Bone and Cane (18 page)

‘But you don’t think that, do you?’ Phil said.

‘What? Sorry, I was lost in thought.’

‘You don’t think Ed killed Terry and Liv?’

‘I don’t know what I believe any more,’ Sarah confessed. ‘What do you think happened?’

‘I reckon the police got the right man in the first place, but the evidence weren’t strong enough.’

‘The appeal court threw out the conviction because there was reasonable doubt,’ Sarah said.

‘Does that mean you agree with me, that Ed did it?’

‘Probably,’ Sarah said, admitting it to herself for the first time. ‘I couldn’t say so in public but if you asked me off the record, after what you’ve told me, I’d have to say yes. Yes, I think he killed them both.’

It had been two days, but Nick still couldn’t get his head around finding Polly with Ed Clark. Her being with him made no sense. He couldn’t leave things the way they were. Late afternoon he cycled to the cab office, where Nas was alone behind the switch.

‘When’s Ed driving today?’ he asked.

‘He finishes at six,’ Nas replied, without looking up.

Something in her voice prevented him from hurrying off.

‘Are you all right?

When she looked up, he saw that she had been crying.

‘What happened? Is it to do with you and Joe?’

‘You know about that?’

He nodded, because she had just confirmed his suspicions.

‘Joe told me you used to go out with a Muslim girl. You know what our men are like.’

Nick was alarmed. ‘Your brothers? Have they hurt Joe?’

‘Not Joe, no. He’s on his way over, to pick me up when my shift ends. Better maybe, if you’re not here.’

Perturbed, Nick left. Had Nas’s brothers hurt her? He wanted to do more, but she had told him to go and, whatever this was, it was Joe’s mess, not his. Moreoever, Nick had to see Polly before Ed’s shift finished. Less than an hour’s time.

Nick still had Joe’s bike, so he cycled to New Basford. There was no reply when he knocked. Polly had never given him a key, so he couldn’t go in and wait. Maybe it was best to leave it, Nick decided. He’d no idea what he would have said. He cycled off.

Nick was fifty yards away when a taxi turned onto the street. Nick glanced round. It was Ed’s car, with Polly in the front seat. Nick, not spoiling for a fight, swerved into the ginnel that ran between two of the terraced houses. Ed wouldn’t see him. Taxi drivers never noticed cyclists. Nick waited until Ed had helped Polly get her shopping bags out and driven off. Polly let herself into the house. As soon as she was inside, Nick cycled back.

The door was still ajar, two shopping bags in the small hallway. Nick lifted his bike over the step. Polly, fag in hand, returned for the remaining bags. Seeing him, her calm demeanour changed.

‘What the fuck do you want?’ she spat.

‘I’ll only stay five minutes,’ Nick said. ‘We couldn’t talk last time.’

Polly was shrill. ‘Have you been waiting for me to come home?’

‘No. I was just leaving when Ed dropped you off.’

Polly’s voice became high-pitched in a way he’d never heard it before. ‘Because if you’re stalking me, God help you, I’ll call him. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of Ed.’

Nick waited a moment before replying. This wasn’t the Polly he’d built up in his mind before he found her with Ed – not the vulnerable, working-class woman who was, if anything, too good for him.

‘I know what Ed’s capable of,’ Nick said. ‘And I know we’ve finished. But I have to know: why Ed? What possible reason can you have to sleep with the bloke who killed your brother, your sister-in-law?’

‘You wouldn’t understand,’ Polly said. Her voice was numb, estranged, yet contained the ghost of the woman he’d made love with. They were still standing in the hall, with Polly blocking the door to the living room. Nick tried to recall what he’d first seen in her, why he got involved. In Nick’s old world, they would never have met. Yet he’d felt close to her.

‘Why?’ he repeated.

‘Turns out Sarah Bone was right. Ed didn’t do it.’

‘How can you be sure?’ Nick asked.

‘Because he told me who did.’

‘Who?’

‘None of your fucking business.’

‘Okay, so you believe him,’ Nick said. ‘But I still don’t see why you’re sleeping with him.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with you. You and me were going nowhere. We were only using each other for sex, right?’

Nick’s feelings were more complicated than that. He didn’t reply. Polly continued.

‘Ed doesn’t want me to see you any more.’

