The Vanishing Point

secondhand.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t think I’m up for any more bad news today, Simon.’

But he told her anyway. Her face seemed to slacken as his words sank in. When he’d finished, there was a terrible cold silence before she finally spoke. ‘The stupid little fucker,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘He always thought he knew best.’ I put a hand on her shoulder and she reached up to grab it tight. ‘What the fuck am I going to tell Jimmy?’ She looked up at me, a naked plea in her eyes.

‘I’ll stay with you,’ I said. ‘We’ll tell him together.’

‘Would you? Ah, Steph, where would I be without you?’ She blinked a tear away and pushed herself to her feet, looking weary beyond words. ‘Come on then, Simon. We’d better get a move on.’

‘Do you want me to come?’ I said.

She puffed out her cheeks and considered. ‘Could you stay here and hold the fort? George is going to want to talk to you. Because we’re going to have to respond to this and I don’t want to be talking to strangers. Then when I get back, we can tell Jimmy.’

‘You’re not going to feel like telling Jimmy after you’ve had a round of chemo,’ I said. Sensibly, I thought.

‘I know that,’ she lashed back at me, the stress taking over the driving seat momentarily. She pressed her eyes closed and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Steph. Yeah, I am going to feel like shit. But I can’t put it off till I’m feeling up to it. He’s got to be told. Apart from anything else, he’s a sensitive little lad. He’s going to notice we’re all walking round like a wet Wednesday in Wetherby. He needs to know there’s a good reason for it.’

And I believed she was capable of it. She’d come this far on guts and gumption. There was no reason why they should fail her now. Except that none of the old certainties seemed to be holding fast.

36

I spoke to Maggie as soon as Scarlett and Simon left in his gleaming Audi TT convertible. They took most of the paparazzi with them, which made life easier for everyone else. Maggie knew how I felt about Joshu, so she didn’t bother with condolences. ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘I’ve already spoken to Georgie. The Mail wants seven hundred and fifty exclusive words by half past four, Yes! needs five hundred words by Thursday. I’m still negotiating the funeral exclusives, but this will be a lovely little earner for us. And of course it keeps the interest lively for the cancer book.’ Maggie only bothered with tact and diplomacy when there were strangers around. With me, she could be as blunt as she liked.

These days, I knew Scarlett well enough to knock out a Daily Mail feature on her grief without actually having to speak to her. I could tug at the heart-strings without tipping over into saccharine sweetness, I could convey the tragedy of a love that had died and the sorrow that there could be no attempt at reconciliation now. I was almost moved myself by the words I put in Scarlett’s mouth.

I’d finished the first draft and given it to Leanne to look over when my mobile rang. I didn’t recognise the number but I answered it anyway. ‘Hello?’

‘Is that Stephanie Harker?’

I didn’t recognise the voice but I liked the sound of it. Northern, deep, warm. ‘Yes. Who is this?’

‘Detective Sergeant Nick Nicolaides of the Met Police. I’d like to talk to you about the death of Jishnu Patel.’

I hadn’t heard Joshu’s real name since the wedding and it gave me a jolt. ‘Joshu? Me? Why me? I don’t know anything about it.’

‘George Lyall gave me your name,’ he said. Bloody Gorgeous George. What was he playing at? ‘I’m outside Ms Higgins’ house now,’ he continued. ‘Your intercom doesn’t appear to be working.’

‘It’s working fine. They turn it off when the media won’t leave them alone,’ I said sharply. ‘On days like this.’

‘Can you let me in? Since I’m here? And I want to talk to you?’

I didn’t want to talk to him but I didn’t think I had a lot of choice. I ended the call and opened the gate.

‘Who’s that?’ Leanne looked up from the screen.

‘A copper. He wants to talk to me about Joshu.’

She pulled a surprised face. ‘Why you?’

‘We’ll soon find out. Is that piece OK?’

‘It’s great. You’ll have them sobbing in the streets of Beeston,’ she said cynically. ‘I’ll make myself scarce, then.’ She grabbed her cigarettes and practically ran out of the room. Leanne had never learned to be comfortable around authority. I think she was always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I opened the back door as a lanky man in black jeans and a thigh-length leather jacket was unfolding himself from the driver’s seat of a weary-looking Vauxhall. His dark hair was shaggy, framing a lean and bony face with deep-set eyes and a nose like a narrow blade. I met his eyes and I felt a spark of danger. I know it’s a cliche, but I’ve always thought of Nick Nicolaides as a handsome pirate. The Johnny Depp kind of pirate, not the ones who kidnap innocent holiday sailors in the Indian Ocean. To be honest, at that moment, I’d have answered pretty much anything he asked me.

I brought him into the kitchen and sat him down at the breakfast bar. I offered him coffee; he asked for espresso then sat in silence while I prepared it. I sometimes think espresso has become the twenty-first century equivalent of the vindaloo. You’re not a real man unless you can take it full strength.

I put the cup in front of him and noticed the nails of his right hand were long and well-shaped with the gloss of acrylic varnish, while the left-hand nails were trimmed short and neat. He saw me notice and moved his right hand out of sight.

‘You’re a guitarist,’ I said.

He looked uncomfortable. ‘I play a bit,’ he said. ‘It’s a good way to unwind.’

‘What kind of stuff do you play?’

‘Acoustic. Finger-picking. A little bit of jazz.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘Does it come with the territory, asking the questions?’

‘You mean, because I’m a ghost writer?’

He nodded. ‘Is it something you can’t help?’

There’s so much in our lives that we never question. I had to think for a moment before I could formulate an answer that wasn’t a glib throwaway. Somehow, I didn’t want to palm him off with that. ‘It’s a bit of a chicken and an egg question,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure whether I’ve developed the habit of asking questions because I’m determined to do my job as well as I can, or if I ended up going down this route because I like drawing answers out of people.’ I smiled. ‘I suppose I like being the one in the know. The one with the inside track.’

Nick nodded, looking pleased with himself. ‘That’s what George Lyall said. “Stephanie notices things. And she knows how to ask questions that get answers.”’

‘I still don’t understand why you want to talk to me. I don’t know anything about what happened to Joshu.’

‘According to Mr Lyall you know all the people at the heart of this tragedy. You knew Joshu. You’re probably Scarlett’s best friend. You know Dr Graham and you’ve been to the clinic with Scarlett while she’s been undergoing treatment. I’m trying to form a picture of what happened here. And I often find it helpful to talk to someone like you. Someone not directly concerned with what happened but who has a good understanding of the individuals and the relationships involved.’ His smile was dead sexy. I know it was wildly inappropriate to be thinking like that with Joshu barely cold, but I couldn’t help it. Since the debacle with Pete, I hadn’t met a man who’d provoked the slightest reaction in me.

‘You don’t sound very like a cop,’ I said.

‘Maybe it’s your idea of cops that’s out of date?’