Babel (2 page)

She was pleased to see a couple of other women in the group, Dot, chuckling much more freely than usual, and Bren’s wife Deanne. They were going up west for a celebration dinner, Deanne explained, their two girls in the care of a baby-sitter.

‘And you, Kathy, are you really fit again? Bren told me what happened and I couldn’t believe it, the things that happen to you!’

The phrase made her sound like a freak, she thought, as if she collected trouble like an eccentric hobby. ‘I’m fine,’ she said brightly, taking a large scotch. ‘All patched up and ready to go again. No problems. And how are the girls?’

While she half listened she was aware of Brock examining her. Later he drew her aside and asked how her afternoon session had gone.

‘It’s a waste of time,’ she said, forcing confidence into her voice. ‘I’ve got over the shock and there’s not a lot you can really say, is there? The shoulder’s OK. I’ve been swimming and going to the gym. I’m ready to come back, Brock.’

He tilted his head, doubtful. ‘Sleeping all right?’

‘Yes, fine,’ she lied, and wondered if it showed. Deanne had done a strange little double take when she’d first caught sight of her, as if surprised at Kathy’s appearance. ‘And I’m going spare sitting around at home.’

‘Suzanne wanted you to stay longer in Battle, you know.’

‘She was very kind.’ More than that. After the hospital had released her Brock had taken her to stay with his friend Suzanne Chambers near the Sussex coast, and for a week between Christmas and New Year she had rested there, cocooned in medication and domesticity, distracted by Suzanne’s two young grandchildren who lived with her. Apart from anything else, it was an extraordinary gesture on Brock’s part, since he had managed to keep his mysterious woman friend private from his work colleagues until then.

After another whisky Kathy began to relax. The laughter was getting louder, the jokes about Bren’s new status more facetious. He stood with his arm round his wife’s shoulder complacently recounting one last joke before they had to leave. He reached the punch line, which was received with more hilarity than it really deserved, and then Deanne said that he had something else to announce, and nudged him in the ribs when he became coy. Someone called out, ‘Come on, Bren! Tell us yer secret,’ and he blushed happily and confessed that Deanne was expecting again, their third, another girl according to the tests. Everyone clapped, Brock at his most avuncular as he shook Bren’s hand and kissed Deanne’s cheek. Kathy cheered with the rest of them, and thought of how Bren had managed to hold all the parts of his life together and how empty her flat was now that Leon was gone.

As the party began to break up, Kathy headed for the toilets. A sign warned her of building work beyond the door. She opened it and found herself in a corridor of bare concrete block walls and harsh fluorescent lighting. The door banged shut behind her and the world of laughter and raised voices was abruptly cut off. The air was pungent with the smells of raw concrete and urine. Suddenly she was in that other room again. Panic, uncontrollable panic, choked her as the walls began to close in around her, crushing, and she knew that he was close and soon would come for her again.

Kathy began to stumble towards the door at the far end of the corridor, concentrating on the Fire Exit notice. She threw herself against it and it gave. She heard a cry behind her and stumbled on, out into a yard. The air was cold here but the smells just as strong inside her head. An intensely bright light shone into her eyes across the darkness. She blinked blindly at it and then it was broken by a shape, a dark silhouette, striding into the light. Her breath caught in her throat as the dark shape filled her vision.

‘Is she all right?’

She heard the words dimly, then blinked open her eyes. She was on the ground, two people bending over her, their breath steaming in the cold air.

‘Kathy?’ Dot’s voice roused her. ‘Kathy?’

The black sea heaved and crashed against the piles of the old pier as if aware that the structure had been abandoned, its great days gone, its stability in doubt, its entrance sealed by order of the borough engineer. Kathy turned away from the rail and continued her walk, the collar of her coat up against the north wind at her back, her short blonde hair whipping about her cheeks. There was a bright shimmer out on the eastern horizon, as if the sun were shining on the French coast and might, perhaps, edge its way towards England. Little chance of that, she decided, looking up at the weight of dark cloud looming overhead.

