I couldn’t help believing him. He’d been so honest about the other stuff, and that painted him in a far worse light. Besides, he was completely off-hand on the subject. I’d begun to realize that Freddie Littlewood was intense about the things at the heart of his life. Anything else was insignificant. “Did you make her take some of the money too?” I asked.
“I tried. But she wouldn’t cash the checks. I even paid cash into her bank account once. The next week, she gave me a receipt from Save the Children for the exact same amount.”
It would have been so simple if I could have persuaded myself Freddie had killed his mother. All the pieces were there; a racket selling stories to the press that worked primarily because their relationship remained secret; a falling out among thieves, aggravated by the emotional charge of their relationship; a spur of the moment act of shocking violence. The only problem was that it wasn’t true. And if I gave Cliff Jackson the pieces, he’d force them to fit the pattern his closed mind would impose.
But if it wasn’t Freddie, who else? Who else would benefit from
“I know I wasn’t,” he said decisively. “When I told her I was going to start selling the stories to the papers, she said that if I needed money, all I had to do was ask. She said that as soon as she’d satisfied herself that I really was her son, she’d changed her will in my favor. She said I might as well have the money now, while she was still alive and we could enjoy it together. I told her I didn’t want her money, that wasn’t the point. I wasn’t selling the stories to make a few bob. I was doing it to hurt her. The money was just a bonus. She told me if I went ahead with it, she’d change her will back again and leave all her money to mental health charities.”
“I bet she didn’t do it,” I said.
He moved his head almost imperceptibly from side to side, rubbing his thumb along his jaw again. “You didn’t know Dorothea. The week after the first story was published, she sent me a photocopy of her new will. Dated, signed, witnessed. Apart from a few small legacies to friends, everything she owns goes to charity.”
“It could have been a bluff. She might also have made a second will leaving it all to you.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. If she had, I think the police would have been round. Either that or the solicitor would have been on the phone. No, she meant it. I don’t mind, you know. I’ve never expected anything good from life. That way, you’re not disappointed.” Freddie pushed his chair back, the legs squeaking on the parquet floor. He looked down anxiously, checking the polished surface wasn’t scarred.
I stood up. “I’m sorry,” I said.
His wary look was back. “Why? I wasn’t part of her life. I don’t know who her friends were outside Northerners. I don’t even know if she had any lovers.” He sighed. “In all the ways that count, we were strangers, Kate.” It was the first time he’d used my name.
I followed him to the door. As we emerged into the hall, a woman was coming downstairs wrapped in a fluffy toweling
I took my cue from Freddie and grinned inanely at the woman who continued down the stairs and gave me a trusting smile. She had a disturbing resemblance to Thumper the rabbit but with none of his street smarts. “Hello and goodbye, Stacey,” I said, noticing that she looked a good ten years younger than Freddie.
“Maybe see you another time, eh?” she said, standing back to let me reach the front door.
“Maybe,” I lied, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. I turned the knob on the lock and let the night in. “See you, Freddie.”
“Thanks, Kate.”
I looked back once, as I turned out of the gate. His slim frame was silhouetted dark against the light spilling out of the hallway, Stacey a white blob beside him. I didn’t fancy her job one little bit.
My stomach hurt. Not because of the nagging sense of failure but because it was a very long time since I’d last eaten. I stopped at the first chippie I came to and sat in the car eating very fishy cod and soggy chips, watching tiny stutters of snow struggling to turn into a blizzard. They were getting nowhere fast, just like me. So far, I had no idea who’d been sending hate mail to Gloria Kendal, or why. I had no idea who had killed Dorothea Dawson, or why, or whether they posed a threat to Gloria or anybody else. I couldn’t even clear my sort-of other client, Ross Grant, because the only mole I could substitute for him in Turpin’s firing line was someone who had even more to lose. My assistant had been arrested more times than I’d had hot dinners all week, my computer specialist was in love with somebody who might not even exist and one of my best friends was in jail.
It was just as well none of the women’s magazines were
I scrunched up the chip papers and tossed them into the passenger footwell. I hoped I’d remember to dump them when I got home, otherwise the car would smell of fish and vinegar until the first sunroof day of spring. Home seemed even less appetizing, somehow. The idea of an empty house and an empty bed felt too much like film noir for my taste.
I had a reasonably good idea where Richard might have gone. Since he’d planned a romantic night in, he wouldn’t have made any plans to listen to a live band. That meant he’d have chosen somewhere he could sit in a corner with a beer and a joint and listen to techno music so loud it would make his vertebrae do the cha-cha. I knew he wouldn’t have ventured further afield than the city center when the roads were so treacherous and there was no one to drive him home. There were only a couple of places that fitted the bill.
I gave the matter careful thought. Frash was the most likely. He’d been raving about the new midweek DJ there. The way my luck was running, that meant he was almost certainly not grooving in Frash. It had to be the O-Pit, a renovated die-cast works down by the canal that still smelled of iron filings and grease. To add insult to injury, there was a queue and I didn’t have enough energy left to jump it. I leaned against the spalled brickwork, shoulders hunched, hands stuffed deep into my pockets. I might not be dressed for the club, but I was the only one in the queue who stood a chance against hypothermia. Eventually, I made it inside.
It was wall to wall kids, fuelled with whizz and E, pale faces gleaming with sweat, clothes sticking to them so tight they appeared to be wearing body paint. I could spot the dealers, tense eyes never still, always at the heart of a tight little knot of punters. Nobody was paying them any mind, least of all the bar staff who could barely keep pace with the constant demand for carbonated pop.
I found Richard where I’d expected, in the acoustic center of the club, the point where the music could be heard at maximum quality and volume. Unlike the dancers, he went for the drug that
I moved into his line of vision and tried an apologetic smile. Instead of a bollocking, he gave me that slow, cute smile that had first reeled me in, then drew me into his arms and gently kissed the top of my head. “I love you, Brannigan,” he shouted.
Nobody but me heard. “Let’s go home,” he yelled in my ear.
I shook my head and took a long swig of his beer, leading him to the dance floor. Sometimes sex just isn’t enough.
Chapter 19
NEPTUNE IN SCORPIO IN THE 6TH HOUSE
She loves research and investigation, particularly if it is done secretly. She uses her discoveries to assert her power in the workplace. She is subtle, fascinated by secrets and their revelation and loves to expose hidden wickedness, especially if they feed her sense of social justice.