A Poison Tree (Time, Blood and Karma Book 3) (10 page)

“You can go through,” said Dolores, reinserting the earphone.

The business office was as sparsely furnished as reception.

A
portly man with a florid face and a shock of white hair greeted me. He was dressed in a brown suit and a wide green tie with some kind of acorn motif.

“Lucien
Cumberbatch,” he said, shaking my hand.

“David Braddock.”

“Please take a seat, Mr. Braddock. I apologise for my receptionist. She’s still learning the job.”

I must have been wearing a bemused expression because he went on, “We’re having the place decorated soon.”

“Ah.”

“Well, not
that
soon. This business pays peanuts. If I didn’t have a daughter to support I’d have chucked it in ages ago and I’d be full-time painting narrow boats now. That’s my real passion. But that doesn’t pay much either.”

“
Narrow boats?
”

“Yes, you know, canal art?”

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with it.”

“Too few people are,” he sighed. “It’s a dying tradition. Only that and the
Morris dancing keeps me going since my dear wife passed away.”

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, for want of anything better
to say.

“Oh, that was ten years ago now. I think I’m over the worst. Remarkable woman, my wife. Enormous bottom but a heart of gold. She used to be a Morris dancer too, bless her.”

“Mr. Cumberbatch, this
is
a private investigations firm, correct?”

He assumed a serious expression.

“Of course,” he replied. “Best in the city. Don’t be put off by appearances. Excuse my waffling, Mr. Braddock. I don’t see many people during the day so I tend to talk a lot when I eventually get a client. I’m afraid I suffer a bit from verbal diarrhoea. It’s been like that since school, where I was always trying to think of something to say to stop myself getting beaten up. With a name like Lucien Cumberbatch at a comprehensive school, well, you can imagine. Mind you, the bullying wasn’t half as bad for me as it was for my brother, Shirley.”

“Mr
. Cumberbatch –”

“Did I mention that D
olores, whom you met in reception, is my daughter? Skinny little thing, I can’t think where she gets it from. I’ve thought it could be from her great-uncle Silas’ side of the family. He was a human skeleton in a carnival freak show, until he started to put on weight. Dolores has hopes of being a makeup artist, but between you and me, I don’t think there’s much chance. I’m pinning my faith on her boyfriend, Sid. He’s a carpenter. Good, steady work. The world will always need chippies, in my opinion. Would you like a drink?”

“A coffee would be good,” I said, hoping the tirade was over. “Black. And strong.”

“I do have something a bit stronger than coffee,” he grinned, reaching into a drawer of his desk and producing a bottle of whisky and two glasses.

“It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it?”

“Every private detective, no matter how humble, should have a bottle of Bells in his office,” he replied, splashing whisky in the two glasses. “It makes me feel a
little
like Humphrey Bogart. No ice, I’m afraid. The fridge has packed up. Cheers.”

He grimaced as he swallowed, then looked at me.

“Confidentially, Mr. Braddock, I hate the stuff, but it’s good for the image. I once tried filling a bottle with Lipton Iced Tea, but it’s not the same. The client needs to smell the alcohol. Don’t you want yours?”

I raised the glass and downed it in one.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

“I rather doubt that, Mr
. Cumberbatch.”

“
Don’t worry, I’m always dry when I work. And I do get results, trust me. Hard not to. This is an easy job, really. Following folks, taking pictures, making a few notes. A trained monkey could do it. Even you could do it. Whoops, that didn’t come out right. No offence.”

“None taken.”

He put the whisky and the two glasses back in the drawer and picked up a pen.

“So, Mr
. Braddock. What can I do for you?”

I considered getting up and leaving. My marriage was going down the tubes and I was thinking of entrusting my problem
s to this clown.

“Maybe this was a mistake, my coming here,” I said
.

Cumberbatch
held up a hand and took a deep breath.

“It’s the nerves, you see. I’m sorry, Mr
. Braddock, it’s the nerves.”

His boisterous demeanour
evaporated. His voice became quiet and slow.

“I’ve been in this business for over thirty years. It’s a long time. I’ve seen so many clients with failing marriages. It gets to you after a while. So I try to keep things upbeat, at least at the start. It’s a self-protection thing.”