She came to a pedestrian crossing controlled by traffic lights. An elderly couple, faces barely visible between hats and scarves, was waiting patiently at the opposite kerb for the signal to turn green. The road was deserted, not a vehicle in sight. The sight struck Kathy as very sad. She put her head down and marched across the street, aware of the disapproving stare from the old man.

She reached the café and stepped in out of the wind. The place was empty, and she collected a cup of tea from the counter and took a seat at the front window, easing out of her coat. Someone had left a newspaper at the next table, and she reached across to pick it up and glanced idly at the front page, then looked again, transfixed. A picture of a man in a bulky black coat, cropped grey hair and beard, the familiar face staring sombrely at something away to his left, other men in black crowding round him. Brock and the team. The caption read, ‘DCI Brock of Scotland Yard’s élite Serious Crimes Branch, who leads the hunt for the killer’.

Kathy’s eye went across to the headline, which filled most of the remainder of the page, leaving room only for the opening words of the story:

CAMPUS SLAYING

One of Britain’s most respected academics was gunned down on the steps of his university yesterday in an execution-style killing. Philosophy Professor Max Springer, 66, was shot dead

Shot dead. And suddenly Kathy could taste the fumes at the back of her throat and feel the bile rise. She looked quickly away out of the window, fixing her attention on the bright patch of sky on the horizon. Take your time, take your time. She breathed deeply, clammy with sweat, until the panic passed.

When she turned round, she saw Suzanne standing at the counter. She went over to join her.

‘Oh, Kathy, hello. I thought that was you. How was your walk?’ Suzanne looked more closely at her. Brisk and to the point as always, she said, ‘Doesn’t seem to have done much for your colour. You look terrible. Are you feeling all right?’

‘I’m fine.’

As they approached the table by the window, Kathy saw a look of consternation pass very briefly across Suzanne’s face as she noticed the newspaper lying by Kathy’s cup. It struck her that Suzanne had already seen the story, the picture of Brock, and also that she had deliberately kept it from her. Now she came to think about it, there had been no papers at breakfast that morning. She wondered what Suzanne would do now. They sat facing one another across the table, the newspaper lying between them. Kathy said nothing.

Suzanne sipped her coffee, then placed the cup carefully in its saucer and said, ‘Not a very good picture of him, is it?’

‘You’ve seen this already, have you?’ Kathy didn’t like the interrogator’s tone in her voice, but couldn’t help herself.

‘David phoned last night and told me about it.’ Suzanne was the only one who called Brock David, and sometimes it seemed to Kathy as if they were talking about two different men, Suzanne’s younger and more in need of guidance than the other. ‘I think he was preparing the ground in case he has to cancel this weekend. Sounds as if this may be a big case. Do you think?’

Kathy thought she detected relief in Suzanne’s voice, and realised that it wouldn’t have been her style to deceive her. Brock then—he must have asked her to do it. She wondered again whether coming back to stay with Suzanne had been such a good idea, although at the time she’d been in little shape to argue with Brock.

‘I don’t know. I only just picked the paper up from the next table. I didn’t get past the front page. Is it someone famous?’ Her mind began to run along familiar lines—a stalker, a Yardie killing, a breakaway Irish group.

‘Well, they say he was, but I’ve never heard of him. A philosopher, for goodness’ sake, and I don’t think he’s ever been on TV. To be honest, if someone asked me to name a famous living philosopher, I’d be hard put to get past a couple of French names, wouldn’t you?’

‘Why did Brock not want me to see it?’

‘Why do you think? I told him he was daft. He just wants you to forget about work while you’re on leave.’

‘Does he think I’m that fragile?’ Kathy found herself curiously alarmed by the idea that Brock would think it necessary to hide newspapers from her.

Suzanne considered this. ‘I don’t think it’s
that
, exactly. More that he thought you might be tempted to go rushing back to London and try to get involved, when you should be having a complete break.’

‘No,’ Kathy shook her head firmly, trying to sound as if she meant it. It was the first time she’d had to say this aloud, and her words sounded false. ‘I’m not tempted.’

Kathy felt Suzanne’s questioning eyes on her and felt compelled to say more. ‘In fact, I’m beginning to think that I may not go back at all.’

‘What . . . leave the police?’ Suzanne frowned doubtfully.

‘Yes.’

