I was contemplating the odd coincidence that our fathers were both around during the Trunk Murder investigations. I was still curious about how much my dad really knew. I was pretty sure he’d written the diary, even though I didn’t recognize the handwriting as his. I’d also been trying to get hold of Tingley but he was as elusive as ever.
Judging by the intriguing individuals drifting into the pub – mostly men, largely macho, often dodgy – I guessed there had been racing at Plumpton, a few miles down the road.
I couldn’t stop chewing over my encounter with Simpson. I knew I’d missed something. There was a look on his face when I focused on Little Stevie. Inscrutable, to be sure, but a hint of relief. It was there for just a moment then was veiled again. He was expecting something else. Something worse. I’d known this guy a long time. I was pretty certain I was right, I just didn’t know how to get him. It was bloody irritating. What had I missed? What else was there?
A guy came and stood in front of me, blocking my view of the fire. He was standing feet planted, legs apart, shoulders squared. Not big but thickset. Looking down at me.
‘I know you, you cunt,’ he said.
Which isn’t the most neutral of conversational openings. I looked up at him. Didn’t recognize him. I shrugged.
‘Remind me?’
At this point I was aggravated but calm. However, from the pugnacious way he was leaning over me, I thought it appropriate to uncross my legs and drop my hands on to my knees. The problem with the army training I’ve had is that it’s easier to think about the way to kill someone than it is ways merely to disable. And one of the first things you’re taught is that if you get the first punch in, you’re probably going to win the fight.
So, one part of me was resisting the – strong – urge to rise and smash the side of my hand into the base of his nose, driving the bone up into his brain. That’s the death option. Or I could just reach out, grab his balls and give them a good twist.
I smiled at my thought processes, since I was worrying that the second was a bit crude for a family pub, but I was having no such worries about the first option, which was, ultimately, cruder.
‘You don’t know me,’ he said. ‘But you’re the guy who backs murderers.’
I was drinking a glass of Zinfandel and I had been enjoying the taste of it and the memories it evoked – I had spent a year on a police exchange in California. I took a healthy mouthful.
‘That’s under investigation,’ I said calmly, although already I was irritated by the gel in his hair, the suede jacket and the way he was pushing his cock in my face.
This guy was muscular but paunchy. I could drive my fingers up beneath his diaphragm and he’d be crippled for the rest of the day and unable to draw a proper breath for a week. I could kick his feet from under him and as he fell… Frankly, I could do anything.
‘You’re blocking my view of the fire,’ I said.
‘You policemen think you own the world.’
One or two people could hear and turned their heads but mostly the boisterousness of the pub hid what he was saying.
‘Ex-policeman,’ I said, my fists clenching. ‘Do you want to get to the point?’
I think he must have glimpsed something in my eyes, or seen my body tense. He took a step back but he held his ground. I felt my anger bubble. But I was also conscious of the situation. I hadn’t reamed anyone out in a pub since I was in the military, and even then it was before I made rank.
Fuck it. He wasn’t who I wanted to lash out at, but he’d do. I started to rise.
‘Mine’s a cranberry juice – sorry I’m late.’
We both looked. Molly was standing beside me. She sat down in the chair opposite. The paunchy guy and I looked at each other. The steam went out of both of us, though neither was going to admit it.
‘OK, then,’ I said to him, turning to Molly. He shuffled past me back to the bar.
I sat down opposite her.
‘How are you doing?’
She laughed at the incongruity. She’d always had a lovely laugh.
‘I mean, thank you for turning up when you did,’ I said. ‘And how are you doing?’
‘How do you think I’m doing?’
‘A glass of wine?’
She shook her head.
‘I told you – cranberry juice.’
She saw something in my face.
‘Surprised?’ There was an edge to her voice but not the hostility I’d been used to lately.
‘A little,’ I admitted.
‘It’s been a week.’
I reached for her hand but she pulled it back into her lap.
‘Must be tough,’ I said.
‘It’s nice to start feeling things again.’
‘Really? I thought the point of drink-’
‘Was to stop feeling? Well, yes, but that’s not a good way to live your life. And there’s not enough alcohol in the world to shut out some feelings.’
‘I’m so sorry about what happened. If we could talk-’
Molly pushed the palm of her hand at me.
‘It’s too late for talk.’
I looked at the fire.
‘So why did you come in here?’
She shrugged and looked down at the table.
‘Sentiment? I saw your car in the car park.’
I nodded and smiled. She looked at me.
‘Of course, I was also prepared to find you in here with her.’
There was little intensity in her voice, but even so I reared back.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ I said.
‘What – you have no problem shagging her but you draw the line at going to the local with her?’
Her voice had risen. One or two people looked over again.
‘I didn’t mean that.’
She looked at her hands.
I’d always put my work before my marriage and my kids. Molly was a woman I’d pursued and wooed (after a fashion) and swore to spend the rest of my life with, even before we got married. But I hadn’t kept that promise.
I wanted to. When I thought about it – and given that I was a man, I tried not to think about it very often – I was desperate that we were not still together. Oh, I missed Molly. She was difficult, but when we chimed we could talk for hours, laugh for hours over the littlest things.
‘Molly.’ I leant across the table but she stood up.
‘Take care, Robert.’
‘You too,’ I murmured as she walked out of the pub.
Kate had decided against seeing her father in London. Not cowardice, she told herself, just timing. She was curled up on the sofa in her flat sipping a mug of green tea. Her head was spinning from what she’d stumbled on in the National Archive. She was excited about the discovery of a suspect, Dr Massiah, and the possibility he was the Dr M referred to in the memoir. She was frustrated that she could find no other documents about him.
And she was knocked sideways to have found at the back of the second file a memo about the discovery of the torso at the left luggage office that mentioned in passing the names of the police officers present.
Knocked sideways because there were two names she recognized.
Her doorbell rang. It made her jump – she still wasn’t over the scare she’d had – but then she heard someone climbing the stairs and the insertion of a key in the lock. A moment later, Sarah Gilchrist came through the door.