She didn’t sound at all convincing. She didn’t even sound as though she had half convinced herself. Nick wanted to help, but had no idea how to. ‘I’m worried what you’re getting into, that’s all,’ he said.

‘Don’t be.’ Polly’s voice softened. ‘I’ve known Ed for a long, long time. We had a thing, before Terry was killed, when my marriage was on the rocks. We had a misunderstanding, but it’s sorted. Now please go.’

22

S
arah managed an hour’s catch-up sleep when she got in from canvassing then freshened up with a shower before making dinner. When they lived together, Nick did all the cooking. He wouldn’t expect much.

Sarah prepared lamb kebabs, one of her few fancy dishes, from a Delia Smith book, a pointed birthday present from her mother. Best end neck of lamb, minced and blended with cashews, coriander, some chilli and a little egg white to bind the mix. The only tricky bit was cooking them on a kebab, where they were liable to fall apart. Sarah got around this by shaping them into fish-finger-size rissoles, which she fried instead of grilling. She left them to firm, then went to work on a pasta salad.

Sarah found cooking dull but relaxing. It gave her time to consider what it would be like if she and Nick got together again. Her body was softer than before. Nick’s looked harder. Sarah ached for Nick, ached to have again what they once had. Which was stupid. You can never go back. Everybody knew that.

She had to stop fantasizing. Sarah didn’t do casual sex, no matter how much she liked someone. When you knew you weren’t going to sleep with someone, it reduced the risk of giving mixed signals. No, she would not sleep with Nick tonight. She’d made Dan wait a month. Fifteen years ago, she’d made Nick wait longer. Then they’d spent a good proportion of her year as Union President in bed. It was the best year of her life. She wondered if the same went for him.

Nick arrived on the dot of seven-thirty, carrying a bunch of lilies and a bottle of Rioja. When he leant over to kiss her, his hair smelt newly washed. His lips landed softly on the side of the mouth.

‘What would you like to drink?’

‘What are you having?’

‘A vodka and tonic.’

‘Sounds good.’

Sarah had to fight the urge to over analyse. Most blokes, when they chose the same drink as you, were trying it on. She’d been on body language training courses, knew that mirroring someone’s behaviour was a way to disarm, then seduce. But this was Nick. Sarah refreshed her drink while making his. When he wasn’t looking, she wiped her brow to remove a thin layer of sweat.
Nervous Nelly
, her granddad would have said. She and Nick had gelled pretty well on Thursday, but then she’d been in MP mode. Now she was trying to be herself, but which self? The last time she’d been truly relaxed was so long ago; she no longer remembered the person she’d been. Sarah dropped ice into tumblers, splashing the stainless steel work surface, then wiped the glasses dry with a tea towel.

‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers!’ Nick took a large slurp. He was nervous too.

‘Do you want to choose some music?’

‘Sure.’ He followed her into the living room and she knew she’d screwed up. Nick was always into his music. The only new CDs she’d bought in the last five years were reissues from the sixties and seventies. She watched him flick through the pile next to the stereo.

‘I haven’t heard this since I was a student.’

She couldn’t see what he’d chosen, but when he put it on, she recognized it at once:
Al Green Explores Your Mind
. ‘Late night seduction music,’ Nick used to call it.

‘Are you trying to get me into bed before we’ve even eaten?’

Nick grinned, the old Nick she’d been missing for thirteen years. Sarah, not sure how to react, looked away. She sat at one end of the sofa. Nick took her cue and sat at the other end of the long, matt leather settee.

‘It’s been too long,’ he said. ‘Neither of us know where to start.’

‘You’re right,’ Sarah said. ‘And neither of us know where we’re going. Least, I don’t. I can’t decide anything until next Thursday. I don’t like it, not being in control of my life.’

‘I don’t remember the last time I was in control of my life, either,’ Nick admitted. ‘But you’re supposed to be running the country. Isn’t that interesting?’

That got her going. She felt awkward at first. Then, seeing Nick’s interest, she built up steam. Sarah explained how disorienting Parliament was. After the excitement of the by-election came the anticlimax of being an MP, at the bottom of a greasy pole she wasn’t sure she had the inclination to climb. She described her loneliness in London and the pressure her job had put on her and Dan. How once she got to Parliament it was easy to forget why she’d ever wanted to be there in the first place. She talked for ten minutes or more, with him occasionally putting in a prompt or sympathetic aside.

