(1989) Dreamer (28 page)

‘Burgled? Have we been burgled? Where’s my husband?’

The policeman walked down the corridor towards her and stared at her, embarrassed. He was young, about twenty, she thought, tall and gangly. ‘Mrs Curtis?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think – er – the Inspector . . . perhaps you’d better have a word with him. Or your husband.’ He pointed down towards the living area, then backed away and walked towards her bedroom.

‘Why are you going in there?’

‘The Inspector,’ he said. ‘He’ll explain.’

‘I don’t want you going in there.’ She rested her hands on Nicky’s shoulders.

The policeman went bright red. ‘I’m afraid we have a warrant, Mrs Curtis.’

‘A what?’

‘A search warrant.’

‘What are you—’

Christ.

Was this another dream? Another nightmare? Was Slider going to come down the corridor?

A search warrant.

‘What are you looking for?’ she asked.

‘I think it would be best if you spoke to the Inspector, Madam.’

‘I want to see it.’

‘The Inspector—’

‘You’re not going in there until I’ve seen it.’ She turned to Helen. ‘Don’t let him in there.’ She knelt down and kissed Nicky. ‘One second, darling. Wait here, and don’t let that man go in my bedroom.’

‘He cut open my teddy, he did,’ Nicky sobbed.

‘I’ll cut him open,’ Sam said, glaring at the policeman and sounding as if she meant it. She stormed down the corridor, then stopped as she saw another policeman on his knees in the kitchen, peering underneath the dishwasher with a torch. Pots, pans, plates, dishes had all been pulled out of the cupboards and stacked on the work surfaces, and something snapped inside her.

‘Get out!’ she screamed. ‘Get out of my kitchen!’ She grabbed a drawer, any drawer, and yanked it out; it was full of knives and spatulas and whisks and wooden spoons and she hurled it at him. It flew across the room, showering its contents out, hit the wall above him and fell down onto his head with a hard crack, hurting him. From the way he groaned, hurting him a lot.

‘Sam.’

Richard grabbed her arm. ‘You’ve got to let them.’ He turned to the constable on the floor who was rubbing his head and staring at his finger. ‘Are you OK?’

The constable screwed up his eyes. ‘Could you get her out of here, please?’

Richard led her through the living area.

There were two men in the room. One was standing by the refectory table, in a brown suit with bell-bottom trousers and a sixties Beatle-cut hairstyle, tying up bundles of documents with red ribbon. The other was kneeling down in front of Richard’s desk, pulling more documents out of a drawer, mustard socks and white hairless legs sticking out of his grey suit trousers. He glanced over his shoulder and then stood up, a burly man who might have been a bit of a boxer ten years before, with a greedy face and eyes that bulged out slightly, giving him the expression of a well-fed frog. His suit was too small, and crumpled, and his shirt collar was loosened, his tie halfway down his chest. He
gazed at Sam in a faintly patronising way, as if he did not have to bother with her, as if she too was a child whose teddy bear he could order to be ripped open. ‘This the missus?’

Richard nodded, eyeing Sam like a cornered animal. Then he stiffened, tried to smile a reassuring everything’s-fine smile but it flashed across his face like a nervous twitch. ‘Bugs, this is Inspector – er?’

‘Milton. Like the poet. Detective Inspector Milton.’

‘Good evening,’ she said.’

‘Company Fraud Department, City of London Police.’ He jerked a thumb at the man in the brown suit. ‘Detective Sergeant Wheeler.’ Wheeler carried on binding the documents without looking round.

Fraud Department.

Sam stared, baffled for a moment.

Images flashed at her. Richard’s behaviour. His strange late hours bent over his computer screen. The money for the new house. The Rolex. The booze.

Something trickled through her, cold, unpleasant.

Detective Inspector Milton looked at her contemptuously. I could eat you for breakfast and fart you out into the pond, lady, so don’t mess with me.

‘Nice flat, Mrs Curtis,’ he said, in a snide, nasal voice. ‘I was brought up round here. My parents used to live around the corner. Couldn’t afford the rents now, of course, could they? Still, I suppose that’s progress.’

‘I want to see your ID and your warrant.’

He fished his wallet out of his pocket and opened it one-handedly in a well-worn movement, holding it up so the lady could see it clearly, read it clearly, let the lady have all the time she needs, just like the rule book says.

