Gone to Ground (8 page)

He had driven her to the nearest station, walked with her as far as the ticket office.

"See you again sometime."

Kissing her cheek, he had slipped two twenty-pound notes into her hand.

"What's this meant to be?" Lesley had asked.

"For the ticket," Scarman had said, grinning. "What else?"

"Fuck off!" she'd said, pushing it back at him.

"Hey!" he'd said, grin breaking into a laugh. "No need to get your knickers in a twist. Not again."

She'd swung at him then with the open palm of her free hand and he'd caught her by the wrist. Passengers around them were enjoying the show.

"Calm down, calm down. And take the money for Christ's sake. I've read what it's like, getting by on a grant."

"Bastard."

"That's me," Scarman had said, and winked. "Till the next time, okay?"

"In your dreams."

She had bumped into him again a year later in Derby, both crossing the broad pedestrian area alongside the Guildhall. Lesley had been not long into her first real job with BBC local radio and Scarman had been covering a court case that had already garnered a lot of publicity. A landowner from Crich was on trial for maliciously wounding a youth who had broken into his property, firing at him with a shotgun and then tying him up with baling wire and letting him bleed into the straw before calling for an ambulance. The paper for which Scarman then worked had offered to pay all the man's legal expenses and, should he be sentenced to anything more than community service, was preparing to mount a nationwide campaign for his re-lease. An Englishman's home being his castle. Especially to readers of the
Daily Express,
the
Daily Mail.

"Dinner?" Scarman asked.

"Fuck you!"

"Okay, but dinner first."

Despite herself, Lesley had laughed.

At the restaurant, he had surprised her by being funny and self-deprecating about his own job, while taking an apparently genuine interest in hers, asking where she thought it might be leading and offering what seemed sensible advice about her future career. After the meal, he had dropped her back at the shared house she was renting on Chester Green, and, as she was worrying about how—or if—she was going to fend him off, he had given her a quick peck on the cheek and been on his way.

"See you again soon," he said, and this time Lesley thought, well yes, she might. Maybe she'd misjudged him; maybe he wasn't such an arsehole as she'd thought.

We all make mistakes, as Lesley would tell herself later, and in this case it was a mistake that could be mended. She married him and within six years they were divorced. In retrospect, Lesley was surprised it had lasted as long as it did. At least they hadn't had any kids.

By that time, Lesley had moved east across the Erewash and was working for BBC Radio Nottingham, and Scarman had given up journalism altogether in favour of the increasingly lucrative field of public relations. Not another Max Clifford, not yet, but coming up fast.

After the divorce, Lesley had succeeded in talking the station manager into letting her have a couple of months' unpaid leave: Singapore, Tonga, Australia and, finally, her favourite, New Zealand. While she was there, she made contact with several radio producers and as soon as she was back in England, started working on a scheme for a year's exchange. NZ for UK. It took a while, but eventually there she was, on The Terrace in Wellington, co-presenting the mid-afternoon show from Radio New Zealand House. Once, when the redoubtable Kim Hill had called in sick, she even got to do the Saturday morning show and interview Peter Jackson, asking him about filming
Lord of the Rings
and
King Kong
between playing his choice of music.

She hadn't wanted to come back.

Not to this.

Scarman, resplendent in a suit Lesley was certain came from somewhere like Hugo Boss, was entertaining the receptionist and two couriers with a story which he broke off from the moment she appeared. His hair, which had scarcely started to thin, was cut just so, and since she'd seen him last he'd affected a trim, graying beard.

He reached out, as if to give her a hug, and, bridling, she shied away.

"What the hell do you want?" Lesley said, stone-faced.

"I've been out of the country," Scarman said. "Stephen, I only just heard. I'm so sorry."

He took hold of her hand, but she pulled it away.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Sorry for whom exactly?"

"For you, of course. And Stephen, naturally. A terrible thing to have happened. Barbaric."

"You don't care a jot about Stephen. You never did. You hated it when I as much as talked to him on the phone."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it? A pathetic little poof, that's what you called him. One of the kinder things."

