‘It’s no time for sarcasm.’
‘You know what bothers me? What bothers me is that we didn’t know about him in the first place. Why is that, Richard? Why wasn’t that in the fucking plan?’
‘It was an oversight. It wasn’t dealt with then, we’re dealing with it now. We just have to stay calm.’
Manfred laughed, amused by the notion. ‘Calm? You have any idea what’s at stake here?’
‘You know I do.’
‘Everything. I mean
‘Don’t forget,’ said Wakeley, ‘I wasn’t the one driving the car that night.’
Manfred’s eyes locked on to him, but the anger went out of them. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘This is what he wants, to rattle us. Try to think of it as a test. For the future. You’ll learn from it, be stronger for it.’ He rested a comforting hand on Manfred’s shoulder. ‘We’ll get through this, you have my word.’
‘It’s the waiting, I don’t think I can stand the waiting.’
‘Who said anything about waiting? There are times when it’s right to throw the first punch.’
They went indoors and Wakeley spelled out his stratagem.
‘It’s a high-stakes game you’re proposing,’ said Manfred.
‘But the right one.’
Manfred thought on it. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But I want your friend brought back in, just in case.’
‘He’s not my friend,’ said Wakeley. ‘I don’t even know who he is.’
‘But you know where to find him, right?’
Wakeley nodded.
Twenty-Six
Hollis had always loved the night shift. Even as a patrolman he’d never complained, often trading his days for others’ nights. He preferred the stillness of the sleeping city, the company of the midnight folk—the tramps picking over the detritus of the day, hurrying to beat the street-sweepers and the garbage men, heaping their treasures high upon creaky handcarts; the park-bench philosophers and the outright crazies with their uncommon wisdoms; the cabbies gathered at the taxi ranks, smoking and joking, blue banter swathed in blue smoke.
Then there were the sounds, not smothered by the deafening white noise of the daylight hours—the distant peal of an ambulance, the snatches of music as customers rolled out of basement jazz clubs, the rumble of the early milk wagons. The night made you aware, it allowed you to pick up the trails of other people’s lives.
A Monday night in East Hampton was a very different affair. It was as if word of an approaching plague had reached the community and everyone had left in haste, a few forgetting to extinguish their porch lights before fleeing.
Hollis set himself the challenge of finding any form of life. He was rewarded a few minutes later by the twin beacons of a cat casting a derisory glance in his direction as it loped across Dunemere Lane in front of the patrol car.
At the junction with Egypt Lane, the radio squawked into life. It was young Stringer—always so earnest— holding the fort back at headquarters.
‘Calling Deputy Chief Hollis, calling Deputy Chief Hollis. Over.’
‘Calm down, Stringer. What is it?’
‘An intruder, sir, I just got a call. They heard noises. Over.’
‘You want to tell me where?’
‘Oh, yes…62 Three Mile Harbor Road. Over.’
‘I’m on it.’
‘Do you want assistance? Over.’
‘I can handle it.’
He parked the car some distance down from the house, approaching on foot. There were no lights burning, and he made his way round to the back door. It wasn’t locked. He entered. A tap dripped in the kitchen sink. It was the only sound.
He stepped lightly across the wooden floor, creeping along the corridor, glancing into the living room. It was deserted. A loose board creaked beneath his feet as he climbed the stairs.
The door at the far end of the landing was ajar. He poked his head into the room before stealing inside.
Taking hold of the cotton sheet, he drew it slowly off the bed, inch by inch. She was lying face down, one leg cocked.
His fingertips traced a lazy course from her ankle, up her calf, the back of her leg, gently delving into the warm fork of her thighs.
She stirred, moving her leg slightly to allow his fingers better access. He began unbuttoning his jacket with his free hand.
‘No, don’t take your uniform off,’ she said quietly.
He woke late, his nose searching for the smell of brewing coffee. There was none. He was at home, and had been since four o’clock that morning. He glanced at his uniform discarded on the chair, smiled at the memory of the fleeting encounter with Mary, then swung his legs out of bed, moving with purpose.
He began by tossing the clothes Lydia had left behind into a pile in the middle of the room, hangers and all.
