The words reminded Slider of what he had said to Bates, moments before he went over the top. He met Ormerod’s eyes, and read in them a different certainty; and he remembered how on previous occasions, felons who had been in a position to finger the government of the day in some serious manner had committed suicide – in their cells and in inverted commas – before coming to trial.
‘Tyler’s finished,’ Ormerod assured him. Slider tried to think of Phoebe Agnew. He thought of Ed Stonax. It was just an old-fashioned streak in him that didn’t want a right by way of two wrongs. ‘It’s justice,’ Ormerod concluded.
Of a sort, Slider amended, but only inside his head.
So Slider went along as a spear-carrier when the final drama was played out. Not that it was very dramatic. There was no kicking down of doors, of course, no raised voices. Tyler stared at them all with his feral, golden eyes, and if he was pale – well, his long, smooth face had always been unnaturally colourless.
But there was no sign of panic or fear about him. He smoothed his hair back with one long, freckled hand, and said, ‘You have no idea who you are dealing with. You will be very, very sorry if you try to arrest me.’
‘I’m not going to try,’ Ormerod said. ‘I’m just going to do it.’ And he did it.
In the middle of the recital of the crimes he was going to be done for, Tyler looked past Ormerod and met Slider’s eyes. ‘I should have killed you when I had the chance,’ he said emotionlessly. ‘How could Trevor make such a mess of it? How difficult can it be?’
‘Shut up,’ Ormerod said. ‘You’re just making it worse for yourself.’
At which point, Tyler began to laugh. ‘Worse? How can it be worse?’
It was the laughter Slider took away with him. Ormerod had meant well, but he couldn’t really say he had enjoyed it. Afterwards, it made him feel as if he had been a spectator at a bear-baiting – not that he had any grain of sympathy or pity for Tyler, but there had been an element of voyeurism in it that he felt dirtied by. He had to comfort himself with the thought that Tyler was going to pay a penalty, whatever it might turn out to be, and Mark was in jail, and Bates was dead. It didn’t bring back their victims, of course.
And when the fuss had died down, they told him, the Clydebrae site was going to be quietly decontaminated. The Waverley B House of Fun would not claim any more lives. And maybe the terns would come back.
When the arrest of Richard Tyler hit the newspapers, Sir Henry Paxton fled to America, which meant a lot of trouble trying to arrange an extradition order to get him back, and more diplomatic repercussions, because it was hard to get the Americans to pop him without knowing fully why. There was a lot of toing and froing before sufficient evidence of financial wrongdoing could be assembled not to have to mention any contaminated shipyards. But you could always get the Justice Department on large-scale fraud and wobbly accounting.
A few days after that there was a small paragraph in the paper which caught Slider’s eye, reporting the death of Sid Andrew. He had committed suicide by hanging himself in the grounds of his luxury home in Northamptonshire. He had left no note, so Slider would never know whether it was remorse over his part in the Waverley B business that drove him to it, or the more general misery of realising that he was no longer a player and never would be again. But he was interested, in a mild, exhausted sort of way, to note Andrew had chosen the same suicide method as Angela Barlow.
And the next day he finally remembered to remind Hart to telephone Reading Library and stop them harassing Mrs Masseter about the lost book; and he stood over her to make sure she did it.
By the time all this was sorted out, it was the end of October, and Joanna was so large she had to have help getting out of chairs. She had been patient with him, knowing how much he was suffering and how much he had to do and how much all the powers that be were trying to make his life hell, but in the end she said, ‘It’s not for me, it’s for baby Derek. You know you didn’t want him to be born out of wedlock. And you also ought to know that doctors’ estimates of the birth date are just that – estimates.’
‘I know,’ he said, and saw her properly for the first time in weeks. ‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry. I’ve made a mess of this. I’ve made a mess of everything.’
‘None of that,’ she said. ‘You’ve done what you had to do. Now can we for Pete’s sake get married before I go off pop?’
‘Of course. How shall we do it?’
‘I’m not walking up an aisle like this. Anyway, you have to book months in advance to get a church.’
‘Register office it is. When, and who do you want to invite?’
‘ASAP, and I’d like to invite everyone. Why don’t we book the register office, tell everyone we know, and see how many turn up?’ she said. ‘It’ll be self-limiting that way.’
‘But what about a reception afterwards?’
She made a face. ‘I hate that word. Look, let’s just all go to the Tabard afterwards, and we can have a proper party some other time, after the baby’s born, when I’ll be in a better shape to enjoy it.’
‘If you’re sure,’ he said doubtfully. ‘I wanted you to have the wedding of your dreams. After all, you’re only going to do it once.’
‘I love your confidence,’ she said, getting as close to him as she could for a hug. He kissed her contritely, and she comforted him by saying, ‘Look, I never really saw myself done up like a meringue, with three friends bursting out of mauve satin behind me, and ten million photographs of the guests in weird configurations, and a rubber-chicken sit down, followed by a really naff band in blue dinner jackets and frilled shirts playing Tom Jones hits.’
‘You didn’t? I thought that was every woman’s dream.’
‘You’re my dream,’ she said. ‘But I’m afraid what I just described is exactly what my mum and dad always envisaged for me. However, they’re not marrying you, I am, so they’ll have to lump it. We’ll throw a monster bash after the baby gets here and let them wallow then.’
‘We’ll have to do something,’ he said gravely, ‘or we won’t get the presents.’
‘That’s the reason I’m marrying you at all,’ she said.
And in the end, it wasn’t even Chiswick Town Hall and the Tabard, because man proposes and God disposes, and a couple of days before the date they had chosen Joanna phoned Slider up at work and said, ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I think I’m in labour.’
He left at once and dashed home to collect her and take her to the hospital, and sat on a hard chair for what felt like hours while she was behind a curtain waiting to be examined, then walked behind her as she was taken in a wheelchair up to the labour ward, and hung around outside for what felt like more ages while she was undressed and got into bed and examined again.
And when he was allowed back to her side, he took her hand and she said, ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t hold on any longer.’
‘What’s to be sorry about?’ he said, hoping he didn’t look and sound as nervous as she did.
‘You didn’t want Derek to be a bastard.’
‘No child of ours is going to grow up to be a bastard,’ he said.
‘Yes, but he’s going to begin that way, poor little perisher.’
‘How long have we got?’ he asked. He grabbed the nurse who had been behind the curtain with her a minute ago as she went past. ‘How long have we got?’
‘Before baby gets here?’ the nurse said. ‘Oh, a couple of hours yet, I should think. First babies always take a long time.’
He dropped Joanna’s hand. ‘Wait here,’ he said as he headed for the door.
‘Where the hell d’you think I’m going?’ she replied.
She was beginning to feel resentful and abandoned when Atherton and Emily arrived. ‘All alone?’ Emily said.