Karen carefully raised Jayne Andrew’s head and wiped her face, took hold of her then by the arms and lifted her to her feet; put one arm round her and held her tightly as she walked her towards the stairs, the waiting paramedics, the ambulance, a warm bath and caring hands, the first of many nightmares, flashbacks, some kind of a future.
At least she was alive.
Wayne Simon had slashed his throat across while holding her close, the blade puncturing the carotid artery behind the jawline, below the ear.
He lay on his back, legs akimbo, arms outstretched, head to one side, a beached fish on dry land, the severed flesh open like a second mouth.
Flowers of blood stippled across the floor, along the wall.
‘Look!’ Wayne Simon had said, the moment before he cut his throat. ‘Look what you made me do.’
Karen drove back more slowly; urgency, expectation drained. The promised snow flaked across the windscreen, sticking here and there beyond the wipers’ range. She thought of Carla, wondered how she was, living in provincial digs and stepping night after night into the spotlight to enact
At the service station, she drank coffee, black, and checked the messages on her mobile phone. CCTV at Woodford had shown two men running from the scene of the shooting, one of them Liam Jarvis, previously arrested and then released in connection with a similar shooting in Walthamstow. A fresh warrant had been issued and a search carried out at his last known address, as yet no sign.
39
Cordon had tried bringing up the subject of what had happened to Maxine, Letitia’s mother, a number of times, but on each occasion got little response other than an impatient sigh and shake of the head, clear signs that as a topic it was closed. On other occasions, the reply was more emphatic. ‘How many more times, she fell under the fucking train!’
It wasn’t until they were sitting outside, one evening, dusk closing around them, Danny in bed early, exhausted by the day, that Letitia raised it herself.
‘Parlo, he was there at the house when she come round. Question after bloody question. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. Threatened to clip her one and she laughed in his face, told him if he did that she’d be back with the police.’
‘How d’you know this?’
‘He rung Anton, didn’t he? On account of she’d mentioned my name, said who she was, who she claimed to be. Anton told him to frighten her off, make sure she never come back.’
Letitia stopped and poured herself more wine.
‘That’s what he did. Followed her to the station.’
‘Pushed her under the train?’
‘Not according to him. Lost sight of her on the platform. Only saw her again at the last minute, just as the train was coming in. Tried to elbow his way through the crowd towards her, but with everyone else pushing and shoving, fighting to get on, somehow, he says, she went under. He hadn’t been able to get near her. Nothing he could do. Walked away.’
‘You believe that?’
‘That he walked away? Got out of there as soon as he could? Sure, of course.’
‘That he didn’t have anything to do with what happened?’
She shrugged and reached for her cigarettes. ‘What’s it matter? Pushed, fell, either way? Not going to bring her back, soft cow.’
Cordon bit back his words. Her mother, not his. Her life to live.
Neither of them mentioned it again.
Jack Kiley had been in touch that morning. According to Taras, his brother was gradually coming round; just give him a little longer and he thought Anton could be persuaded to agree to some kind of reasonable arrangement, shared access to his son in exchange for financial support. Just give him a little more time.
Time they still had.
Venturing out into the surrounding area, they found, less than fifteen minutes’ drive away, a family theme park with bouncy castles and trampolines and pedalos; a small paddling pool, where Danny screamed with delight at the sudden shock of cold; a petting zoo with sheep and goats and a pair of long-eared donkeys, shaggy in their winter coats.
Emboldened, they drove north to the Pink Granite Coast and followed the path as it wound between vast, impossible formations of rocks shaped by the sea and the wind; parked above the empty swathes of sand at Beg Leguer, where Cordon and Danny combed rock pools for shrimps and tiny crabs, while Letitia sheltered out of the wind and smoked and read for the second time a Maggie O’Farrell she’d found stashed behind all those dry and clever men on the bookshelves where they were staying.
On a shopping expedition to the Carrefour in Guingamp, Danny picked up a flier advertising the Haras National de Lamballe, the national stud. Guided tours at three p.m., Tuesdays to Sundays. The illustration showed a stallion rearing irresistibly up into the sky, its mane catching the rays of the sun.
‘Please!’ Danny cried. ‘Please!’
Smiling at his anticipation of such pleasure, Letitia agreed.
Lamballe was where they had switched cars, no more than an hour and a half away; Cordon could call in at the office while they were there, extend the period of loan. Give the boy his wish.
The sun shone, still weakly, but without a breeze they could delude themselves of its warmth. The tour of the stables was more interesting than either Cordon or Letitia had expected — some of the huge Breton horses weighing up to a ton — and Danny, in his element, ran from stall to stall, glowing with excitement; when the tour guide pointed to some hay and asked if he wouldn’t like to help feed one of the horses, it must have felt like heaven.
Afterwards, they sat outside a patisserie in the town square, Cordon and Letitia drinking coffee and sharing some kind of almond pastry, while Danny sipped hot chocolate through a straw and bit down into a coffee eclair so hard the cream splurged out from the far end, all over his face and hands.
Letitia caught Cordon’s look and instead of giving him a warning glance, she allowed herself a smile.
‘Good day?’ he asked, as they settled back into the car.
‘Not bad.’
Leaning across, she kissed him on the cheek, and from the back seat, Danny issued a little squeal of delight.
It couldn’t last.
40
Hugo French lay there, blocking out the sound, for as long as he could. Turning over, turning back. Moving the pillow beneath his head. Covers tugged this way and that. Kids. No, not kids. Older. Young men by the sound of them, their loud, overlapping voices rising up to the second-floor bedroom where he slept. Young blokes, not so very long out of the pub, standing around outside the house, arguing the toss. About what, Hugo didn’t know. Couldn’t tell. Just the odd word clearly audible, the pattern of phrases repeated over and over, the slightly dodgy double glazing unable to keep them out. ‘No, wait. Wait, wait, wait. Listen. Just fucking listen!’ Every second or third word, the swearing. Like some kind of punctuation, like breathing.
