‘You are going to be doing all this every week?’ she asked, astonished.
‘Yep. It’s taken me all day on the phone arranging it.’
‘Good for you,’ she said, and meant it. She was proud of him and said she would make sure he ate healthy foods to put some weight back on.
When she went into the bedroom, she had to step over a selection of weights and equipment. He’d evidently asked the delivery men to shift the furniture around and it made her bedroom look rather like a gymnasium. It irritated her slightly that he hadn’t mentioned it to her, but she said nothing.
‘I’ve got a rowing machine coming in tomorrow,’ he said, rubbing his knee with a foul-smelling liniment.
‘Where on earth are you going to put it?’
‘In the hall — the only place with enough space. The rowing action will build up my shoulders and the knee action will strengthen the ligaments. Sorry about this stuff; it stinks.’
She wrinkled up her nose. ‘My dad used something like it on an injured shoulder.’
‘Yeah, it’s good old-fashioned grease with a heat mix. The scars have healed well, but the skin is so taut around them and the muscles ache like hell on my knee.’
‘Do you want me to do that for you?’ she asked.
‘Nope, better I do it — I’ve got a very low pain threshold,’ he joked.
Anna kissed his cheek; he hadn’t shaved and it was like a bristle brush. ‘Would you like me to shave you?’
‘No, I’m growing a beard. Day I shave it off is the day you know I’m back in shape.’
‘Oh.’
‘Does it bother you?’
‘No. You’ll look a bit like Rasputin.’
He grinned. ‘Yeah, look how many shots the assassins fired into him before they could kill him, mean bastard. They even tried to drown him, then poison him as well.’
‘I’m going to take a shower.’
‘Fine, go ahead.’ He was wrapping an elastic bandage around his knee.
She couldn’t help feeling as if he had taken over her entire flat, as well as her life. She opened the bathroom door and was taken aback to see a walking frame. She went back in and asked him what it was in there for.
‘Ah, it’s just so you don’t have to help me piss, or watch me crap. Makes me more independent — but it stays in there. I’m not using it anywhere else.’
Anna shut the door, easing herself around the bloody walking frame. Lined up in the bathroom were rows of vitamins, gels and tablets, crowding her make-up shelves. She couldn’t find her toothbrush, and had to move his pills around to find it.
‘This won’t last for long. It’s just temporary, so stay calm,’ she muttered to herself, but she felt as if the walls of the bathroom were closing in on her.
Anna had yet to bring up the situation with Sickert, though it still concerned her. It never seemed to be the right time, as they were settling down to quite an amicable partnership. The fact that she ran her life around him, cooked and laundered, and was a constant support as he grew stronger, made him less demanding. Langton constantly impressed her with his total dedication to regaining his strength. They also started again; he was, as he had been before, a generous and exciting lover. They didn’t exactly swing from the rafters, but if he was in any discomfort, he never showed it. His knee injury was still very obvious and she knew he depended on his painkillers to continue the rigorous training programme he had set for himself. He also had moments of deep depression and anxiety. These times she knew to leave him alone; that was not easy if she was at home, as the flat was so small.
As far as she knew, Langton made no contact with anyone apart from his trainer. He now had quite long hair and a beard; not exactly Rasputin, but it altered his appearance totally. He mostly wore tracksuits and trainers, so that if he did venture out, she doubted anyone would have recognized him. He seemed to have no desire to either take in a movie or dinner at a restaurant, but he did make one trip: she returned home from work one day to find his bicycle propped up in the hall. She knew he had always used one to work out at the track in Maida Vale, but she had no idea how the hell he had got it into the flat. With the rowing machine, and now the bicycle, circumnavigating the hall was hazardous. The bike pedals always caught her ankle and she had tripped over the rowing machine so many times that she had a permanent bruise on her leg.
A stack of mail he must have collected from his flat, all unopened, took up almost the entire space on the coffee-table. This was another irritation to her: everywhere he went, he left a trail of trainers and tracksuit tops. Newspapers he would buy every morning, so she had a stack of them in the kitchen. She tried to throw them out, but he insisted she keep them, as there were some articles he was interested in. It would have been an ideal opportunity for her to discuss the cuttings she had discovered at his flat all those weeks ago, but they were interrupted when the doorbell rang. It was his physio, come for a morning session.
Sometimes, just when she felt it was all too much for her, he would do something that made her melt. He would often return from his workouts with a bunch of flowers. A few times, he cooked dinner and made such an effort it touched her heart, as he was so boyish and eager for her to compliment his culinary efforts. He rarely asked about her work and never spoke of Lewis or Barolli — if Anna did refer to them, he would waft his hand as if to say ‘don’t go there’—but he was eager to talk about vitamins and minerals and physical therapy. He was now having extra massages and treatment from an acupuncturist.
Langton was obsessed with his recovery: it was his sole occupation and he would allow nothing to disrupt his regime. Anna knew it must be costing a fortune, since his personal trainer alone was a hundred pounds an hour. But the results were really astonishing: already his frame had filled out and he was almost back to his original weight. He was very proud of his six-pack and often stood admiring himself in the wardrobe mirror. He would be up and out with his bicycle before she showered. He’d cycle to the Maida Vale bike track and do five miles, then cycle home for his porridge and mound of vitamins. He was still often in pain and had been warned by everyone on his training programme not to push it too much, but he refused to listen.
The trial of Murphy was a week away. Vernon Kramer had already been sentenced and sent back to Wandsworth prison, as he had requested to serve out his time close to family and friends.
This had caused Harry Blunt to deliver yet another tirade about the prison services. ‘You know that bastard will be segregated on Rule 43 because he’s a child molester; now he’ll be back with his old cronies and probably swapping dirty pictures, the bastards! They don’t call it that any more — Rule 43: seems it offended some of the arseholes. Mind you, now they’ll have keys to their own fucking cells!’
Brandon looked at Anna and gave her a half-smile. She had grown to like him, especially now he had dispensed with his cologne. He came over to her desk and passed a note.
‘Came in late afternoon yesterday, but you’d already left,’ he said. ‘She insists she wants to talk to you, but wouldn’t say what it was about. That’s her mobile number.’
‘Thanks.’ Anna glanced at the Post-it note. ‘Beryl Dunn…?’ She looked at the name, tried to think if she had ever heard it before and then it clicked: Beryl Dunn was Arthur Murphy’s mother.
She dialled the number. ‘Is this Mrs Dunn?’ Anna asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I am Detective Inspector Anna Travis.’