Suzanne hesitated, then spoke quietly. ‘David only gave me an outline of what happened to you on Christmas Eve. But I know he’s concerned that you must have enough time to get over it. Don’t you think you should wait before you make any decisions?’

‘Starting a new case, like Brock’s doing at the moment, it’s like . . .’ Kathy struggled for the image that was in the back of her mind, ‘. . . like standing on the edge of a deep, dark pool, having to dive in, and knowing that beneath the surface is this awful mess, everything tangled up, everything tied to everything else with lies and fear and greed, and it’s your job to untangle it and sort it all out. I mean, why would you want to bother?’

‘Well, if you feel like that, no, I suppose you wouldn’t . . . Is there something else you’d rather do?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that. I’ve been thinking how nice it must be to do something that isn’t so . . . so claustrophobic and intense. Something that brightens people’s lives, where they’re pleased to see you instead of looking guilty or belligerent when they find out what you do. Something light and cheerful.’

‘And well paid, of course. And with lots of opportunities to meet eligible members of the opposite sex in friendly and relaxed settings.’

‘Yes,’ Kathy grinned ruefully. ‘That too. Definitely that.’

‘Well, go on then. I’m all ears. What is it?’

‘I don’t know . . .’ She fixed her attention on her teaspoon, stirring hard, wishing they hadn’t got onto this.

‘No ideas at all?’

‘Well, I thought, maybe something to do with travel. A travel agent or a courier. Something like that.’

Kathy stared out of the window. On the far pavement the couple at the pedestrian crossing were on the return leg of their walk, the wind now at their backs and threatening to blow them off their feet.

‘I feel I’m running out of time, Suzanne. Why should I waste any more of it trying to clear up the messes that other people make? Do you think that’s stupid?’

‘No, I don’t. I don’t think that at all.’ Suzanne seemed to struggle with her reply, and Kathy wondered if there was another level to this conversation, as if it reflected in some way on Suzanne’s own relationship with Brock, which Kathy had found hard to fathom.

‘I think what you say is very sensible. When I hear some of the things that you and David and the others have to do, well, I couldn’t do it. And I know that you’ve had some terrible experiences, especially this last time, and if I’d been through anything like that my reaction would be the same, I’m sure, to run a mile. Only . . .’ She hesitated, as if struggling to force herself to be objective.

‘What?’

‘Well, I think it is important to understand yourself, and what you have a talent for. Like, I have a talent for what I do—I’m not boasting, I’m just saying it as a fact. I have an eye for old things, I can recognise the good stuff, and I enjoy discovering it and restoring it and then selling it to people who trust my judgement. I’ve known this since I was a girl, going out with my father to junk shops and flea markets. But for years I ignored it and did work that I was competent at, but that didn’t really use my particular talent, because I didn’t especially value it. And in the end that made me unhappy and dissatisfied.

‘You ask why you would want to do police work, and I suppose the answer is, because you have a special talent for it. I know that because David’s told me, and he knows. And I believe that a talent like that is something you have to recognise somehow. You don’t choose it, it just is, and it may be a curse. That doesn’t mean that there may not be lots of other fields where your talent can flourish just as well as police work. I don’t know, but I do think you have to bear it in mind when you’re thinking what you should do with your life.

‘Sorry. That sounded like a sermon. Have you had anything to do with the travel business before?’

‘Not a thing.’

‘I know one or two people. A friend of mine runs a travel agency here in Hastings. Suppose I ask her if you could talk to her, maybe work with her for a few days to get the feel of it?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, Suzanne. I appreciate it, but I don’t want to involve you in all this.’

‘You mean you don’t want me reporting on you to David? I promise. He won’t hear about it from me.’

Kathy appreciated the other woman’s concern, but didn’t tell her that she’d got it wrong. It wasn’t her talent she was worried about, but something altogether more critical. She thought of Bren in the pub, that last time she’d seen them all, and how utterly reliable he had appeared to her. That was what had gone, her reliability. She had lost her nerve, and without it she was as useless to them as a spent battery. They got up to leave, and Kathy glanced again at the photo of Brock in the paper, wondering what it was that had attracted his attention away to the left.