The Perfect Soldier (49 page)

In the end, under control again, she took the phone off the hook, burying it under a mountain of Giles’s coats, and when people began to venture up the lane and knock on the front door, she hid from them behind the curtains.

By the weekend, she’d finished sorting everything out. Pleased with herself for surviving, she got up early, pulling on her shorts, lacing up her Reeboks, curious to find out whether her body could cope with a gentle lap or two of the circuit she’d made her own. She ran very slowly at first, sucking in deep lungfuls of air. It was a glorious morning, icy blue, a light wind blowing across the saltmarsh from the north. The wind, cold, brought with it the rich, muddy smells from the tidal creek at the foot of the fields, and when she paused for a moment or two at the kissing gate she could see the big blue shadows of the container ships berthed at the ferryport at Felixstowe. The air was crystal clear and the sunlight glittered on the water and when she thought of Giles she knew it was important to remember days like this. Alive, he’d be down at the marina already, pottering about, inventing jobs for himself, a man cocooned by his own happiness. All his life, he’d wanted nothing more complex than this: the chilly kiss of the sunshine, the gurgle of the ebbing tide across the mudflats, the pipe of the oyster-catchers strutting
amongst the reed-beds. She smiled, thinking about him, knowing how lucky they’d been. Then she eased her body through the kissing gate and began to run again, picking up speed this time, newly strong.

Back in the lane, forty minutes later, Molly saw Patrick’s Volvo parked outside the cottage. Patrick was sitting behind the wheel, the big square silhouette unmistakable. Of Alice, there was no trace. For a moment, Molly thought about returning the way she’d come, doing another lap of the circuit, maybe even finding a path across the fields, entering the cottage from the back, but she saw Patrick’s hand go up to the rear-view mirror, adjusting it, and she knew then that he’d seen her. His door opened. He was standing in the lane, his arms outstretched, beaming.

‘Molly! What a sight!’

Molly began to walk again. She was still breathless from the run and she knew she looked a mess. Hair plastered to her forehead. Bare legs covered in mud. Giles’s old rugby shirt blotched dark with sweat. She paused by the car, letting Patrick embrace her. He smelled of tobacco and aftershave and she wondered for a moment whether Alice knew what he was up to. Saturday mornings they normally reserved for shopping. It was Patrick’s job to push the trolley.

‘Not at Safeways?’ she asked.

Patrick pulled a face.

‘Excused duty,’ he said. ‘Old man’s perks.’

They stood together in the road, slightly awkward, until Patrick nodded at the cottage. He’d obviously tried knocking on the door already. She could see where he’d picked up the milk bottles, ready to present them to her, then put them down again on the other side when she hadn’t appeared.

‘Not going to invite me in?’ he said cheerily. ‘Nice cup of tea?’

‘Of course.’

Molly led the way round the cottage to the back door. For some reason she felt uncomfortable, letting him see where she’d hidden the key. She unlocked the kitchen door, inviting him in, switching on the electric kettle. He had his coat off in seconds, warming his backside on the rail on the front of the Aga. Giles used to do that, Molly thought, resenting the intrusion even more.

Patrick was talking about Alice. She was in bed with a headache. It seemed she often got headaches.

‘She ought to be out and doing,’ he said, ‘like you.’ He began to recall his own days on the running track. Evidently he’d once competed for the county, an event called the 440. He’d won medals. He’d been good. ‘That’s yards, not metres,’ he said. ‘Four hundred and forty.’

‘Once round the track?’

‘Exactly.’ He beamed at her. ‘Trust you to know that.’

‘Giles told me. He ran that event, too.’

‘What kind of time? Any idea?’

Molly looked at him a moment, trying to remember. Giles’s certificate was next door. She’d put it to one side only yesterday.

‘Fifty-two point three,’ she said. ‘Does that sound about right?’

Patrick went quiet for a moment then nodded.

‘Terrific,’ he said gamely. ‘Excellent time. Puts me to shame.’

Molly masked a smile, wondering already how to get rid of him. She’d decided on a pressing engagement in the village – a coffee morning, say, or a chat to the vicar about Giles’s memorial service – when she felt Patrick behind her. She was standing at the sink now, her back to the kitchen. He was pressing against her. She could feel his erection against the waistband of her shorts. She froze, aware of his hands
encircling her, cupping her breasts. Then he was kissing the nape of her neck, murmuring her name, telling her how much he loved her. He’d loved her for years. It was never something he’d ever been able to confess. He’d told no one. He thought he’d never be able to say it to her face.

