the doorbell rang; the smell of it warm and acrid on her as he squeezed past into the small lobby and she closed the double-glazed Tudor-style external door and ushered him into the living room with its white leather-look chairs and neat little nest of tables and framed photographs of her granddaughter, Alicia, on the walls.
‘I made coffee.’
‘Great.’
Kiley sat and held out his cup while Lesley poured. Photographs he had expected, but of a triumphant Victoria holding trophies aloft. And there were photos of her, of course, a few, perched around the TV and along the redundant mantelpiece; Cathy, too, Cathy and Trevor on their wedding day. But little Alicia was everywhere and Lesley, following Kiley’s gaze, smiled a smile of satisfaction. ‘Lovely, isn’t she. A sweetheart. A real sweetheart. Bright, too. Like a button.’
Either way, Kiley thought, Victoria or Cathy, Lesley had got what she wanted. Her first grandchild.
‘Vicky bought me this house, did you know that? It’s not a palace, of course, but it suits me fine. Cosy, I suppose that’s what it is. And there’s plenty of room for Alicia when she comes to stay.’ She smiled and leaned back against white vinyl. I always did have a hankering after Buckhurst Hill.’ Unable to resist any longer, she reached for her Benson amp; Hedges, king size. ‘Coffee okay?’
‘Lovely.’ The small lies, the little social ones, Kiley had found came with surprising ease.
They talked about Victoria then, Victoria and her sister, whatever jealousies had grown up between them, festered maybe, been smoothed away. Trevor, was he resentful, did he ever treat Alicia as if she weren’t really his? But Trevor was the perfect dad and as far as money was concerned, since his move to Luton, to Vauxhall, some deal they’d done with the German owners, the unions that is, and Trevor had got himself off the shop floor — well, it wasn’t as if they were actually throwing it around, but, no, cash was something they weren’t short of, Lesley was sure of that.
‘What about Victoria’s father?’ Kiley asked.
Lesley threw back her head and laughed. ‘The bastard, as he’s affectionately known.’
‘Is he still around? Is there any chance he might be involved?’
Lesley shook her head. ‘The bastard, bless him, would’ve had difficulties getting the right stamp on to the envelope, never mind the rest. Fifteen years, the last time I laid eyes on him; working on the oil rigs he’d been, up around Aberdeen. Took a blow to the head from some piece of equipment in a storm and had to be stretchered off. Knocked the last bit of sense out of him. The drink had seen to the rest long since.’ She drew hard on her cigarette. ‘If he’s still alive, which I doubt, it’s in some hostel somewhere.’ And shivered. ‘I just hope the poor bastard isn’t sleeping rough.’
Paul Broughton was working for a record company in Camden, offices near the canal, more or less opposite the Engineer. Olive V-neck top and chocolate flat-front moleskin chinos, close-shaven head and stubbled chin, two silver rings in one ear, a stud, emerald green, at the centre of his bottom lip. A amp; R, developing new talent, that was his thing. Little bands that gigged at the Dublin Castle or the Boston Dome, the Rocket on the Holloway Road. He was listening to a demo tape on headphones when Kiley walked towards him across a few hundred feet of open plan; Broughton’s desk awash with take-away mugs from Caffe Nero, unopened padded envelopes and hopeful flyers.
Kiley waited till Broughton had dispensed with the headphones, then introduced himself and held out his hand.
‘Look,’ Broughton said, ignoring the hand, ‘I told you on the phone-’
‘Tell me again.’
‘I ain’t seen Vicky in fuckin’ years.’
‘How many years?’
‘I dunno. Four, five?’
‘Not since she told you she was carrying your child.’
‘Yeah, I s’pose.’
‘But you’ve been in touch.’
‘Who says?’
‘Once you started seeing her picture in the paper, those ads out on the street. Read about all that money she was bringing in. And for what? It wouldn’t have been difficult to get her number, you used your mobile, gave her a call.’
Broughton glared back at him, defiant. ‘Bollocks!’ And then, ‘So what if I did?’
‘What did she tell you, Paul? The same as before? Get lost.’
‘Look, I ain’t got time for this.’
‘Was that when you thought you’d put the bite on her, a little blackmail? Get something back for treating you like shit?’
Broughton clenched his fists. ‘Fuck off! Fuck off out of here before I have you thrown out. I wouldn’t take money from that stuck-up tart if it was dripping out of her arse. I don’t need it, right?’
‘And you don’t care she had your child against your will, kept her out of your sight?’
Broughton laughed, a sneer ugly across his face. ‘You don’t get it, do you. She was just some cunt I fucked. End of fuckin’ story.’
‘She was barely fifteen years old,’ Kiley said.
‘I know,’ Broughton said, and winked.
Kiley was almost halfway towards the door before he turned around. Broughton was sitting on the edge of his desk, headphones back in place, watching him go. Kiley hit him twice in the face with his fist, hauled him back up on to his knees and hit him once more. Then left. Perhaps it shouldn’t have made him feel a whole lot better, but it did.
They’d bought a nice house on the edge of Dunstable, with views across the Chiltern Hills. They’d done well. Alicia was in the back garden, on a swing. The apple trees were rich in fruit, the roses well into bloom. Cathy stood by the French windows, gazing out. Her expression when Kiley had arrived on the doorstep had told him pretty much all he needed to know.
Trevor was in the garage, tinkering. Tools clipped with precision to the walls, tools that shone with pride of ownership and use. Kiley didn’t rush him, let him take his time. Watched as Trevor tightened this, loosened that.
‘It’s the job, isn’t it?’ Kiley eventually said.
Trevor straightened, surprised.
‘You sold up, left friends, invested in this place. Not just for Cathy and yourself. For her, Alicia. A better place to grow up, country, almost. A big mortgage, but as long as the money’s coming in …’
‘They promised us,’ Trevor said, not looking at Kiley now, staring through the open door towards the trees. ‘The Germans, when we agreed the deal. Jobs for life, that’s what they said. Jobs for sodding life. Now they’re closing down the plant, shifting production to Portugal or Spain. No longer economic, that’s us.’ When he did turn, there were tears in his eyes. ‘They bent us over and fucked us up the arse and all this bastard government did was stand by with the Vaseline.’
Kiley put a hand on his shoulder and Trevor shrugged it off and they stood there for a while, not speaking, then went inside and sat around the kitchen table drinking tea. Alicia sat in Cathy’s lap, playing with her mother’s hair. Her mother: that’s what she was, what she had become.
‘You could have asked,’ Kiley said. ‘Asked Victoria outright, explained.’
‘We’ve tried before,’ Cathy said bitterly. ‘It’s hateful, like pulling teeth.’
Trevor reached across and gave her lower arm a squeeze. ‘Vicky’s not the problem,’ he said, ‘not really. It’s him, the money man.’
‘Costain?’
Trevor nodded.
‘Leave him to me,’ Kiley said. ‘I’ll make sure he understands.’
‘Mum,’ Alicia said. ‘Let’s read a book.’
Trevor walked Kiley down the path towards his hired car, stood with one hand resting on the roof. The sun was just beginning to fade in the sky. ‘I’d go round to their house,’ he said. ‘Evenings, you know, when I was seeing