By the book, lady, know what I mean? Doing all this by the book. Know your types. Smart bastards. Well
we’re smarter these days, Feet may still be big, but now our brains are big too. It’s our hearts that have got smaller.

The photo showed a younger, thinner version of his face, with a startled expression and his eyes bulging even more. Then he snapped the wallet shut, put it back into his inside pocket and with the same hand, pulled out a sheet of paper which he handed to her. There was a crest on the top, several rows of formal type, their address and a signature at the bottom. R. Fenner. Magistrate. He folded it up and put it back in his pocket.

‘Perhaps you could tell me why you’re here?’

He scratched his nose with his finger. ‘I expect your husband’ll tell you later, if you ask him nicely.’ He fingered the top of Richard’s desk. ‘Beautiful furniture. Cost a few bob that desk, eh? You people make me sick, Mrs Curtis. Yuppies. You ought to be on the stage, you should. You’d be good playing the indignant wife, you know that? Bet you like spending your husband’s money for him, but your hands wouldn’t be dirty, would they? Bet your nose is clean as a whistle. Bet if I looked up your nostrils there wouldn’t be a bogey in sight. Be like looking up the barrels of a brand new Purdey.’

‘Have you rung Bob Storer?’ Sam asked Richard.

‘He’s on his way over.’ He shook a cigarette out. ‘Nothing we can do, Bugs. Just got to let them get on with it.’

She glared back at the Inspector. ‘I don’t care what bits of paper you’ve got with you. You don’t ever speak to me like that again.’ She turned to Richard. ‘Can we have a word in private?’ She walked out of the room.

Helen was standing in the hallway. ‘It’s Nicky’s bath-time. Do you think it’ll be all right if I bath him?’

‘You’d better let them check down the plughole first.’

Helen nodded, uncertain whether Sam was being funny or serious.

Sam went outside into the passageway, waited until Richard had joined her, then closed the front door. ‘What’s going on, Richard? What on earth is this all about?’

There was a clang behind her and she spun round. Ken was standing in the elevator door. ‘OK, Sam? Is everything—’

‘It’s fine. Thanks. Fine. I – I’ll see you – er—’

‘Thursday.’

She smiled thinly, watched the door slide shut and heard the clunk and whine of the elevator descending, then looked back at Richard. ‘What is it, Richard?’

‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Really.’

‘Nothing? The Fraud Squad crawling all over our flat? You can tell me, for Christ’s sake.’

‘It’s OK, Bugs.’ He tapped some ash onto the floor. ‘They’re just sniffing around, that’s all.’

‘Sniffing around?’ She stared at him. ‘What have you done?’

‘Nothing.’

‘The police don’t rip open teddy bears unless they think there’s something inside them.’

He shrugged. ‘Bit of aggro from the Surveillance Department of the Securities Association. The aftermath of Guinness, I suppose. All that insider dealing stuff. They’re still trawling their nets.’ He looked away evasively.

‘Are you mixed up in all that?’

‘No. Of course not.’ He took a deep drag on his cigarette. ‘Everyone’s jittery about insider dealing. I’ve put a few clients into a deal which happened to hit the big time and the Securities boys can’t believe it was luck.’

‘There’s more, isn’t there, Richard?’ she said. ‘There’s more to it than that.’

‘No. Not really.’

‘Are you going to be arrested?’

‘No.’ His face went bright red. His cigarette was almost down to the filter. He held it between his fingertips like a workman, dragged hard again and inhaled deeply. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

Sunday morning. She lay in bed watching Richard dress, with Nicky, warm, curled up beside her. Nicky who kept waking the last two nights and running into their room, terrified the nasty man with his big knife was going to come back. He’d slept between them, and she’d lain awake mostly, listening to his breathing and his occasional funny little whimpers, and it made her feel safe having him there.

Bastards.

Inspector Milton. Milton, like the poet. Come to take your paradise away, lady. Oh yes, I’m one smart bastard, you see. One smart bastard with a great big chip.

Wisest men

Have erred, and by bad women been deceived;

And shall again, pretend they ne’er so wise.

She glanced at the clock. 7.45.

Did you ever read him, your namesake, you great frog-eyed bastard? You smug creep who left a little boy terrified. Happy? Happy that my son’s met a real live bogeyman? Who ripped his teddy bear open with a knife? Brave. Oh so brave.

