‘See you’ve got another cat.’
‘Two, darling.’
Steve sighs. ‘Two more?’
‘Don’t be like that. They were going into a rescue centre. What was I supposed to do?’
‘You could always say no.’
‘You might be able to harden your heart, Stevie, but I can’t. Not ever.’ She taps her glass. ‘You don’t want to start sounding like them out there, do you? Don’t want to be one of those who hassles me?’
‘Mum, there’s a simple way round this. Put the telescope away. That’s what’s pissing them off.’
‘No. I’m not taking it in. If they know I’m watching they might drive a bit slower.’
‘Give it to me. I’ll keep it safe.’
‘It’s not worth anything, Stevie.’
‘I’m not interested in what it’s worth, I’m interested in what they think. And for God’s sake, Mum, stop taking photos. We don’t want a repeat of what happened last time.’ His eyes run over the photos of the seagulls and the cats and the guillemots. The dolphins. The beautiful creatures of this planet. He gets up and goes to the computer table. Leafs through the pictures she’s taken of the neighbours in their cars in the mornings. ‘I mean, look at this. They think you’re spying on them.’
‘Well, I am. And I need to. These are the innocents of the world I’m trying to protect, Stevie. The ones that never did anyone any harm. Whose side are you on, anyway?’
‘Yours. Of course I’m on your side, always will be. But, Mum, the place looks nuts. And the more photos you take, the more rubbish you pile up, the more people think you’re tapped. Just do me a favour. Stop taking photos, Mum. Bring the telescope in. And those stone cats on the roof have got to come down. They’re embarrassing.’
‘I like them.’
‘You do but the rest of the village doesn’t, does it? Looks like Hansel and fuckin’ Gretel’s gingerbread house. Just stop taking the photos. And get rid of the ones you’ve got.’
Ruth taps her tooth. The chipped one. Regards him thoughtfully. ‘Do I embarrass you too, Stevie? Do I?’
Steve pushes away his drink. He looks uncomfortable. ‘Of course you don’t,’ he mumbles.
‘What’s wrong with your drink, poppet? Don’t you want it?’
‘Nah. I’m driving.’
‘One little drink won’t do any harm. When your uncle got stopped he had three pints and half a bottle of wine down his throat and he still came up negative.’
‘Thanks, Mum, but no.’
‘You’re a good boy, Stevie. A good boy.’
‘Yeah.’
She chews her nails. Looks at the TV. EastEnders. Sound down. The drinks are making her warm. It’s interesting how the private investigator found the money so quickly, she thinks. No quibbles. The full amount. It makes her wonder who the client is, because she’s sure she can smell a little more money loitering around that particular honey-pot. Her appointment with the consultant is tomorrow morning. First thing. If he wants the money for the operation up front she’ll take the fifteen K off the private eye and be happy with it. If he’s prepared to wait for it, she’ll have time to move the goalposts. Refuse the fifteen K when Little Miss PI comes at lunchtime. Ask for a bit more.
She studies her nails where she’s chewed them. Pushes back the cuticle on one and holds out her hand to check the light bouncing off the varnish. ‘Stevie? Do you want to know why I asked you here today?’
‘I didn’t think it was just because you wanted to see me.’
‘You’re right. I asked you here cos I wanted to give you a really nice present.’ She smiles coyly at him. ‘Something beautiful, Stevie. Very soon. I’m going to get you a – a Porsche. No – how much does a Porsche cost? Maybe something…’ She blinks.
‘How much does a Porsche cost?’
‘Dunno. Eighty grand, should think. If you get it new.’
‘Something like a Porsche. As good as a Porsche. Something black. Tinted windows. One of those SUVs you like.’
‘Nah. You’re all right, Mum. You save your money. Spend it on yourself.’
She leans across and presses her fingernails lightly into his arm. ‘I’m in a comfortable position with money. You’re going to see me, Stevie, one day not very far away, you’re going to see me and you’re going to be very, very proud.’
48
It was a cool evening with no hint of the heat from earlier in the day. Flea wore a Powerlite tank and shorts set and ran a two-hour circuit along the lanes that meandered lazily through the hills north of Bath. Years ago, before Mum and Dad’s accident, she’d had boyfriends. Lots of them. One had been an ex-marine who’d trained in Quantico – they used to run together. He taught her the Fartlek technique, and she still used it: two-kilometre sprint, five-minute walk, then a long, loping run, extended stride, comfortable pace, interspersed every three hundred metres with sixty-metre sprints. Every ten sprints she checked her heart rate: average 173. Way further into the cardio range than usual. But it was what she needed today.
After ninety minutes she calculated she’d already gone over the lactate threshold twenty times. She should ease off into cool-down, drop back a little and come home on a jog. But she didn’t. She kept pushing it to the wall, pounding the lanes until the sun dropped behind Bristol, until the shadows were long in the fields, until her legs were shaking. Until she was calm. She ran until the only thing she felt was a residual sadness – an ache located somewhere near her lungs – to remind her of her brother.
On the homeward leg, a narrow stretch of tree-lined road with a small stile and horse fields on her right, she thought she saw something at the entrance to the house. Something small like an animal. A large dog, maybe, standing on its hind legs, looking back down the dark lane towards her. She slowed to a jog. Narrowed her eyes. Whatever it was had gone. Must have been the shadows playing tricks with her eyes. There was nothing. Just the long straight trunk of the neighbour’s eucalyptus tree at the edge of her drive.
She trotted on to the point and did a short circuit of the area, looking for anything out of the ordinary. The place was empty. The garden was silent. It was almost dark now and just a vague yellowish light came from the Oscars’ windows high in the wall.
She began to unlock the door but stopped for a moment or two, sweat streaming off her, her mind working. Then she took the key out of the door and went about two yards along the wall to a place where the wisteria hung in heavy fronds.
For years it had been the family’s habit to leave a spare door key on a nail under the wisteria. For emergencies. It was hidden behind the thickened stem so even in the winter it would only be visible to the initiated. She pulled aside the leaves and scrutinized it. It hung there just as it had for years: a little rusted, completely hidden. There was nothing different about it. She was sure. Nothing wrong. Nothing amiss.
She turned slowly, watching the stillness of the trees, the cold disc of the moon coming up, a Hallowe’en filigree of branches splayed in front of it. She thought about human feet disappearing above her in the bubbles. About Caffery: Have you ever asked yourself if we missed someone that day? When we came to the squat?
After the raid on the squat in Operation Norway, Wellard had complained he’d ‘felt watched’ when he was coming out of the building. ‘Watched’ was the word. They’d all felt it. And that night, when it was all over and she was at home, she’d had a moment of feeling something had been wrong about the arrest.
She unhooked the key from the wall, put it into her pocket and went inside. The empty hallway was cool, with just a moth battering the ceiling light. ‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Hello?’
She switched on lamps in all the downstairs rooms, went into the garage and stood for a long time staring at the shape in the bath, at the places where the plastic showed over the rim. She’d been in here before the jog. Had scooped out the water earlier and refilled the ice. Nothing had moved since. Nothing.