Danny was surprisingly equable, ever eager to play, to please. His ready laugh and quick response brought a smile to Cordon’s face and, however sentimental, a touch of gladness to his heart.
All right, he knew what it was about. Understood that what he was doing, at least in part, was reconstructing the relationship with his own son that had so desperately failed. Even at Danny’s age there had been tensions with Simon he was aware of only in retrospect: tensions that came in part from the hostility that had been building up inexorably between his wife, Judith, and himself; partly from the way Cordon had pushed the boy too hard in a vain attempt to keep him in line.
Cordon had slapped him hard, unthinking, and the boy had punched him back.
Punched and run.
Neither the first time, nor the last.
One life, one chance: when they were young, small, dependent for the most part, though they learned fast, accumulating more skills and knowledge than they ever would again, those early months and years seemed to move slowly, grinding on and on — then suddenly they were twelve, thirteen, and everything went past in a rush of hormones and angry words.
It came to Cordon in slack moments when his mind had stalled: in dreams.
The things he should have said and done.
Now passed and gone.
Quite right, Cordon thought. Buggering up one young life enough, never mind a second.
Kiley had phoned two days before: Taras had set up a meeting between himself and Anton which had been cancelled at the last moment; since then, nothing. No response to Kiley’s calls. The Ukrainian’s mobile permanently switched off, texts denied, messages ignored.
‘Stick with it, Jack, okay?’ Cordon had asked. ‘Can you? We can’t stay here forever.’
The reply had been a hesitant, ‘Okay.’ Followed swiftly by, ‘But I’ve got other things on the go, you realise. For some of which I even get paid.’
‘I’ll pay you, if that’s what you want.’
‘Forget it. I’ll do what I can.’
Since then, nothing. And Cordon was aware how far he was pushing the limits of friendship, the repayment of a small debt that had, in reality, already been paid off many times over. All he could hope was, that beyond his basic decency, Kiley was in it for the mystery, the need to see things through to their conclusion, find out how they’d been put together, how they ticked. Wasn’t that one of the reasons people became detectives?
The old man’s dog ran towards him from the nearby house, yapping, and when it got too close, turned tail. Letitia was just in the act of lifting the coffee pot from the stove.
‘Warm milk or cold?’
‘Cold is fine.’
Cordon swung the rucksack round and shook the croissants from their paper bag down on to the waiting plates.
‘Jam?’ Letitia asked.
‘Jam.’
Passing, she kissed him on the cheek.
‘What’s that for?’
‘Tip for the delivery boy. What else?’
The rain failed to clear until mid-morning, later than usual, and when it did they drove out to the nearby park and watched Danny tire himself out on the bouncy castle and the trampoline; afterwards, they stopped off at the creperie at the edge of the village for a late lunch.
Back at the house, the afternoon slipped harmlessly away. They had a supper of pate and cornichons, toasted bread, cured meat and cheese. Pears with a thick, marled skin that were delicious once it was removed.
Wine. Always wine.
Danny fell asleep where he was and had to be carried to bed.
Letitia put a cardigan around her shoulders and stood in the open doorway smoking a cigarette, while Cordon collected up the dishes and cleared the remnants of food into the fridge.
‘When did they say we have to leave?’ Letitia asked, turning back into the room.
‘Here? Easter at the latest.’
‘You think we could stay that long?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ Leaving or staying, he didn’t know which held the most danger.
He went and stood behind her, close enough to smell the scent of whatever it was she used to wash her hair through the night air, the smoke from her cigarette. Save for a scattering of stars and a faint sliver of moon, the sky was an almost solid black.
When Letitia leaned back, accidentally or not, he could feel the warmth of her body against his chest, the bare flesh of her arm sliding across his, the curl of her hair brushing soft against his neck.
‘Remember that time you kicked me out of your bed?’
‘No.’
She laughed. ‘Regret it now, don’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Lying bastard.’
She laughed again and, swivelling, raised her head and kissed him on the mouth, the taste of wine and tobacco clear and strong on her tongue, and just as he began to kiss her back, his arms closing tight around her, she pulled away.
‘It’s getting cold, let’s go inside.’
Once there she kept her distance, refilled her glass and took it into the other room; switched on the TV and sat, half-watching, chatting inconsequentially as if nothing had happened. When, an hour or so later, she said goodnight, her fingers brushed his neck as they had once before and left him wondering what, if anything, that meant.
Listening, through the lowered television sound, he heard her enter the bathroom, then leave, and then the closing of her bedroom door. Minutes later, he switched off the TV, went back into the kitchen and saw to the dishes, made sure the doors were locked and secure.
A half-inch of light showed under the door of Letitia’s room.
In the near-darkness, Cordon held his breath, then turned away, crossing to his own room, his own bed. And lay there, still listening, half-expecting her to come to him.
Three nights later, without hint or warning, she did. Her first touch breaking him from sleep.
‘What …?’
There was light enough through the shutters to see the smile forming on her face, the outline of her breasts beneath the T-shirt that she wore, the dark patch between her legs.
‘Letitia, you …’
‘Yes?’
‘You can’t …’
‘Oh, Cordon, why don’t you just shut up?’
Leaning down she kissed him hard, her hand reaching for him through the sheet.
He gasped at her touch and, as he arched his back, she dipped her head and took one nipple, then the other, in her mouth, licking, teasing them tight, taking them between her teeth and biting gently, then enough to hurt.
Slowly, she ran her tongue along his chest and up into the hollows of his neck, the corners of his mouth, his eyes, his mouth again, and then, suddenly, hutching up her legs, she slid down, taking him inside her, deep inside, deep — ‘Oh, Christ!’ — Cordon shouting out, head back, mouth wide, eyes screwed tight as she pressed down on