“I see.”

“So now that I’ve taken a deep breath, why don’t you take one, then tell me why you’re here?”

I followed his advice.

I told him about my suspicions, about the phone calls and
the anonymous notes. He listened with patience, enquired diplomatically why I had not contacted the police about the poison pen, and looked understanding when I explained. I gave him photographs of Claire and of Jack taken from our family scrapbook and he jotted down details, addresses and dates.

Cumberbatch
would perform some discreet surveillance over the next few weeks. Then he would take a train to London and see what transpired at the Imperial Hotel.

I felt strangely reassured. God alone knew why.

I shook hands with the odd little man and signalled goodbye to his daughter.

As
I left Cumberbatch’s office, I saw the rain had stopped and a bright grey light was filtering through the clouds. Over the skyline of the city, a rainbow shimmered.

My fanciful mind
, tripping for a moment on mythology, thought that maybe it was Bifröst, the rainbow bridge between Asgard and the world of men. The more logical Braddock, however, asserted that it was a meteorological phenomenon, the result of light hitting water droplets in the atmosphere: a much more mundane and less romantic notion.

The
rational Braddock also insisted this was no time for misplaced sentiment and, moreover, dreams were for fools and madmen.

I stood in a doorway and smoked a Marlboro. Then I smoked another.

When I next looked, the rainbow had gone.

Perhaps there
comes a point in everyone’s life when we have to shoulder aside our nobler feelings and face an unkinder truth; when our romantic ideals wither and, like the Norse gods, discover it is time to die.

13

ADELE

Adele sat in the back room of the Gold Club, drinking tea from a chipped mug while Leona lit a cigarette from the stub of her last one.

Nina was off work with flu. The new girl, Samantha, was the only one with a customer. It was a slow day.

Samantha was half-Italian, nineteen and dumb as a stone but she had long black hair and great legs. She was therefore the natural first choice for most of the club’s patrons. Intelligent conversation wasn’t that high up their list of desirable attributes. It fell well below enthusiasm and physical flexibility.

Leona
readjusted her skirt and said, “Did Nina tell you she once had a client drop dead on her of a heart attack?”

“Christ, no.”

“The good news was that she was on top at the time, but the bad news was they were in the back of his car. She’s not been able to look at a silver BMW since without having flashbacks.”

Adele giggled and almost spat out a mouthful of tea. “Is that a true story?”

“As true as they come. She said they were parked up behind the big TESCO store in Nottingham. It’s a rather popular location after midnight.”

“What did she do?”

“She called a taxi. What else? She couldn’t very well drive his car home with a stiff in the back seat, could she? There are sodding CCTV cameras all over the place in Nottingham.

“When they found him the next morning it caused a bit of a stir. It was all over the
local papers. I told Nina she could at least have put the poor man’s cock away.”

The women heard the thud of feet on wooden floorboards above them.

“Sounds like Sam’s finished,” said Adele.

“Uh-huh,” muttered
Leona, blowing smoke towards the ceiling. “So,” she went on, “what do you do when you’re not working, Adele?”

“Work some more elsewhere.”

“I know that feeling. I was studying property law last night. I fucking hate it. I’m never going to pass these exams.”

M
iss Connie put her head around the door.

“
Leona, you have a customer. It’s the Irish gentleman.”

“Right,” she replied, stubbing out her cigarette. “Mick’s a non-smoker. Better
give my teeth a scrub and gargle with some mouthwash. Back to the grind. See you in an hour, unless you get lucky.”

The wall clock showed it was coming up to three twenty
in the afternoon.

Adele told Miss Connie she was going out into the back yard for a smoke, then took one of
Leona’s cigarettes and her lighter. She didn’t normally smoke, but she needed
something
before she phoned her mother.

She’d been putting off calling for days. The conversations always depressed her.

The back yard was high-walled and half-full of rusting junk. It hadn’t been swept in months. Adele found a rickety stool, sat down, lit up and felt the burn in her throat. She shivered a little despite the afternoon sunshine. Then she pressed the buttons on her cell phone.