‘Sorry, I’m going on. You know, one of the things about this job is how it affects your relationships. People treat you differently. Non-political friends drift away. There aren’t many people I can open up to.’

‘I’ll try not to let the job affect the way I am with you,’ Nick said, then put a tentative hand on her knee. ‘We’ve both been through a lot.’

‘We’re still the same people, aren’t we? I mean, you’re here because of who I am, not what I am.’

‘Of course.’

She put her hand on his, then leant forward to accept the kiss she thought he wanted to give her. But he held back.

‘Before we go any further,’ Nick said, ‘I ought to tell you about why I left teaching.’

‘You got busted. I heard. You had to quit. It’s a shame.’

‘It was a bit more than that. You have to know what happened before we start anything. You might not want to take me on.’

Nick began to talk rapidly. She had assumed his bust was bad luck, for which he’d suffered embarrassment, a heavy fine and the loss of his job. Turned out he’d been to prison for five years after being caught growing enough skunk to get the whole city out of its tree.

‘Why on earth did you did it? You weren’t desperate for money, were you?’

‘I was short for the mortgage, but that isn’t an excuse.’

‘What got into you?’

‘Greed, I suppose. But at first I thought it was luck.’

‘Oh, shit, the kebabs!’

Sarah spent the next fifteen minutes sorting out the food. Then, over dinner, Nick told her the story of how he had discovered the caves beneath the flat.

23

N
ick’s ground-floor flat was on the Canning Circus side of the Park, the cheaper section of the private estate where Sarah now lived. Nick had always aspired to live in the Park. He and Sarah used to walk around the place, working out where they would move. Their ideal home was a stone’s throw from Nottingham Castle, a five-minute walk to the city centre. In this idyll, she would be an MP and he a university lecturer.

In Thatcher’s Britain, teachers found themselves earning more than university lecturers. Nick took the plunge in 1989, when he could almost afford the flat he’d always hankered after. All right, it was a tatty two-bed with no garden and he’d have to take in a lodger to meet the mortgage payments. One day, perhaps, he’d find a woman to share it with. Women always seemed to back off when Nick got serious – all but Sarah. He wished she’d never joined the police. The police were the enemy. For most people, that changed as you grew older. But not, as things turned out, for Nick.

Structurally, the flat was sound. In every other way, it was a mess. The place had been repossessed after the previous owners defaulted on the mortgage. All the carpets needed replacing, but Nick couldn’t afford that. He hired a sander and began to clean and varnish the floorboards, covering the worst areas with rugs from his previous, rented flat. It was a long, tedious job. He left the large hall until last, as it presented the most difficulty. The dust would get everywhere and, once he varnished, he’d have to move out of the flat until it dried. That meant staying with his younger brother, Joe, in his bachelor pad by Trent Bridge, in the heart of the city’s flash-trash district. He and Joe got on, but they weren’t close. Joe was six years younger, and it could prove awkward, having a younger brother who was more successful than you.

The long summer holidays were nearly over when Nick got round to taking up the hall carpet. The threadbare flooring turned out not to be tacked down at the sides, so it was easily rolled out of the way. The boards beneath were buggered beyond repair. No amount of sanding would get them into shape. Nick couldn’t afford to replace them all. Several had been cut in an odd way. One even had a large hole in the middle. Tentatively, Nick put his hand through it. He was worried about splinters but the sides were smooth, as though they’d been sanded down. The gap wasn’t so much a hole as a handle. Nick reached in and lifted out a large section of floor, the size of a trap door.

Below, Nick could make out the top of a ladder. Excited, he went to look for a torch, but there wasn’t one. It was tempting to use a cigarette lighter, but caution prevailed. He hurried into Halfords in the Market Square and was back twenty minutes later with a heavy-duty flashlight.

The space beneath the hall was small – not tall enough for Nick, at over six feet, to stand upright – and partially boarded, like an attic, rather than a cellar. There was a light switch, too. Once Nick switched it on, he realized that the unboarded area was another hole, one that led to another space, beneath. Beside the gap was a miner’s lamp attached to a large roll of coiled electricity cable. One side of the cable came from the innards of the flat, above. Another length of heavy cable continued below.