When Max opened the door and stood back to let Kitty in, an odour of bleach and furniture polish met them. Max relaxed. ‘Thank God. The agent said he’d get it cleaned, but after all this time I worried it would be disgusting.’ He followed Kitty inside, his eyes, like hers, scanning the hallway. The flat had seen life. Scuff marks skidded along the walls, and the faded blue carpet was worn to a grubby pattern of weft and warp by doorways. Something brown splattered a line across the ceiling.
In the lounge, a vast gilt mirror topped the carved living room fireplace. It multiplied their reflection into a thousand tiny images that burst from a puncture point in the glass. Max offered a seat on the worn sofa, dumped his bag beside a matching armchair and headed for the kitchen.
‘I doubt there’ll be anything here,’ he called over the sound of opening and closing cupboards. ‘There’s a jar of coffee. Ooh, KitKats. That’s a bit of luck.’ He returned carrying a steaming mug. ‘No milk I’m afraid,’ he said and tossed her a chocolate bar.
Automatically, her hand shot out to catch it and she felt outsmarted. She did not want to accept anything from this murdering bastard, but she ran her thumbnail down the foil between the two wafer sticks.
Max lowered himself into the armchair and rummaged in his case. ‘There may be things here that upset you.’ He flipped through the papers; his face drawn. ‘These are the notes I took when working with your father. You should have them.’
Kitty glared. ‘I’ve told you I won’t be investigating your case.’
‘Take them anyway. They’re no good to me.’
She shrugged and accepted the bundle.
He gave her sad look that contrasted with her memory of him on their first encounter, when, as a child, she had surprised her mother, Fee, at Fee’s unexpected marriage to this man. In the tiny Mauritian chapel, they had seemed so in love, and Mummy’s face had been a picture of astonishment when she saw Kitty in her bridesmaid’s outfit and carrying a bouquet.
Kitty leapt to her feet, picked up the notes and blurted, ‘Don’t think you’ve persuaded me.’
Max raised a sorrowful face to hers. ‘You know, I’ve served a sentence that took twenty-five years of my life. Twenty-five years wasted for a stupid, maliciously motivated prank.’ He twisted his mouth into a wry smile. ‘I didn’t kill her, Kitty. At first, I wanted her to suffer because she’d ruined your father’s life. In my defence, I had a terrible childhood and hated women. I wanted to believe Fee was an evil, scheming bitch, but she wasn’t. She was suffering as much as Paul. I soon realised that.’
‘So, you don’t deny pursuing her?’
‘No. I have never denied that.’
Kitty nodded. If she wasn’t careful, she’d believe him.
On her way out she decided her father had waited long enough to speak to her. She pulled out her phone.
11 SAM
The rungs of the stepladder dug into Sam’s feet, and pain knifed up his thighs as he held his body tense. Just one more dab of the brush and he would be finished. He strained to reach the spot where a swirl of darkness would perfect the drama of his ceiling. There. He lay the brush across the rim of the paint pot and flexed his neck and shoulders. Through the tall sash windows that lit the room so well, the distant ridge of Lymeshire hills was swathed in grey. It would be clammy and cold up there today, but he relished the thought of stretching his legs on the rippling footpath along the top.
A plaintive but insistent ringing came from the pocket of his jacket, hooked over a chair. Sam let the call go to voice mail and crossed to the sink in one corner of the huge, high-ceilinged space that formed his home. After cleaning his brushes, he poured a tumbler of water and regarded his work. Overall - that was an appropriate word for a ceiling - he had achieved the effect he wanted. Not too dark, but definitely dramatic. As a painter, blank spaces on walls and ceilings begged him for colour. After six years living in this room, he had finally given himself permission to cover it with paint. Now, ghostly forms of strange birds, flying fish and a creatures emerged from a heavenly (or maybe not) fissure and swooped around the room. The painting was a celebration. His reward for finishing his first decent commission. The work in question, an enormous impressionist depiction of the hills he planned to walk in later, now dominated the foyer of Chelterton Town Hall. Chelterton: the market town where Sam had grown up. It was from his childhood home in Crispin Road, Chelterton, that his mother walked from his life when he was six and later, turned up in a lake. If he tried to picture her now, it was difficult to separate the image of her long coils of hair and aquiline features from those of Millais’ Ophelia.
After cleaning his hands with white spirit, he searched the folds of his jacket for the phone. A missed call from Kitty. He visualised Kitty’s face, delicate of bone but steely of eye, impatient that he had not answered. This was the girl he loved, but who did not, as far as he knew, return his feelings. Her message was terse.
‘Call me.’
Typical. No frills; no clues. He did as commanded and she picked up quickly, saying, ‘Hello. You took your time.’
‘Hi, how are you doing?’
‘Good. Good.’ She paused, ‘thanks.’
Sam smirked. She was no good at small talk - her father’s daughter in almost every way. He ran damp fingers through his wild brown curls. ‘You rang
