Nevill Road was almost a mile long, on the outskirts of the City of Brighton and Hove, running north from the Old Shoreham Road, passing the Greyhound Stadium, skirting the border of Hove Park, up to the edge of the city near the South Downs National Park.
Niall turned left at the lights, drove up past the school, then turned left again onto the driveway of their red-brick semi opposite the stadium. He pulled up a couple of yards in front of the motorcycle storage container which housed his Honda Fireblade — which Eden refused to ride on — and his equally cool Trek road bike. Checking his phone yet again — still no word — he climbed out and walked up to the brilliant-white front door, which he’d repainted, along with all the outside woodwork, during the plentiful free time he had these days. He went inside and called out, ‘Baby! I’m home!’
He was greeted by a pitiful miaow.
‘Eden?’ he called again, louder.
Another miaow. Even more pitiful. Reggie peered accusingly at him from the kitchen doorway. They’d named the platinum Burmese cat after the gangster Reggie Kray because the cat was, in their view, a vain bully but with huge charm and an insatiable greed. He also had a damned annoying miaow. Didn’t seem to matter how much or how often they fed the increasingly plump creature, he always wanted more. Some while back, Eden suggested they should have called him Oliver Twist. But that was lost on Niall.
As were the cat’s cries now.
But not the stench that greeted him.
Weren’t cats supposed to get the hang of peeing and pooping outside? Another thing he had blamed Eden for. She’d refused to let Reggie out for months after he’d had his jabs and his nuts removed, because they lived on a main road. When she’d finally allowed him out, it was strictly just in the back garden which they’d had cat-proofed as much as possible. As a result, Reggie now went out for hours on end, then hurried back indoors, through his flap, whenever he needed to do his business.
Hence the need, still, for cat litter.
Ignoring the creature’s cries, he checked out the living room, which was separated from the dining area by an archway. The chess game they were in the middle of sat on the coffee table, a white sofa either side. Suspiciously, he glanced at it, just in case she’d sneaked home to cheat and had removed another piece. He was already a rook down. But it was pretty much as he remembered. She was winning, as usual.
Calling out again, he hurried upstairs and into their bedroom, with its tented ceiling. Eden’s idea, when they had first moved in. She’d seen it in some designer magazine and thought it would be romantic to sleep in what she thought felt, sort of, like a Bedouin tent. Except you could now see dozens of dead flies through the fabric when the lights were on.
‘Eden!’ he shouted and went through into the en-suite bathroom.
It was empty.
He looked at his watch again. Then was tempted to check the result of the Grand Prix, but didn’t want to waste any precious time. Sod Eden, whatever her stupid game was, he thought, stripping off his sweaty top and shorts, going through into the bathroom and dumping them in the laundry basket. He washed his face, slapped cold water on his chest, slathered himself in his favourite aftershave, then put on a fresh T-shirt and shorts and his cycling socks and shoes.
Next, he bunged his phone, a shirt, slacks and shoes into a rucksack — he would change into them later before his airport pickup — and wriggled it onto his back, hurrying downstairs as he did so. Grabbing his front-door keys, he went out to the storage container, checked the bike’s tyres were hard enough — thank God, they were — and clipped on his helmet.
Moments later, after locking up, he stood on the driveway, looking up and down the pavement for any sign of Eden. The sky was darkening, but he didn’t care if he got wet. He pushed off, mounted and pedalled hard. If she wanted to play games, that was fine by him. No doubt she would be home by the time he’d done his airport pickup and got back to Brighton.
7
‘God,’ Cleo said. ‘The poor man — he gave up the throne for the woman he loved and the Royal Family back then really treated him like shit, didn’t they? Do you think he deserved that?’
‘Darling, I don’t think you can trust a single word on that show — I’m sorry, but it makes me angry. If you’re going to make a historical drama, you’ve a duty to your audience to make it accurate, don’t you think?’ Roy Grace said.
