I looked around the room, trying to throw his gaze, but it didn't work.
'So you work for De Jong?' he said.
'Yes.'
'Hamilton McKenzie is a bastard, isn't he?'
I laughed, trying to keep the tone conversational. 'He may seem that way, but actually he is a very good boss. And he's an excellent portfolio manager.'
'No he's not. He's a spiv. And a bastard.'
There didn't seem much I could say to that.
'That tart Debbie used to work for you, didn't she?'
I didn't say anything. Joe continued. 'I hear she fell in the river the other day. Tragic that.' All this was delivered in a slow matter-of-fact way that gave his last comment an unpleasant irony, which I pretended to ignore.
'Yes, it was,' I said. 'A terrible tragedy.'
'Did you fuck her?'
'No, of course not.' I fought hard, and succeeded in controlling my anger. I held his stare and returned it.
'Didn't you? That's funny, everyone else did,' said Joe, a thin smile curled on his lips. 'She was a popular girl, that Debbie. She was always begging for it. I fucked her myself a few times. Slut.' He smiled a bit more.
There was silence round the table. All eyes were on me. I knew he was goading me, spoiling for a fight. But I was angry.
Slowly, I stood up. He just looked up at me, that thin smile still on his lips.
Then Cash jostled into me. 'Hey, come on, Paul. You told me you wanted to get an early night. Let's share a cab.'
I knew he was right. I let him push me out of the bar.
'Man, let me tell you, the last thing you want to do with that guy is get into a fight,' Cash said as we climbed into a passing taxi. 'Look at it this way. He wanted to pick a fight with you and he didn't succeed.'
'Scum,' I said. 'That man is scum.' I sat in the cab fuming. Acting over in my mind the things I would have done to him in the Biarritz if Cash hadn't stopped me.
After a couple of minutes, I asked Cash. 'Is it true what he said about him and Debbie?'
'Well, I don't know. I think he was seeing her for a few weeks a year or two ago. But I think she told him where to get off. Maybe that's why he is still sore at her.' Cash touched my arm. 'Look, forget what he said. She was a good kid.'
'Yeah,' I said as the cab drew up outside my flat. 'Yeah.'
CHAPTER 7
I was still furious the next day. I had seen that bastard at the scene of Debbie's death. He was obviously the violent boyfriend Felicity had referred to. The one who had ordered Debbie around and who had beaten her when she had confronted him about his marriage.
The more I thought about it, the more annoyed I was that I had walked out the night before without hitting him. I resolved to go round to his house that night and find out what had really happened. I knew it was stupid, but I was determined to do it.
I called Cash for Joe's address. He didn't want to give it to me, but I insisted. I waited until seven o'clock, by which time I judged Joe would be home, and set off for the Wandsworth address.
He lived in a cul-de-sac. The small road was lined with large red Edwardian houses, the dwellings of middle- ranking bankers at the turn of the century.
It had been a hot day, and the air was still stifling. It was very quiet in the little road. The houses were not in good repair, windows were smudged and dusty and some were cracked, paint peeled from doors and sills. Most had been converted into flats for single people or unmarried couples commuting into the City. I was startled by something small and lithe darting between some dustbins. A cat? An urban fox?
I began to feel uneasy. I had no idea what Joe's reaction to me would be when I met him. All I knew about him was that he was unpredictable, and sometimes violent. All day the words I would use to confront him had been running through my mind; suddenly they had lost their conviction. I stopped in the middle of the silent street. Then I saw Debbie leaning back at her desk, the
I strode up the road. Joe's house was at the end. Tall, thin and red, it stood alone, decorated with two miniature Victorian-Gothic turrets. I walked up the short drive, and was immediately hidden from the street by a cluster of large rhododendron bushes, their shiny dark green leaves providing some shade.
I could hear the muffled sounds of a baby crying, probably from the back of the house. I rang the doorbell. No reply. The baby had heard, though, and put new force into its screams. Hoarse and angry, they cut through the stifling silence of the close.
Had Joe left his child to scream alone in the house? Possible, but what about his wife? I picked my way through the beds in front of the house to look in the windows. I saw a large kitchen with the debris of a half-prepared meal all over the counter. On the floor were scattered pieces of chopped onion, and a kitchen knife. Some mincemeat bubbled over the edge of a frying pan on the cooker, dripping meat and grease on to the gas flame.
I moved on to the next window. There she was, huddled up on a sofa in the living room, a woman sobbing silently. Her knees were pulled up to her chin, and I couldn't see her face, but her shoulders were shaking unevenly.
I knocked on the window. No response from the body on the sofa. I knocked again, hard, rattling the glass. A thin, tear-stained face looked up between damp wisps of light brown hair. Her eyes struggled to focus on me, and then she let her head flop back on to the cushions.
I saw some french windows at the back of the room, opening out on to a small garden. I walked round the side of the house and climbed over a locked side gate into the garden.
I stood at the threshold of the french windows, the evening sun streaming over my shoulder into the prettily decorated sitting room. I could just see the woman's sandalled feet from where I stood. The baby had shut up for a moment, no doubt listening for more signs of adult life. I could hear the woman sobbing, deeply, quietly. I coughed. 'Hallo?'
No reply. She must have heard, but she was ignoring me.
I moved round to the front of the sofa. 'Are you all right?' I said, touching her gently on the shoulder.
She pulled herself up awkwardly, so she was sitting upright on the sofa, her arms still wrapped round her knees. She took some deep breaths and the sobbing stopped. 'Who the hell are you?'
She had a thin face that was pretty but pale and washed out. It was a face that had felt tears many times before. Now they streaked her cheeks, running in thin rivulets from her red, puffed-up eyes down to her quivering lips. As she rocked backwards and forwards, I could see that one hand was grasping her upper arm, and the other her ribs. She was in pain.
'My name is Paul Murray. Can I get you a cup of tea?'
She looked at me doubtfully, clearly weighing up whether to tell me to go to hell. In the end she nodded.
I went into the kitchen, turned off the mince, and put on the electric kettle. The baby was silent. It must have finally gone to sleep. I stayed in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. I didn't hear anything from the woman.
I found a tea-bag, threw it in a mug, poured boiling water over it, added some milk from the fridge, fished out the bag and took the tea through.
I handed it to her. 'Sugar?'
She looked at me, not seeming to hear what I had said, and then reached up for the mug. She winced as she stretched upwards. I sat down in the armchair opposite.
'Are you hurt?'
She didn't answer, just hunched over her tea.
I was quiet for a minute or so. 'Shall I call a doctor?'
