“O-K,” I said slowly, slurring badly now, “but what if Lucas wasn’t her father? His partner knows something-Felix Vaughan. Have you spoken to him? Only-”
Young cut me short. “Mr. Vaughan was polite but unhelpful,” she said, and I remembered Vaughan laughing when I’d asked him the same question about Lucas.
It wasn’t that simple, Vaughan had said. Why?
“If Lucas wasn’t her father, that would be a pretty good reason for a massive falling-out between them. Simone was already pretty convinced, but they were supposed to have had a DNA test to settle it,” I mumbled. “If she found out he wasn’t who he said he was, she might well have reacted badly. I’ve never been entirely happy that he — “
“The tests came back,” Bartholemew cut in. “They were positive- and our own lab has run their own independently, just to be sure.” He paused, looking almost disappointed that I’d come up with such feeble reasons for Simone to turn psycho. “As close as the science can call it, Greg Lucas was definitely Simone’s father.”
Fifteen
I dreamed of Ella. It was Simone who’d died, but it was her daughter who haunted my sleep. Constantly. A jumbled-up barrage of splintered reflections, always anchored in that frozen forest. So cold it woke me shivering, my fingers numb with the psychosomatic effect.
Sometimes it was Simone who was holding the child. Or Matt, dressed as I remembered him from that first day at the restaurant, with that damned stuffed rabbit he’d been clutching sitting on his shoulder, egging him on. Or Rosalind, her face and clothing dusted with flour. Or sometimes it was Lucas again, and the dream was more vivid for the ghosted image of reality overlaid on top of it.
It never made a difference to the outcome. Sometimes I took the shot and watched in slow motion as the mist beaded outwards from the exit wound in the skull, Ella’s screams reverberating inside my own head.
And sometimes I stayed my hand but the mist splayed out anyway. I saw the body tumble, but I could never reach them before they both fell. Didn’t know for certain who’d been hit. I kept trying to turn and look behind me, to see who had fired the shot when I knew it wasn’t me, but the shooter always moved too fast for me to focus on them, slipping away like a shadow into the trees.
This time, it was Felix Vaughan who held Ella in my dream. He smiled as he slid his thumb under the skin of her soft belly and peeled it up and away from her body as easy as a boiled shrimp.
I woke with a gasp to find Frances Neagley sitting in the chair Sean had occupied beside my bed. It was two days since the visit from the two cops. Two long frustrating days and nights, punctuated by periods of fearful sleep. I’d got to know the patterns in the ceiling pretty well by then.
The private investigator had clearly been flicking through the pages of Sports Illustrated magazine when my gasp had alerted her. There was a can of Tab in her right hand. I vaguely remembered seeing Tab in the UK, years ago, but the clear stuff, whereas this looked more like regular cola. I locked onto it with envious eyes.
“Sorry,” she said, catching the line of my stare and putting the can down by her chair, out of sight. “Last time I was in the hospital, having my appendix out, it drove me crazy that they wouldn’t let me drink anything for a couple of days.”
“I think I’m starting to obsess about it,” I admitted. “Still, they gave me some real food for breakfast-if you count jelly.”
“Jelly?” Neagley said blankly. “What-on toast?”
I dimly recalled that “jelly” had a different meaning in America. “Ah, I meant Jell-O.”
Her careful gaze told me she probably knew I hadn’t been dreaming about kittens tied up with string or whatever the hell else Julie Andrews had been singing about in that old film but, by some tacit agreement, she didn’t bring it up. And neither did I.
Instead, she smiled ruefully. “So … would it be stupid to ask how you’re doing?”
“Better than I was yesterday. Not as good as last week,” I said, easing my position slightly. “At least they took the chest drain out yesterday, which means my lung’s on the mend. If sheer boredom doesn’t get me first, it looks like I’ll survive.”
Her smile grew serious. “You were lucky,” she said, and her face clouded. “I was sorry to hear about Jakes. He was a nice guy Friendly, but didn’t try anything, you know?”
I didn’t answer, mainly because I realized that I didn’t know. I’d hardly had time for much of a conversation with Jakes before he died. I’d no idea if he was married or single, even-couldn’t remember if he’d worn a ring. I remembered him the last time I’d seen him alive, reading that stupid story to Ella, and before I knew it the tears had rushed up out of nowhere, prickling behind my eyes, leaking across my face.
‘Aw, I’m sorry, Charlie,” Neagley said, sounding mortified. “I didn’t mean-”
“Don’t worry about it,” I managed, shaky. “I think while the surgeons were messing around in there they must have wired me up wrong. I can’t seem to stop damn well crying at every available opportunity.”
She handed me a couple of tissues from the box next to the bed. The nursing staff were obviously well prepared for the outpourings — emotional and otherwise — of their patients.
I mopped my face and after a minute or so I had myself more or less back under control. I tried a smile that seemed to alarm Neagley more than reassure her. She sat uncomfortably on the edge of her seat, like she expected to have to leave in a hurry at any moment.
“I suppose,” I said, trying to be brisk and businesslike, “with Simone gone you’re off the case.”
“Not exactly,” she said and paused, as though uncertain how much to tell me, brushing at some imaginary lint on her black trousers. “Mr. Meyer’s asked me to stay on it,” she said at last. “There are a lot of things about this case he’s not happy with-not least you getting shot. And besides, if Lucas is somehow mixed up in this, well, he might just have had something to do with my partner’s accident after all.” She looked up, her mouth thinning. “I want answers and so does your boss. Determined kind of a guy” There was respect in her voice.
“Yes, he is that.” I closed my eyes for a moment, surprised but grateful. After the two cops had gone I’d thought Sean was going to tell me that was an end to it, to let it go. Simone was dead. Her prints were on the gun that had shot me. Lucas was proven as Ella’s grandfather and had claimed his right to the child. My job was over.
Dismally, deficiently, definitely over.
Or-as it now seemed-not quite.
I opened my eyes again to find Neagley watching me, speculative, and I had the feeling that she was drawing her own conclusions about my relationship with Sean. I wondered if I should let that bother me and decided I had other things to worry about.
“So, have you made any progress?”
“I’ve been doing some digging on the guy you saw at the Aquarium,” she said, reaching down by her chair and hauling a large brown leather shoulder bag onto her lap, pulling out a slim gray file. She opened it but hardly needed to refer to the pages of notes inside. “From the description you gave me, and a couple of other things, I think we might have one or two promising candidates. The guy you mentioned didn’t seem like an amateur.”
“He wasn’t,” I said.
She caught something in my voice, glanced up, frowning. “Well, I’ve got some photos, if you’re up to looking through them?” she said, slipping some glossy prints out of the file.
I reached out my left hand for them. The IV line had twisted in among the bedsheets and I had to untangle myself first. It was awkward to straighten it, one-handed, but my right arm still did little more than flop, and forcing any more than that out of it caused sufficient pain and frustration to curtail further attempts. Not to mention the fear.