Stuffed from their barbecue, which they’d just finished before the rain started, they were snuggled up on the sofa with an equally stuffed Humphrey between them, who seemed as absorbed in the television programme as they were. After months of showing signs of pain, he had managed to jump up on the sofa for the first time in ages, so the massage treatment he’d been having was seemingly getting him back to normal and helping his condition. Roy had a small glass of rosé and Cleo, pregnant, a glass of water and a bowl of spicy nuts — her latest craving — beside her. The boys were up in their rooms, Noah fast asleep and Bruno no doubt gaming.
Hugging Humphrey, Cleo said, ‘I hate to say it, but you were right, Roy. Humphrey wasn’t really getting angry with the kids — he was actually in pain. Now look at him after his massages. It’s amazing, he’s back to soppy Humphrey.’
‘Yep.’ Roy stroked him. ‘Good boy, very, very good boy!’
They’d finally got round to watching The Crown. It was 1953. The Duke of Windsor, having refused to attend the coronation of his niece, Queen Elizabeth II, without his wife, Wallis, the Duchess of Windsor — who had pointedly not been invited — was watching the coronation on a tiny television at their French chateau, with Wallis and a group of their friends. He was standing, cigarette in hand, giving a running commentary on the proceedings, clearly wistful at all that might have been for him. And very bitter at how he had been treated.
‘At least the Duke and Duchess had the good fortune to be in a decent chateau — unlike our holiday-from-hell one that I booked us!’ Cleo said.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘We chose it together.’
‘Well, next time, let’s try to make a better choice, eh?’
Cleo smiled thinly, then looked back at the screen. ‘You’re right about this show. I was rubbish at History at school,’ she said. ‘I didn’t like my History teacher, so I hardly learned a thing. Now I’m fascinated by it, I want to learn as much as I can, but how can we tell in this series what is the truth and what isn’t? I read an interview with the writer, talking about a scene he made up. So how do we know just how much he’s invented?’
‘I totally agree,’ Grace replied. ‘If I watch something historical, I want to believe it’s accurate, otherwise what’s the point? Whatever distortions in this or any other period drama, you’ll have millions of people forever believing mistakenly that that was the truth — and that’s very dangerous. And not just this show, but countless other so-called historical dramas.’
‘Also,’ Cleo said, ‘it’s hard to judge anything that happened in the past by the standards we have today, isn’t it?’
‘Sure. Attitudes in general were different then. Divorce is part of life today — back then it was pretty much a cardinal sin.’
She looked at him quizzically. ‘Would you have given up the throne for me?’
‘Without a second’s thought.’
She thumped him playfully. ‘Liar!’
‘I totally would have!’
The dog responded by farting. Both batted away the toxic smell with their hands. ‘Humphrey, no, that’s disgusting!’ Grace chided.
The dog gave him a baleful but unapologetic eye.
‘And very disrespectful in front of Her Majesty, Humphrey!’ Cleo complained, picking up the remote and freezing the video. ‘I can’t stop thinking about what you told me earlier, your visit to Guy.’
Batchelor’s notebook lay on the table in front of them.
‘It could end Cassian Pewe’s career,’ she said. ‘But what if it backfired?’
He nodded. ‘I know.’
‘They’d be relying on the evidence of a convicted, bent stockbroker and a police officer convicted of manslaughter. How well do you think that would play?’
‘In the right hands, it would be goodbye Cassian Pewe.’
She nodded at the television. ‘When he was King Edward VIII, he made a massive miscalculation, and lived out the rest of his life a sad and lost man, who had given up the trappings of royal life.’
‘And your point is?’
‘Swap Wallis Simpson for Cassian Pewe for a moment. You are risking everything that you have over him? You know the Chinese proverb, don’t you?’
‘Which is?’
‘Before you seek revenge, first dig two graves.’
He smiled. ‘I will. One for Cassian Pewe and one for his ego.’