Molly turned round, easing his body away from her, much the way you might gentle a frightened horse. Patrick was flushed, his eyes glittering behind the thick glasses, the mildness she’d always known quite gone.

‘No one will know,’ he was saying, ‘I promise you.’

‘Know what, Patrick?’

‘About us. You and me.’ He shut his eyes a moment, swallowing hard. ‘We could use the spare room. I quite understand, believe me.’ Molly stared at him and then began to laugh. He opened his eyes, frowning. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘You, my love.’ Molly leaned forward, pecking him on the end of his nose, then rubbing off the kiss with her finger. ‘You’re a very dear friend. And so is Alice.’

‘She doesn’t understand me.’

‘That’s what all the boys say, Patrick.’

‘It’s true. She doesn’t understand anything. She …’ He shook his head, not trusting himself any further. He couldn’t take his eyes off Molly’s breasts. At length, he began to pull himself together. ‘Giles was no angel, Molly. You know that, don’t you?’

The kettle began to bubble then turned itself off. Molly felt the sweat chilling on her face.

‘How do you mean? Exactly?’

‘I mean that … all men have …’ he gestured loosely at the gap between them, ‘weaknesses.’

‘Oh? And Giles?’

‘He was no exception, that’s all. It’s not a criticism. Don’t misunderstand me. It’s just human nature.’

‘What are you telling me, Patrick?’

‘Nothing,’ he looked suddenly shamefaced, ‘nothing at all.’

Molly reached out, uncertain, then withdrew her hand when he tried to kiss it. She knew she ought to throw him out, bring this pathetic scene to an end, but somehow she couldn’t. She wanted a name. She wanted evidence.

‘Who was it, Patrick?’ she said quietly.

He looked at her a moment, sobered.

‘A woman called Carolyne,’ he muttered.

‘How do you know?’

‘He told me.’

‘He told you what?’

‘He told me how much he cared for her.’

‘When? When did this happen? Recently? Years ago?’

‘October.’

‘October? This year?’

‘Yes.’

Molly stared at him. Autumn. The time when she’d first noticed the change in Giles, the long periods of silence, the sleepless nights, the regular bottles of Glenmorangie he’d bring in from the off-licence in the village, refilling the empty decanter. She ought to have known. She ought to have guessed.

Patrick was back behind his usual mask. Sincerity and concern in equal measures.

‘He loved you, Molly. Never doubt that. He really did.’

‘Thank you, Patrick.’

‘I mean it. He wouldn’t see you hurt. And neither would I. That’s why …’ he risked a smile, ‘I came this morning.’

‘To tell me about Carolyne?’

‘To tell you …’ he blinked, colouring slightly, ‘I loved you.’ He frowned. ‘Love you. I brought you a present, too. A little keepsake. Just between the two of us. I …’ He
fumbled in his jacket pocket and for a moment Molly thought he’d bought her a ring. Then a photograph appeared. He offered it to her, shyly, like a child. ‘I’ve got a nice frame,’ he said, ‘if you’d like it.’

Molly looked at the photo. Patrick was standing on a golf course, his club held high, grinning at the camera.

‘Who took this?’

‘Alice. It’s her favourite shot.’

‘And you’ve given it to me?’

‘I’ve got a couple of spares. She thinks it does me justice. I thought you might like it. That’s all.’

Molly studied the photo a little longer then tucked it into the top pocket of Patrick’s jacket. Nothing could disguise the expression on his face. He looked crestfallen, robbed of something he believed to be rightfully his.

Molly began to shepherd him towards the door. She picked up his coat from the chair. She didn’t want him back. Ever.

In the hall, Patrick made a brief stand.

‘You wouldn’t …?’ His eyes were on the stairs.

‘No thank you, Patrick.’

‘Only I thought—’

‘Your coat.’

Molly gave him the heavy tweed, folding it over his arm and reaching for the door. Outside, the wind was chill, making her shiver. Patrick stood on the path. Alice wasn’t to know. She thought he’d gone to the golf club. She’d be heartbroken if she ever found out. Molly shook her head, looking at him, then closed the door, hearing him shuffling towards the gate. He beeped the horn once, driving away, and then – at last – there was silence.