"Lesley..."

"And now, if you're being truthful, you probably think he got was coming to him." Her voice was loud and shrill and there were tears in her eyes.

"Lesley, come on. Calm down."

"Don't tell me to fucking calm down!"

"Lesley..." He reached toward her again and she knocked his hand aside.

"And stop saying Lesley, Lesley all the time. Just fuck off and leave me alone. We've got nothing to say."

There was a security guard hovering now at Scarman's shoulder, and the news editor had appeared in the doorway behind where Lesley was standing.

"Okay," Scarman said, with the slightest shrug of his shoulders. "Have it your way." He smiled in the direction of the small audience by the reception desk. "You always did."

"Bastard!" Lesley spat the word across the distance between them.

"So you say, sweetheart." Scarman winked and spun away, light on his feet. "So you say."

"Come on, Lesley," Alan Pike said quietly. "Let's go back inside." He rested a hand on her shoulder and she shrugged it off but, a moment later, turned and followed him back into the newsroom.

In Pike's office, she sat opposite him at his desk, still shaking, staring at the floor.

"What was that all about?"

"It doesn't matter."

"If it happened here it does."

Lesley sighed, sniffed, felt for a tissue she couldn't find. The news editor passed her a Kleenex from the packet on his desk.

"Look," Pike said, "why don't you finish up what you were doing and get off home? One way or another, we can manage."

"No, it's all right, I'll be fine."

"Maybe you should have taken more than a couple of days. After what happened to your brother, it can't be easy..."

Lesley stood up from the chair. "Alan, I'm okay. Honestly."

"If you're sure?"

"I'm sure."

Back at her desk, she stared at the screen for several minutes before she could decipher a single word.

As soon as Lesley got home, she pulled off her clothes and stood in the warm water of the shower, allowing the tears to stream out of her, her body rocking back and forth in the steam and spray.

Dry, she dressed in a black roll-neck and blue loose-fitting jeans, a pair of old gym shoes on her feet. Before phoning, she made herself eat a piece of toast and drink a cup of strong tea, unusually sweet.

McKusick answered on the fifth ring.

"Mark, it's Lesley."

There was a long pause, in which she was conscious of McKusick's breathing. "Stephen—I don't know what to say."

"It's okay," Lesley said. "You don't have to say anything."

"No, it's not that. I'd like to. It's just..."

"I know, I know," Lesley said. And then, "How are you holding up?"

"Not so badly, I suppose. You?"

"It comes and goes."

"Yes."

"Look, if you do want to talk, why don't we meet?"

"Okay, yes, I'd like that."

"When's good for you?"

"Anytime, really. The sooner the better."

"I'm on a late shift tomorrow," Lesley said. "Not starting till two. No way we could meet up in the morning, I suppose?"

The hesitation was slight. "I can wangle it, yes. You want me to come to you?"

"Either way, I don't mind."

"I'll come over to you, then. Ten? Ten-thirty?"

"Make it eleven. Give the traffic time to die down."

"Suits me. Where d'you want to meet?"

"There's a place close to the car park on Fletcher Gate. Stones. I'll see you there. Upstairs."

"Okay. Take care."

"You, too."

Lesley put down the phone, feeling better for having made the call.

The rest of the evening stretched ahead.

There were friends, pals, mostly colleagues associated with work that she could call, but she realized company was not what she wanted just then.

She might have a drink, put her feet up, try to relax.

One of the positive things she'd taken from her relationship with Scott Scarman was an appreciation for a decent Scotch, single malt. Not long after she'd arrived back from New Zealand, the supermarket by Castle Marina had had an offer on Highland Park. There wasn't a great deal left, but there was enough. Pouring herself a good glass, she carried it over to the small two-seater settee and stretched out, feet over the edge, flicking through the TV channels with the remote. Sky News had the mother of the young Nottingham soldier killed in Iraq breaking down on camera; so did Five and the rolling news on BBC News 24.

Too much grief.

