on the bridge leans across and opens the passenger door. Hinges groan in protest. I’m wet. My shoes are covered in vomit. She tells me not to worry.
Pulling back onto the road, she rips through stiff gears wrestling the Land Rover around corners. For the next few miles we sit in silence. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Veronica Cray. Friends call me Ronnie.’
She pauses for a moment to see if the irony of the name registers. Ronnie and Reggie Kray were legendary East End hard men back in the sixties.
‘It’s Cray with a “C” not a “K”,’ she adds. ‘My grandfather changed the spelling because he didn’t want anyone thinking we were related to a family of violent psychopaths.’
‘So that means you are related?’ I ask.
‘A distant cousin- something like that.’
Wipers slap hard against the bottom edge of the windscreen. The car smells vaguely of horse manure and wet hay.
‘I met Ronnie once,’ I tell her. ‘It was just before he died. I was doing a study for the Home Office.’
‘Where was he?’
‘Broadmoor.’
‘The psychiatric prison.’
‘That’s the place.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Old school. Well-mannered.’
‘Yeah, I know the sort- very good to his mother,’ she laughs.
We sit in silence for another mile.
‘I once heard a story that when Ronnie died the pathologist removed his brain because they were going to do experiments. The family found out and demanded the brain back. They gave it a separate funeral. I’ve always wondered what you do at a funeral for a brain.’
‘Small coffin.’
‘Shoebox.’
She drums her fingers on the steering wheel.
‘It wasn’t your fault, you know, back there on the bridge.’
I don’t answer.
‘Skinny Minnie made the decision to jump before you even stepped up to the plate. She didn’t want to be saved.’
My eyes wrench to the left, out the window. Night is closing in. No views remain.
She drops me at the university, holding out her hand to shake mine. Short nails. A firm grip. We pull apart. Flat against my palm is a business card.
‘My home number is on the back,’ she says. ‘Let’s get drunk some time.’
My mobile has been turned off. There are three messages from Julianne on my voicemail. Her train from London arrived more than an hour ago. Her voice changes from angry to concerned to urgent with each new message.
I haven’t seen her in three days. She’s been in Rome on business with her boss, an American venture capitalist. My brilliant wife speaks four languages and has become a corporate high-flyer.
She is sitting on her suitcase working on her PDA when I pull into the pick-up zone.
‘You need a ride?’ I ask.
‘I’m waiting for my husband,’ she replies. ‘He should have been here an hour ago but didn’t show up. Didn’t call. He won’t turn up now without a very good excuse.’
‘Sorry.’
‘That’s an apology, not an excuse.’
‘I should have called.’
‘That’s stating the obvious. It’s still not an excuse.’
‘How about if I offer you an explanation, a grovelling apology and a foot rub.’
‘You only give me foot rubs when you want sex.’
I want to protest but she’s right. Getting out of the car, I feel the cold pavement through my socks.
‘Where are your shoes?’
I look down at my feet.
‘They had vomit on them.’
‘Someone vomited on you.’
‘I did.’
‘You’re drenched. What happened?’ Our hands are touching on the handle of the suitcase.
‘A suicide. I couldn’t talk her down. She jumped.’
She puts her arms around me. There is a smell about her. Something different. Wood smoke. Rich food. Wine.
‘I’m so sorry, Joe. It must have been awful. Do you know anything about her?’
I shake my head.
‘How did you get involved?’
‘They came to the university. I wish I could have saved her.’
‘You can’t blame yourself. You didn’t know her. You didn’t know her problems.’
Dodging the oily puddles, I put her case in the boot and open the driver’s door for her. She slips behind the steering wheel, adjusting her skirt. She does it automatically nowadays- takes over the driving. In profile I see an eyelash brush against her cheek as she blinks and the pink shell of her ear poking through her hair. God, she’s beautiful.
I still remember the first time I laid eyes on her in a pub near Trafalgar Square. She was doing first year languages at the University of London and I was a post-grad student. She’d witnessed one of my best moments, a soapbox sermon on the evils of apartheid outside the South African Embassy. I’m sure that somewhere in the bowels of MI5 there’s a transcript of that speech along with a photograph of yours truly sporting a handlebar moustache and high-waisted jeans.
After the rally we went to a pub and Julianne came up and introduced herself. I offered to buy her a drink and tried not to stare at her. She had a dark freckle on her bottom lip that was utterly mesmerising… it still is. My eyes are drawn to it when I speak to her and my lips are drawn to it when we kiss.
I didn’t have to woo Julianne with candlelit dinners or flowers. She chose me. And by next morning, I swear this is true, we were plotting our life together over Marmite soldiers and cups of tea. I love her for so many reasons but mostly because she’s on my side and by my side and because her heart is big enough for both of us. She makes me better, braver, stronger; she allows me to dream; she holds me together.
We head along the A37 towards Frome, between the hedgerows, fences and walls.
‘How did the lecture go?’
‘Bruno Kaufman thought it was inspired.’
‘You’re going to be a great teacher.’
‘According to Bruno, my Parkinson’s is a bonus. It creates an assumption of sincerity.’
‘Don’t talk like that,’ she says, crossly. ‘You’re the most sincere man I’ve ever known.’
‘It was a joke.’
‘Well, it’s not funny. This Bruno sounds cynical and sarcastic. I don’t know whether I like him.’
‘He can be very charming. You’ll see.’
She’s not convinced. I change the subject. ‘So how was your trip?’
‘Busy.’
She begins telling me about how her company is negotiating to buy a string of radio stations in Italy on behalf of a company in Germany. There must be something interesting about this but I turn off well before she reaches that point. After nine months, I still can’t remember the names of her colleagues or her boss. Worse still, I can never imagine remembering them.
The car pulls into a parking space outside a house in Wellow. I decide to put on my shoes.
‘I phoned Mrs Logan and told her we’d be late,’ Julianne says.
‘How did she sound?’