*

McFaul got to the private hospital at noon. Saturday visiting hours were virtually unlimited, according to the woman he’d talked to on the phone. Todd Llewelyn had been transferred here only a day after his admission to the Hospital for Tropical Diseases. His private insurance entitled him to a room on the fourth floor. His visitors, so far, had been sparse.

McFaul crossed the road, turning up his collar against a light shower. The Marlborough was on a quiet corner in the heart of Mayfair. Smoked-glass windows and a revolving door at the front gave it the air of a discreet hotel. Rooms on the fourth floor were supervised from a nursing station midway along the central corridor. McFaul paused by the desk, giving his name, asking for Todd Llewelyn.

The nurse was Welsh, a dark-haired, pretty woman in her mid-twenties.

‘Are you a relative?’

‘No.’

‘Friend, then?’

‘Colleague.’

‘From the television?’ The woman was smiling.

McFaul shook his head.

‘Real life.’

The woman capped a pen, ignoring the dig. She selected a clipboard from a row of hooks beneath the counter and consulted it briefly. Then she looked up.

‘You know he’s had a stroke, I assume?’

McFaul stared at her. The last he’d heard of Todd Llewelyn, the man was half-dead from malaria. No one had mentioned a stroke.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I didn’t know.’

The nurse nodded, looking grave. Llewelyn had collapsed en route from Heathrow to the Hospital for Tropical Diseases. A day later, he’d been moved to the Marlborough.
He’d survived malaria, only to succumb to a blood clot on the brain.

‘How bad?’

‘Pretty serious, I’m afraid. Both arms. Both legs. And his speech has gone, too.’

McFaul shook his head, wondering just how much was left. The nurse was leading him along the corridor now. Llewelyn’s room was near the end. Outside the door, she stopped. Through the small square of window, McFaul could see the bottom half of Llewelyn’s bed. Beside it, her back to the door, sat another woman.

The nurse beckoned McFaul closer.

‘His brain’s fine,’ she whispered. ‘He hears and he understands. But that’s about all.’

‘Who’s in there with him?’

‘A helper. We have a couple of them. She’s there to change the TV channels.’ She glanced in. ‘We have satellite here, of course. It gives him a bit of choice. It’s the least we can do, under the circumstances.’

‘And will she stay? While we talk?’

‘No,’ the nurse shook her head, ‘that’s why it’s important you know the code.’

‘Code?’

‘The way we get through to Mr Llewelyn.’ She was looking at him fondly now. ‘One blink means yes. Two mean no. If he wants the channels changing he blinks three times.’ She smiled. ‘It’s all he’s got left, poor love.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Television.’

She reached forward, opening the door, touching the woman on the chair lightly on the shoulder. She got up at once, standing aside, making room for McFaul. McFaul was looking at Llewelyn. He was sitting up in bed, his body
propped on a bank of pillows. He was wearing green paisley pyjamas and his arms were carefully arranged on the counterpane. His hair was newly parted, and around his neck he wore a plastic bib, a larger version of the kind mothers attach to babies.

McFaul sat down, hearing the door close behind him. The only thing that moved in Llewelyn’s face were his eyes and McFaul saw the gleam of recognition.

‘It’s me,’ he said lamely, ‘Andy.’

Llewelyn’s head was pointing at the television. A panel of housewives were answering questions about their favourite fantasies. One woman said she went to bed every night wanting to make love to Laurence Harvey. When the presenter pointed out that he was dead, she said it didn’t matter. Dead or otherwise, she’d give him the night of his life. The audience roared their applause and Llewelyn’s eyes found McFaul. He blinked three times, then did it again. McFaul was nonplussed for a moment before he remembered the code. The remote controller lay on the carpet beside the chair. He pressed the channel changer, going forward. A single blink from Llewelyn. He paused. Three more blinks. He changed channels again, then again. Images came and went, far too quickly to make any sense, then Llewelyn stopped blinking altogether and McFaul looked up at the screen in time to see a lion mauling an antelope. The sequence belonged to some kind of wildlife documentary, and Llewelyn stared at it as the huge jaws tore at the animal’s throat. There was a tree nearby, a big old baobab, and fat black birds sat on the lower branches, indifferent to the carnage below.

McFaul watched a moment longer, then turned the television off.

‘I’ve come about Muengo,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’m sorry you’re so …’ he frowned, unable to find the right word.