She opens a door and leads me into a cold room with French windows staring out at the golf course.
Mrs Hall puts on a light, our thin deformed bodies frozen in the cold, cold room, reflected in the black glass -
Among the coins and medals, more coins and medals -
I say: ‘I’d like to take a look at Eric’s files, if that’s OK?’
‘Wait here,’ she says and leaves me.
I walk over to the windows and strain to see into the night -
There is nothing to see.
Mrs Hall comes back with a large cardboard supermarket box and puts it down on the desk.
I ask her: ‘These are the copies of all the stuff you gave Maurice Jobson?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Help yourself.’
I open the flaps and pull out envelopes and folders.
‘There’s quite a bit,’ I say. ‘I’ll need to take it with me?’
She doesn’t speak, just looks at the box on the desk.
‘You’ll get it all back, I promise.’
‘I’m not sure I want it back,’ she says, quietly.
I close the flaps: ‘Thank you.’
‘I just hope it helps,’ she says, staring at me.
I cough and ask her: ‘How did you meet Mr Laws?’
‘I was given his name?’
‘May I ask who by?’
‘Jack Whitehead.’
‘But Jack’s in hospital. In Stanley Royd?’
‘And where do you think I’ve been for the last three years, Mr Hunter?’
I close my eyes, saying: ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…’
‘Don’t worry,’ she smiles and turns off the light.
I pick up the box.
Back in the front room, Helen is still sat on the sofa, the cup balanced on her knees, Laws still watching the road.
‘We best be getting back,’ I say.
Helen Marshall stands up, her eyes red raw from tears.
‘Are you all right, dear?’ asks Mrs Hall.
I’m sorry,’ says Helen, looking at me. ‘I’m not sleeping well.’
Mrs Hall is shaking her head: ‘Isn’t that just the worst kind of hell?’
‘I’ll be OK. Thank you,’ says Helen at the door.
‘Thank you for the tea,’ I say. ‘Goodnight Mr Laws.’
‘Goodnight,’ he replies, not turning from the window.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ I say to them both and follow Helen Marshall back down the drive.
At the car she stops, staring back up at the house, Laws staring back down at her.
I put the box in the boot -
‘What did he say to you?’
‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Your wife’s been calling,’ says the man behind the desk at the Griffin.
‘Thank you,’ I say, taking my key.
‘I’m going to go up,’ says Helen Marshall.
‘Sure you’re all right?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.’
‘Don’t fancy a quick drink?’
‘Not particularly,’ she says, nodding towards the bar -
I look over and see Alec McDonald, Mike Hillman, and some of the Yorkshire lads, all the worse for wear -
‘I better go over,’ I say.
She nods and says: ‘Don’t forget to phone your wife.’
‘I won’t. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.’
I walk over to the bar just as Bob Craven gets another round in.
‘You having one, chief?’ he says.
‘Go on then,’ I say. ‘A quick one.’
‘Looks like you had one of them already,’ says one of the Yorkshire blokes, watching Marshall getting into the lift.
‘Steady on,’ says Alec McDonald, leaning across the table, drunk. ‘That’s out of order, that is.’
‘Looks fine to me,’ laughs Craven.
I take the Scotch from him: ‘Thank you, Bob.’
‘Mention it,’ he smiles.
‘Where’s John?’ I ask Alec.
‘Murphy? Fuck knows, sorry.’
‘You get much done?’
‘Aye,’ he slurs. ‘Fair bit.’
‘Bird, Jobson, that Ka Su Peng girl, Linda Clark,’ nods Hillman.
‘Kathy Kelly?’
‘First thing tomorrow.’
‘See we got another roasting,’ spits Craven, chucking an
‘Not very nice that, is it,’ says Alec McDonald, trying to hit the top of the table.
I put the paper back down on the bar and ask him: ‘You heard anything over here about Dawson?’
‘Just that they’re charging him.’
‘Thought he were dead?’ says Craven, over my shoulder.
Me: ‘Who?’
‘John Dawson?’
‘John? No, this is Richard.’
‘Right, right,’ says Craven. ‘His brother.’
I say: ‘You knew John Dawson?’
‘Who fucking didn’t.’
‘Who fucking didn’t,’ he says again.
Upstairs in my room, almost midnight, I dial home: ‘Joan? It’s me.’
‘Oh, Peter. Thank god…’
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘Come home, please.’
‘Why? What’s wrong?’
‘I’ve got such a terrible feeling, Peter.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘An awful feeling that something bad’s going to happen.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know Peter, just come home please.’
‘I can’t, love. You know that.’