“I was wondering when you were finally going to call.” The Glaswegian accent was slurred, as usual. By this time in the afternoon her mother would have got through at least half a bottle of spirits. Rum, vodka, whisky. It didn’t matter much to her what it was. Whatever was selling cheapest at the off-licence on the
corner.

“Hello,
Mam. How are you?”

Adele knew the answer to that question. It was always the same, a litany of complaints about the neighbours, about her health, about anything and everything and everybody. She could see her mother in her chair, an overflowing ashtray perched on the arm and a glass of spirits within easy reach. She could visualise the dusty council flat, the damp seeping through the wallpaper, the stained carpet and the grey net curtains hanging
, lopsided, at the window.

Flora Darrow was a bitter and disappointed woman.

Her first husband, Declan Gallagher, a merchant seaman, had been killed in a bar fight in Port Swettenham, in Malaysia – or the Federation of Malaya, as it was then. Years of financial struggle trying to bring up their son, Ross, followed. The bad days appeared to have ended when Flora met and married Malcolm Darrow.

At first the marriage had been happy. Darrow was a welder at the Govan shipyard, rarely drank and was sensible with money.
What was more, he took his duties as stepfather to the boy seriously. Within two years, Flora was pregnant with Adele (or
Adaira
, as she was christened).

But
when Adele was twelve years old, everything changed again for Flora. Darrow started seeing another woman. He moved to Aberdeen to work on the oil rigs and took his new love with him. Although he continued to send money to the family in Glasgow, and there was no divorce, neither Flora nor Adele ever saw or spoke to him again.

It was then that Flora Darrow began her slow decline into alcoholism.

Adele’s half-brother Ross was by this time in the army and the money he sent home supplemented Darrow’s remittances. It kept the family with a roof over their heads and food on the table, just about.

Despite being a bright girl, Adele left school at sixteen and worked at a number of menial, badly-paying jobs until she discovered she was pregnant by a casual boyfriend. Then her world started to fall apart in earnest.

“Did you hear what I said, Adele?”

“Yes,
Mam. You want me to send you some money.”

“You know I don’t like to ask, pet, but that good-for-nothing brother of yours
never sends me anything.”

Adele knew that was
n’t true, but she couldn’t be bothered to argue. She was desensitised after years of her mother trying to play off her children against one another, and usually found it convenient to bite her tongue. What the older woman did not realise was that Adele and Ross did communicate about her and compared notes. They had agreed to keep their mother in the dark about this so as not to fuel Flora Darrow’s inclination to play the victim card.

Once she had listened to more complaints about the state of
her mother’s knees, Adele could finally hang up. She felt drained of energy and wished she’d taken two of Leona’s cigarettes, instead of just one.

She hoped she wouldn’t get any weirdo customers today. She wasn’t up to it.

The week passed quietly for Adele.

As usual for the English summer, the weather was changeable. The customers at the discount store for the most part presented faces of habituated disillusionment and grumbled that prices were going up. It was a treat when she received a smile or a thank you. She was usually invisible: it was the lot of the check-out girl.

Adele wondered what, if any, changes the Millennium would bring.
None, in all probability. Life just went on until the day it didn’t.

On the Saturday morning she found herself doing shopping in the city centre
. It was her normal routine before her afternoon shift at the Gold Club.

“Good morning.”

The friendly greeting took Adele by surprise. She turned to see a young man with sandy-coloured hair dressed as a vicar and holding out a cupcake.

“Can I give you something to ruin your teeth?” he said.

Recovering herself, Adele saw the man was standing at a church stall, along with three middle-aged ladies. She had never noticed the stall before. A red and gold banner was strung overhead announcing ‘Christ Has Risen’.

“Is this new?” she said, before realising how stupid that must sound.

“Yes,” replied the man. “Our church attendances have been falling recently, so we’re trying a new approach, luring people in with the promise of cupcakes. If that fails, we’re going to resort to kidnapping.”

“So you’re a real vicar?”

“It seems that way. Don’t I look like a vicar? I’ve got the collar and everything.” He grinned.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that you look so –”

“Young?” he sighed. ”Yes, I get a lot of that.”

