairs.
"Have fun in happy Huntingdon."
"Do my best."
Will hadn't reached his car before, sure enough, the rain started to fall.
THE ALARM SHOOK LESLEY FROM THE RAGGED DEPTHS of a dream: the waves breaking, wild, against the rocks of the Coromandel, way up on the North Island of New Zealand, and a man's hand—her brother's?—rising and falling above the spray. The instant her feet touched the floor, all memories of that last trip north—Colville, Port Jackson, Waikawau Bay—were jolted from her mind. Through the gap in the curtains, the day, thankfully, looked promising: blue sky visible through a fenestration of flimsy cloud. The brick and stone of the old warehouse buildings of the Lace Market took their definition from the early light, the pale glimmerings of sun.
In her postage-stamp-sized bathroom, Lesley splashed cold water on her face, cleaned her teeth and winced a little as a loose filling reminded her of a dental appointment she had still to make. Pulling on her cotton robe, she crossed toward the galley kitchen and filled the kettle, leafing through the previous day's paper as she waited for the water to boil; a few sips of tea and she carried the mug back into the bathroom, where it sat on the window shelf as she had her shower. Later, there would be a second cup to help wash down her regulation slice of toast. Time to read the paper in more detail, check her diary, give her mother a quick, reassuring call; the studio flat she was renting, on the top floor of a converted factory, was just a short walk from where she worked.
Today she would be wearing her newsreader's hat, a nine-thirty start, five-minute bulletins through the day. The way it was structured was much as it had been before her year's sabbatical: Lesley and five others switched every few days between going out reporting—interviewing anyone and everyone, from grief-stricken parents to the proud owners of prize-winning ferrets—and working in the newsroom, preparing bulletins and reading them on air. Somewhere in the midst of all this, the raw material had to be transferred from mini disc onto computer and then shaped, with the help of the new RadioMan software and clips pulled from the Hub, into news packages which, with the appropriate cues, would be available to programme producers at the news editor's discretion.
Rarely a dull moment.
Rarely time to think outside the box.
Yet think she did. Partly about the future. The deal over her year away had been that she would remain at the station for a further twelve months before looking to move up, move on. But that didn't stop her from considering the possibilities. Maybe it was time to try London?
Mostly though, she thought about Stephen. His elation on the telephone, when he had called long distance to tell her about his appointment as full-time lecturer; the enthusiasm he had shown in his e-mails and letters—Lesley sometimes thought she and Stephen had been among the last people to write actual letters—for the new project he was beginning to work on, a biography of Stella Leonard, a British film star whose heyday had been back in the nineteen fifties.
And then there was the last time she had seen him. When had it been? A little over three weeks before he had died. She stopped and caught her breath, held her hand to her chest, thinking she was about to cry.
They had arranged to meet in Ely. Lunch at the Old Fire Station. Good old-fashioned grub, well sourced and cooked, and the only restaurant Lesley knew where they came round and offered seconds of the main course. A little more of the pork loin, madam? Sir, another helping of the steak and kidney pie?
She had asked Stephen how he felt about breaking up with Mark, and had been assured that he was fine.
"No regrets then?"
Grinning, Stephen had treated the surrounding tables to a few appropriate lines from "My Way."
"Seriously, are you all right?"
"Seriously, I'm okay."
"What about Mark?" Lesley had asked.
"Feeling lousy, probably. But what can you do? If I call and ask him how he is, make sympathetic noises, that only makes things worse."
"Tough love," Lesley said.
"Something like that."
She should get in touch with Mark herself, Lesley thought now; it seemed only right.
Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was not so far off nine. Karl Cooper would soon be signing off and John Holmes starting the
Morning Shorn
Time to fix her face and finish getting dressed, get herself moving. From Commerce Square, she would take the shortcut down Long Stairs, before Canal Street and the London Road roundabout. Ten minutes tops, less if she hurried.
Newswise, it proved to be a busy day. Mid-morning confirmation came through that a twenty-two-year-old Nottingham man, serving with the Sherwood Foresters, had been killed in Iraq. A roadside bomb had exploded as a vehicle, carrying five soldiers, had been going past. One dead, three seriously wounded, while the fifth, thrown clear by the blast, had only minor scratches and abrasions. Clips of the parents' reactions were tearful, angry, difficult to listen to. "Poor bastards," Alan Pike, the news editor said. "Great radio."
Closer to home, a judge, sitting in the trial of three young men accused of trespassing with a firearm, aggravated burglary, and unlawful wounding, had finished his summing-up and the jury had been closeted to consider its verdict. Relatives of the shopkeeper seriously injured in the incident were picketing the court daily. In excess of five thousand signatures had been collected to a petition demanding mandatory life sentences for anyone caught carrying guns during the commission of a crime.
Nottinghamshire Police had reported a marked increase in shed and garage burglaries in the suburban area south of the River Trent and, through the area commander for Rushcliffe North, had issued an appeal to residents to be watchful and increase their security. The commander would be appearing on the drive time show that evening to outline simple preventative measures householders could take to secure their property, such as fitting metal grilles across shed windows and replacing the screws on exposed hinges with dome head coach bolts.
Says it all, Lesley thought. In comfortable, middle-class Rushcliffe, the main concern was losing your electric lawn mower, whereas in St. Ann's or the Meadows, it was getting shot.
And Natalie Prince, the twenty-six-year-old Nottingham-born model turned actor, on a return visit to the city of her birth, had been arrested in the early hours of the morning, after an altercation in the bar of the Lace Market Hotel, where she had been staying.
Lesley drank water, drank too much coffee, drank Coke, ate a sandwich at her desk without noticing the contents of the filling or the colour of the bread. At twenty minutes past three, the phone rang and, without taking her eyes from the screen, she picked it up.
"Someone here to see you," the receptionist's voice sing-songed.
"I can't. I'm busy."
"Scott Scarman?"
"Shit!"
"Shall I pass on that message?" Lesley could imagine the grin on the receptionist's face.
"Tell him ... tell him I'll pop out in five minutes. Ten."
"All righty."
Lesley slammed the phone down hard. What the hell did he want now?
Scarman had been a successful print journalist when Lesley had first known him, one of the comparatively few who had made the leap from provincial newspapers to Canary Wharf. She had met him when she was doing her postgraduate diploma at Cardiff and Scarman had been invited to give a lecture to the students. In the bar afterward, he had been showy, charming, charmingly indiscreet; somehow, as the party was breaking up, he had contrived to ask Lesley for the number of her mobile. The first time they had slept together had been in a second-floor room of a Travelodge off the A49 roundabout near Shrewsbury, Scarman not above smirking a little over his full English breakfast in the adjacent Little Chef afterwards, snazzy hire car shining outside.