Lesley switched off and fetched the DVD she'd bought for just a fiver in Fopp.
Bringing Up Baby.
Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant. One of Stephen's favourites, he'd given it to her once on video.

Fast and funny as it was, it couldn't totally dispel her mood and, finally, it couldn't keep her eyes from closing. When she woke a little after one, the film had long finished, the heating had switched itself off, and she took herself, cold, to bed.

THE LIST OF NAMES MARK MCKUSICK HAD PROVIDED FOR the police was hardly extensive. A dozen in all. Whether that marked Stephen Bryan out as gregarious or reclusive, Helen wasn't sure. It depended, she thought, not just on personality, but the demands of whatever job you did, the circles in which you mixed. She would have found it difficult to come up with the names of twelve friends herself she might describe as close. Shit, she thought, make that six.

Of those McKusick had mentioned, three had addresses in the Clarendon Park area of Leicester where Bryan had previously lived, one in nearby Stoneygate, four were fellow academics from the years spent teaching at De Montfort University, and just one from Bryan's new post at Anglia Ruskin. Alongside two of names, one with an address in Warwick, the other in Norwich, McKusick had added a note describing them as film writers/historians. The last name, also annotated, and the only woman, was Siobhan Banham, an old school friend, apparently, who lived in London.

Helen had talked to most of these herself, either in person or on the telephone; detectives had interviewed all but three. None, so far, had provided anything to shake the image of Stephen Bryan as someone who was hard-working and enthusiastic, dedicated to his subject, generous to his friends, good-humoured and generally well-liked. Nor had anyone, gay or straight, given support to the idea that Bryan had been sexually promiscuous. His relationship with Mark McKusick they had characterized as comfortable and relaxed; the occasional disagreement, naturally, but, all in all, they had seemed content in one another's company. A bit like an old married couple, someone had remarked. Helen's ears had pricked up at that: in her experience most happily married couples were less happily married than they seemed.

The lecturer from Anglia Ruskin had asked if she had spoken to Jack Rouse, who also taught there and was, apparently, someone who knew Bryan quite well.

Helen had not: his name had not been on the original list.

She had tried contacting Rouse several times in the last couple of days, but there had never been any reply on the number she'd been given and the university hadn't been able to track him down. Without any great hope, she dialed the number again and this time it was answered almost right away.

"Hello?"

"Jack Rouse? I'd like to speak to Jack Rouse."

"This is he." The voice was quite deep and smooth.

"This is D. S. Walker, Cambridgeshire Police."

"I see. How can I be of help?" A hint of an accent. American?

"You knew Stephen Bryan, I believe?"

"Ah, yes."

"You were friends?"

"I'd say so. At least, we were beginning to be. It was monstrous, what happened. I liked him a great deal."

"I wonder, could we talk?"

"About Stephen?"

"Yes."

"Certainly. Only it will have to be soon. The day after tomorrow I leave for Chicago."

"When would be best? I could probably manage most times."

"Today, then. How about today?"

"Fine."

"You know the Fitzwilliam?"

"Of course." The museum was no more than a ten-minute walk across Parker's Piece. If she cut through the grounds of Downing College, less than that.

"There's a music recital this lunchtime. Harpsichord. It finishes at around two. Why don't we meet after that?"

"How will I find you?"

"Well, the recital's on the first floor, in the long room that links the two parts of the building. On the north side you'll find some galleries devoted to French and British painting. I'll be in number five, nineteenth and twentieth centuries. In the corner just behind the door, looking at the Vuillards."

Lesley, slightly anxious without being sure why, was early for her meeting with Mark McKusick, whereas he was a good twenty minutes late. Seated near one of the upstairs windows, by the time he arrived Lesley had all but finished her first coffee, leafed through
The Guardian
and was starting on
The Independent,
both papers courtesy of the establishment.

She stood to greet him and they hugged briefly, McKusick apologizing for his lateness; too many tractors either side of Melton Mowbray, driving via Grantham would have been the better option. The waitress allowed them to settle before approaching to take their order.