“I was going to say,
sexy
.”

It was the vicar’s turn to look flustered. Adele noticed one of the women throw a disapproving look in her direction.

“Well, in that case perhaps you should have two cupcakes. They are delicious. Eleanor here made them. She’s a whiz in the kitchen.” He indicated the sour-faced woman who was still glowering at Adele.

“I’m sure they are. But I’ll just take one. I’m watching my weight. Thank you, vicar.”

“It’s ‘Simon’, not ‘vicar’. ‘Vicar’ sounds so … unsexy.”

They both laughed, and he handed her a leaflet.

“Come and join us on Sunday,” he said. “I need some constructive feedback on my sermons. Maybe that’s what’s driving folks away by the busload. We don’t bite and you get free tea. You’ll find us at St. Mark’s, just off Northgate Street. You can’t miss it. It’s the sullied monstrosity of a building that looks like it should be in some creepy vampire movie.”

“You make it sound very appealing, but I’m not a churchgoer, Simon.”

“You’re Scottish, right?”

“A good guess.” She
laughed.

“Well, we’re not exactly a Scottish kirk, but at least you won’t have to listen to any fire-and-brimstone stuff.”

“You must be way down on your quota for saving souls this month to be resorting to these tactics.”

“I am. I’m desperate. Come.”

He has nice eyes.

She pushed the leaflet into her bag. “I’ll think about it.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.
I’m Adele, by the way.”

“I’m delighted to meet you, Adele.”

He shook her hand.

That night Adele tossed and turned.

Something in Simon’s kind manner had triggered a
realisation that she was in deep isolation. How else could a few polite words from a stranger have touched her so? The chance encounter had unsettled her, infiltrating her carefully-constructed emotional armour. The human contact she had assiduously avoided for the past two years all at once presented itself in an unexpected fashion.

Adele was used to being alone, indeed she regarded it as her natural state. She was
not, by temperament, outgoing. Solitude was comforting, it fitted her like an old shoe. Her own company was safe: nothing could hurt her.

What Adele was
not used to, was feeling
lonely
.

She had gone through her Saturday shift at
the Gold Club on automatic. On several occasions Leona had asked her, “Are you with us today, love?” Adele responded by making some general reference to it being a tiring week.

When the glow of dawn began to filter through the curtains, she gave up the futile attempt at sleep. She showered and made breakfast.

Sunday morning.

Adele chewed
without enthusiasm on a slice of toast and looked at the clock. It was only just after seven.

She rummaged in her bag until she found the pamphlet Simon had given her the previous day.

“Fuck it,” she said out loud. “Why not?”

St. Mark’s was easy to find, within ten minutes’ walk of her apartment. It was more or less on the way to the Gold Club, as fate would have it.

As Adele approached the begrimed exterior of the church, she felt her courage ebbing away with each step.

This is insane.
What the hell am I doing?

Yet she kept walking until she reached the door
where Simon was greeting the faithful. She took a deep breath and, hoping her dress was demure enough and her makeup aptly discreet, stepped forward.

“Adele! How wonderful to see you!” Simon sounded genuinely happy.

“Well, I couldn’t face vacuuming my flat this morning, so here I am.”

“Dust gives a place character, anyway,” he responded with a twinkle. “As you will see inside.”

The interior of St. Mark’s was indeed gloomy. The day’s light struggled to penetrate the stained glass windows, and the lighted candles and suspended bulbs made little difference. A large statue of the crucified Christ drew the girl’s eyes. He looked sad, hanging from the tree, and infinitely desolate. Above his head was nailed the sign ‘INRI’
–  Iēsus Nazarēnus, Rēx Iūdaeōrum
– ‘Jesus the Nazarene, King of the Jews’.

Even God is alone
.

Adele sat
down at one of the dark wood pews towards the back. She estimated there were about fifty people in the church, mainly old or middle-aged, although she spotted three young families with fidgeting children. She could see the profile of the sour-faced Eleanor a few rows in front of her. She was sitting about half-way back with two other women.

The husband, if she has one, is
not a churchgoer
.

Eleanor caught sight of her and gave a brief, loveless
glance before turning her face away.