‘Jesus! Don’t you ever lighten up?’
‘Rarely.’
‘Here …’ Holding out the bottle. ‘Help me get this open.’
He found two glasses and poured the wine, getting only a little on the floor as it fizzed up. It tasted like he remembered: cream soda, but cream soda that had turned sour.
‘This really your birthday?’
Dipping her finger into the glass, she made a crossing motion, anointing her breasts through the material of the dress. ‘Christening, too.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Got a new name, haven’t I?’
‘Fed up with the old one?’
‘Rose, it’s not me. Not anyone. Anyone I know.’
‘So who are you now?’
‘Letitia.’
Cordon did a small double-take.
‘You like it?’ she asked.
‘Different, I’ll say that for it.’
‘Joy and happiness. What it means. My dad told me.’
Cordon had never heard her mention her father before; hadn’t imagined them to be in touch.
‘He chose it for you?’
‘Sort of.’ Head back, she drank some more wine. ‘Suits me, don’t you think?’
‘Maybe.’
‘My dad thinks so. Looked right into me, didn’t he? Joy and bloody happiness. Saw deep into my soul.’
Cordon waited for the laugh, but it didn’t come.
When she left, just a short while later, there was still a good half a bottle remaining. After due deliberation, Cordon poured it down the sink. When she came back to walk the dog a week or so later, Letitia now, neither of them referred to the occasion at all.
She didn’t mention her father again, either, only the once, Cordon getting on his high horse and launching into something of a lecture about the values of doing a little reading, studying — the kind of thing students were supposed to do, though, from his perspective, it seemed few of them did.
‘Fuck off!’ she said. ‘Stop naggin’ at me all the bloody time. You’re not my bloody father, you know.’
Cordon knew. His own fatherly responsibilities were scattered halfway across the world: a son, Simon, fully grown, who had used his gap year to put ample distance between the pair of them and decided he liked it that way best. The only contact Cordon had — the terse, almost formal requests for funds aside — was the occasional postcard from Santo Domingo, Bogota or La Paz, just letting him know he was still alive. After Bolivia he’d heard nothing, six months of worry, and then the cards had resumed — Pangai, Lautoka, Auckland, Hobart, Sydney. Pins stuck in a notional map, marking a journey that never seemed to point home.
His ex-wife, Judith, Cordon scarcely spoke to at all: a desultory late-night phone call, usually around Christmas time, pauses longer than words.
What was he, then? A concerned individual? A friend? Hardly that.
When the other officers, down at the station, got wind of what was happening, there were knowing glances cast in his direction, more than a few lewd remarks. Cordon let them slide.
Then something happened and it all changed.
At four in the morning, on the way home from a night’s clubbing and buoyed up by too many pills and too much alcohol, she let herself into his flat and slipped into his bed, and he pushed her angrily back out. Angry at her presumption: angry at himself for being aroused; knowing, somewhere at the back of his mind and in his groin, he’d always regret an opportunity not taken, little enough love in his life, little enough abandon.
She didn’t come by again.
The dog padded circles around the room and cast wistful glances at the door. Cordon walked her himself till he could find someone else, a young lad whose father worked at the fish dock down by the quay.
All that was a long time ago, over fourteen years.
Letitia moved away.
If he saw her on one of her visits home, it was a nod of the head, a wave, and nothing more. If he bumped into her mother on her own and sober enough to answer, he’d ask how she was.
Now this.
He made the calls as promised the next day, finding himself passed on from person to person, extension to extension, all to no avail. Nothing about a Letitia or Rose Carlin was known, no accident or serious injury reported, no incident in which she had been named. There was no body of a similar age and size waiting to be identified.
He left it alone. Had half a mind to get in touch with Maxine and see what she’d discovered on her trip to London, always supposing she’d gone, but never followed through.
Other matters intervened. A pub brawl that ended with someone being pushed through a sheet of plate glass. State-of-the-art climbing gear stolen from the car park close by the old Carn Galver mine. A break-in at the post office and general store in St Buryan. At a campsite on Trevedra Common a caravan was set alight, the couple sleeping inside lucky to escape with second-degree burns.
Life, such as it was, went on.
7
Karen still couldn’t quite figure Tim Costello out. He’d been in her team for some nine months, detective sergeant down from CID in Leeds, where he’d been part of the Major Crime Unit for three years. Promotion overdue. Before that he’d studied for a degree in Criminology and Forensic Science at the John Moores University in Liverpool, his home city. Not that you could tell that from his accent, with which he could have read the Radio 4 news without causing a flutter. Nicely brought up, Karen thought. His mother probably had him scurrying off to elocution lessons from the age of six or seven.
Costello’s mother was Chinese, his father Irish. He’d inherited his father’s height and build, all elbows and sharp angles, and his mother’s features. His father’s father had migrated to Liverpool to work on the docks, back when such work was plentiful and the scratchings in County Galway were poor; his mother’s mother had come as a mail-order bride on a ship from Hong Kong. How his parents had met was a story still to be told.
Where Karen was concerned, he was suitably deferential; in his dealings with the other members of the team, including Ramsden, he was inclined to be a little cocky. A little too sure of himself, Ramsden reckoned, a bit too much mouth. Karen wasn’t so certain. Give him his chance, she thought, to come to terms, settle down — that happened and he might just blossom, come into his own.
Already had where transport was concerned. Cycled in from home, early hours, on a bike with a carbon-fibre frame and Shimano Deraillieur gears that cost, as Ramsden liked to say, more than his first fucking car. Home for Costello being a flat on the Hackney-Dalston borders he shared with a girlfriend none of them had yet seen.
Lycra padded cycling shorts, black tights and brightly coloured long-sleeved jerseys, headphones clamped to his ears listening to a menagerie of bands like Foals and The Geese, to say that he and Mike Ramsden were several lifestyles apart would be no exaggeration. Karen would like to have considered herself midway between, but she wasn’t sure of that either. Sometimes conversations with Costello beyond police work made her feel as if she were taking classes in how another world lives and failing.
Back in the dead days following New Year and their discovery of Petru Andronic’s identity, the temperatures low, the skies intent on giving new meanings to the word grey, there’d been a glimmer of a breakthrough in the Walthamstow shooting. The bullets taken from the dead youth’s body had been linked to a haul of illegally imported arms and ammunition seized during a raid by officers from the Central Task Force on a warehouse in Deptford. While those officers continued to probe into the identities of those who had both imported the arms and sold them
