Caffery glanced sharply at Mahoney. ‘What did you say?’
‘Lucy was completely reasonable about it.’
‘No – before that. That she didn’t adopt her.’
‘Well, she didn’t. Not officially.’
‘She wasn’t her real mother?’
‘She was her stepmother. Daisy’s real mother’s dead.’
Caffery stared at him hard. ‘No one mentioned she was her stepdaughter.’
‘We didn’t advertise it. For Daisy more than anything. She always thought of Lucy as her mum.’
‘So what happened to…’ He hesitated. He was thinking about the Caesarean scar – the botched one. Something was missing here. ‘What about Lucy’s other child?’
‘Lucy’s other child? There wasn’t one.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Perfectly sure. She never had children. Never wanted them.’
‘And never lost a child?’
‘No. I just said, there were no children. Only Daisy.’
Caffery opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. He could see from Mahoney’s face that he really didn’t know there had been a child. He returned to the window and stood for a while, pinching his nose, his eyes on the tor, letting his thoughts settle in the right places. If Lucy’s Caesarean hadn’t been for Daisy, it must have been after they’d separated. There was a child. But Mahoney didn’t know anything about it.
‘When you separated…’ he said, eventually, ‘Lucy wasn’t pregnant, was she?’
‘Pregnant? Good God, what are you saying?’
‘I’m not “saying”, I’m wondering. Just wondering. That’s all. Did you tell me you didn’t see her for a long time after the separation? Almost a year?’
Mahoney put his thumb to his right eye and pressed in the corner. He did the same with the left. ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.’
Caffery didn’t answer. He looked out of the window at the tor, his mind floating away. He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure it was the right way through this, but it was something. Something big. Lucy had had a child that no one knew about – none of the friends, and not even her ex-husband. She’d had a child. It had disappeared. And maybe, just maybe, that was why she was blackmailing someone.
Now all he had to do was find out who she was seeing after she’d left Mahoney.
46
The bank had carved itself offices out of a listed Georgian building in the centre of Bath. Frosted glass and fibreboard cubicles were crammed against the walls, a gap of almost eight feet between their tops and the corniced ceilings. At eleven a.m. the bank assistant found Flea a cubicle and they sat at opposite sides of a modern laminate desk, a computer screen between them, trading inconsequentials for a while and filling in forms.
‘So you’re police?’ He looked at the badge on her polo shirt. ‘Underwater search? What’s that? Like the coastguard?’
‘Not really.’ She’d learnt a long time ago there were only two responses to what she did for a living. Either a fascination that bordered on weird, or disgust. And usually the first thing anyone did was look at her hands and her clothing. In some countries jobs that connected you with death – undertaker, slaughterhouse worker – made you untouchable. As if death could rub off on you. ‘What’s that thing for?’ she said.
‘Hmmm? Oh, that. Panic button.’
‘In case what?’
‘You know.’ He moved his tie knot. ‘Sometimes customers get upset.’
‘About?’
‘Whether we’ll give them a loan or not.’
‘Do you think that’s going to happen to me?’
He coughed and tapped a few more keys, studying the screen. Then he got to his feet and held up the folder he’d started. ‘Will you excuse me? I’m going to have a word with my line manager.’
When he was gone Flea got up and went to his side of the desk to look at the computer screen. He’d logged out. The words ‘Just 8% APR’ flashed in blue on the screensaver and when she shook the mouse a log-on box came up. She wandered around the room, looking at the leaflets, the lifestyles you could buy for just eight per cent APR. Her head still ached. The polymer Elastoplast itched where it held together the edges of the wound on her cheek. She went to the frosted-glass doors and peered out at the people coming and going. At the door he’d gone through. He was taking a long time. She went to sit down again and tried not to fidget. Put her fingers to her temples and pressed hard to hold the headache in.
‘Hello.’
He was standing in the doorway. He gave her a brief smile and shut the door behind him. Not so friendly now. He put down the folder, sat at the desk, got himself comfortable and logged on. The computer came to life, lighting up his face. He began tapping in numbers.
‘You going to torture me?’
He glanced up. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Please don’t torture me. If the answer’s no, just say it. Have I got the loan?’
‘Of course you have.’
‘Of course I have?’
‘In spite of the horror stories, we do still give out loans, you know. And you’ve got good collateral in your property, a good job, you’ve been a customer for twelve years. In fact, there was never any question you would get it.’
‘You mean you always knew I’d get it?’
He squinted at her over his spectacles, as if he hadn’t properly looked at her before, then went back to the computer: hitting a button, firing off a sheet on the printer. He made a couple of crosses on the paper and passed it to her. ‘Sign here and here.’
She signed, pushed it back.
‘Simple as that.’ He recapped the pen. ‘The funds will be ready for withdrawal in twenty-four hours.’
‘Twenty-four-’
‘Yes.’
‘But that’s a day.’
He looked at his watch. ‘Tomorrow lunchtime.’
‘That’s no good. I need to be able to walk out with the cash.’ She paused. ‘OK, let’s go for a different loan. One I can take out now. We can do the forms quickly.’
‘There isn’t a loan on offer you can walk out with today.’
‘There has to be. Look at all these products. I don’t care what interest you charge – I just don’t care. Like you said, I’ve been a customer for twelve years. I’ve got good collateral. There must be a loan I can…’ She trailed off. He was looking at her pointedly, his eyes going from the scar on her cheek, to her police badge, to her hands. She realized she was half standing, hands on the arms of her chair. He raised his eyebrows, then glanced down at the panic button.
‘Just testing.’ She sighed and sat down. Forced a tired smile. ‘Just testing.’
47
‘Well?’ Steve Lindermilk is sitting on the sofa. The french windows are open. It’s a nice afternoon, and in the garden the pink azaleas are out. There’s a rum and Coke at his elbow but he hasn’t touched it. ‘What did you want to see me about?’
Ruth smiles at her son. He’s wearing jeans and trainers. An Umbro top with piping down the sleeves. He’s got her legs: strong. And her nose. Not too much of the Lindermilk side in Stevie. None of that pushed-in face like with Sue. ‘There was a question, darling. But there isn’t any more. I just wanted to see you.’ She raises her glass to him. Like it’s his christening or a special event and she wants to toast how wonderful he is. She’s feeling good this afternoon: only an hour ago she put the phone down to Little Miss PI. Little Miss PI who might not know how to dress like a girl but at least has a sensible head on her shoulders. She’s come up with the money. It’ll be delivered tomorrow afternoon. ‘I just wanted to see my lovely boy. My lovely, lovely boy.’
He gives a weak smile. Crosses and uncrosses his legs. Looks at the drink in her hand. Looks at the calico cat lying on its back at her feet.