Smug. Jesus, so smug. Walking out with your cardboard boxes filled with papers, all neatly tied in red ribbon by your gawky friend in his time-warp suit.

Nicky was awake now; blinking, his eyelids making little scratching sounds against the bedclothes.

‘Bye, Bugs.’

She looked at Richard and felt his anguish. She lifted up her hand and touched his face. ‘Drive safely. When will you be back?’

‘’Bout midday,’ he said in a voice so heavy he could scarcely lift it out of his mouth. ‘Bye, Tiger.’ He ran a hand across Nicky’s head.

‘Are you going shooting, Daddy?’

‘No, Tiger.’

‘You said I could come with you today. You said we could go shooting today.’

‘We will do. This afternoon, OK?’

‘Where are you going now?’

‘I have to do some business.’

‘Can’t I come with you? Where are you going?’

London Airport. To meet Andreas. To sign some documents.

She heard the bedroom door open and close, then the front door, the scrunch of gravel, the roar of the BMW’s engine. She looked up at the ceiling, freshly plastered and painted; the builders had got that done fast enough, at least in the bedroom. They’d found rot in all the ceilings and there were ladders, planks, gaping holes, and more scaffolding up outside because they’d had to agree that the roof couldn’t be bodged any more. There’d have to be a new roof and Richard had said the money was fine, all fine. Until Milton (like the poet) had turned up on Friday.

Nicky was sleeping again and she dozed. A while later
Nicky stirred then got out of bed, but she scarcely noticed because now she was slipping into deep, tired sleep and stayed asleep until nearly ten.

When she opened her eyes and saw full daylight through a chink in the curtains she stared at it blankly, flatly, feeling limp like an old busted tyre that had run flat too long and had finally come off the rim. No energy. Wiped.

She went down to the kitchen and made some coffee. Helen came in.

‘Morning, Mrs Curtis.’

Sam smiled. ‘Sleep well?’

‘Yes. So quiet here. It’s like home.’

‘Where’s Nicky?’

‘He went outside a while ago.’

She went over to the fridge and poured out some orange juice. She sipped it and it hit her stomach harshly, acidicly, made it twinge.

‘Mummy!’

The scream sounded like the wail of a siren.

‘
Mum-mee!
’

They flung themselves out of the kitchen through the side door.

‘MUM-MEE!’

They stared around, up, down, across the fields, down towards the river.

The river?

Sam started sprinting down towards it.

‘MUM-MEE. MUM-MEE. MUM-MEE!’

She stopped dead and spun round. Above her. Up. On top of the scaffold.

A dreadful creaking sound.

Tearing, rending.

Oh my God Jesus, no. Christ, no. No. No.

Arms around the new scaffold as if he was hugging it
because he loved it and not because he knew that if he let go he would be dead.

It had come loose from the wall of the house and was swaying like a broken crane, tilting, shrieking and creaking, one way then the other, it bashed against the wall, nearly throwing him free, then swung away again, so far this time she was certain it would topple over, but instead it swung back and smashed against the wall again, harder this time, chipping chunks of brickwork away, clanging, the sound echoing down through the pipes.

Sam sprinted over to the base, tried to hold it with her hands, Helen stood beside her and tried too but they had no chance of holding it. It tilted even more over, and some of the base lifted up from the ground right beside her, then it righted again for a moment, smashing and clanging back against the wall.

Sam ran around the side, to the old scaffold that was still attached, and began to climb.

Her hand numbing on the ice cold rusted metal, she hauled herself up, ignoring the ladder up the inside of it, felt the wind blowing as she climbed and the structure vibrating.

‘
MummyMummyMummy!

I’m coming. Coming. Coming.

She felt a muscle pull in her thigh, and her hand cut on something sharp. A slipper fell away from her foot. She heard the creaking, clanging, behind her, turned, saw Nicky now only feet away, then his face was in front of hers, so close she could touch it, then he swung away out of reach. Oh Christ, no, please no . . . so far surely it was going to topple this time, then he swung back towards her.

‘Darling, give me your hand . . . here, take it, mine, that’s right, that’s right!’

She clenched her hand over his, clenched it so hard she was never going to let go again. He started pulling away from her, and she pulled harder, could feel his arm stretching. ‘Hold on, Tiger, just hold on!’

Stretching more. The pain was unbearable. He was coming loose – careful – be careful – pulling him off it.