In Cold Daylight (7 page)

‘I didn’t know Jack that well,’ she said. ‘He was fairly new on the watch when Vic died.’

She took the chair to the right of me across the fireplace where a small electric fire glowed behind a painted black surface with artificial coals. Christmas cards hung suspended above the mantelpiece on a piece of string that stretched from the corner of the room by the window to a tall glass fronted wall cabinet.

‘When did your husband die, Mrs Rushmere?’

I asked as gently as I could.

‘May 24, 1996. He was only forty-six.’

The same age as Jack. There was silence for several moments, long enough for the brass carriage clock on the mantelpiece to become audible. I followed her gaze to the silver framed photograph beside the clock where I saw a man with a sharp jutting face, all angles and bones, but with a wide smile that softened it and eyes that sparkled.

‘He had cancer, I believe.’ I sipped my tea.

‘Yes, skin cancer. It spread very rapidly, went to his liver and then his lungs.’

I could see by her expression that her mind had travelled back to the gruelling days when she had nursed him. Her hands were constantly on the move, touching her hair, stroking the side of her face or rubbing gently at her nose. I wasn’t quite sure how to ask further questions about her husband’s illness but as it was I didn’t have to.

‘It started with a blister, here.’ She indicated the rear of her right ear lobe. ‘It grew and turned into a large mole and that’s when Vic first went to the doctor. After that the cancer seemed to spread very rapidly. He had chemotherapy and radiotherapy but it made no difference. I think it had already reached his liver by the time he was diagnosed.’

‘When was that?’

‘October 1995.’

Again that silence. I tried to think of how to phrase my next question without alerting her as to the real purpose of my visit. After a moment I said, ‘Did he ever talk about any fires that he went to that were particularly dangerous, or he was concerned about afterwards?’

‘A few: houses with Calor gas fires in them that exploded, much like it did with Jack, garage fires where there were oxyacetylene tanks, companies where chemicals were kept.’

‘When was that?’ My hopes rose only to be dashed by her next words.

‘They happened all the time. I used to wave him off to work often wondering if it would be the last time I’d see him. I never expected him to die of cancer.’

‘Did he keep a diary?’

‘No. But he kept a scrapbook.’

Great! ‘Have you still got it. I’d like to see it if I may. It would give me some background information and ideas.’

‘Of course, if I can find where I put it.’

‘You wouldn’t have thrown it away?’ I said alarmed.

‘It’s around somewhere. I’ll look it out for you over the weekend and give you a call if you like.’

I liked, but would have wished for her to do it sooner. I once again gave out my card. At this rate I’d have to have a new print run.

On the doorstep I paused. ‘Did your husband ever say anything to you about what he thought caused the cancer?’

‘Too much sun when he were a kiddie lying on the beach all day probably.’ She shrugged.

‘Who knows what sets these things off?’

Who indeed I thought, climbing on my bike.

My conversation with Carol Rushmere had opened up another source of information, however, and one I was cross with myself for not thinking of sooner.

The librarian told me that I had to book to use the microfiche but after a little gentle persuasion, when I could see that one had just become vacant, she led me to it and soon I was trawling back through the local newspaper for fire reports or accidents in 1994. I started with 4th July. My excitement was short-lived. There was no fire reported on that day. That didn’t mean to say there hadn’t been one, but if there had then it couldn’t have been very significant.

I began to trawl through the rest of that month and soon realised that it was a mammoth task, since the local newspaper reported everything from a chip pan fire to a spate of arson attacks on parked cars. And the reports didn’t usually mention which watch had attended the incident.

I jotted down a couple of major fires, one in April 1994 in a hotel just off the seafront, that had been before I had met Jack, and the other in a garage behind Elm Grove in November. I knew Red Watch had attended them because Brookfield was quoted as sub-officer. It was pointless though; I was simply going through the motions. It couldn’t be those.

I wracked my brains trying to recall any fires in 1994, and particularly in July, which could have been responsible for causing cancer. Jack and I had spent every spare day out sailing. I remembered it as being a very hot month, and the newspaper reports I’d just read had confirmed it: continuous sun, soaring temperatures and air pollution warnings.

I gave it up. It was like searching for a pearl on the pebbled beach. I would have to wait for the incident reports, or perhaps Vic Rushmere’s scrapbook might give me a lead.

I returned home feeling deflated. My mobile rang as I stepped inside the house. It was Simon, at last.

‘You’d better come. They don’t think he’s got long.’

My heart gave a jolt. This was the end.

I scribbled a note to Faye saying I had to go out and wasn’t sure when I would be back, fed Boudicca and once again left for London.

‘You’re too late. He died half an hour ago.’ Simon greeted me in the same sterile waiting room as before. With those sharp words and disdainful look I saw what I had missed the first time: how like Father he had become.

Slowly his words sunk in.
He was dead.
The slate was wiped clean. I didn’t have to pretend or apologise anymore.

‘Do you want to see him?’ Simon continued.

Did I? There had been so many times in my life when I had fervently wished my father dead, but now that he actually was it didn’t seem real.

I couldn’t quite believe it. I didn’t know what to feel and I wouldn’t until I saw him.

Simon said he’d wait for me outside the hospital. I pulled aside the curtains of the intensive care bed and stared at the pallid form.

All the personality had been stripped from that gaunt, grey face. I told myself that the feelings of shame at having failed him, and the sense of inadequacy that had accompanied me all my thirty-six years, were finally over, even though I knew that you couldn’t shake off years of conditioning in a matter of seconds. It would take more than my father’s death to erase from my memory the look in his eyes when he’d come to the police station after Alison’s death. I’d seen the doubt and the disgust. And I’d seen the contempt when he’d visited me in the clinic.

I tried to tell myself that there had been happier memories such as when he’d taken me to watch England play cricket against the Australians at the Oval. I couldn’t think of many more. He had fed and clothed me though and paid for my education. I couldn’t love him but I could feel sorry for how things had worked out. I hadn’t wanted it this way. I caught up with Simon outside the hospital.

‘Made your peace?’ Simon said sarcastically, drawing on a cigarette.

I didn’t answer him. My mind was trying to grapple with the surprising sensation that, despite myself, I was feeling sorrow. We began walking towards the car park.

‘We’ll need to sort out funeral arrangements,’

Simon went on, as I remained silent. ‘Harriet can do that. She can contact Father’s old colleagues and put an announcement in
The
Times
and
The Daily Telegraph,
though no doubt the newspapers will run an obituary.’

Yes, our father had been a successful and famous a chemist. I had tried to follow in his footsteps, but my degree in Physical Science had come to a premature and abrupt end with Alison’s death.

I brought my attention back to Simon who was speaking. ‘We’ll need to find the will. Father kept a copy in his study. We could check that out now.’

‘You keep saying “we” Simon.’

‘He was your father too. You can hardly blame him for what happened to you.’

Can’t I? The continuous pressure to achieve, the measurement of my every achievement against my brother’s and the constant carping that I hadn’t reached the required standard. But none of that mattered now. What a waste of the years.

Simon zapped open the door of his Range Rover and paused before climbing in. ‘It would have to happen now, right when I’m in the middle of negotiations with an American syndicate for a big finance package. I can’t afford to hang around up here, Adam. Timing is critical.

It would help if you at least did something.’

I scrutinised him. He appeared to be telling the truth. With some reluctance, pulling on my gloves and helmet I said abruptly, ‘OK. I’ll meet you at the house.’

I arrived outside Father’s house in Belgravia before Simon and managed to squeeze the bike in a small space not far from it. I knew he’d have trouble parking. I gave the engine a quick rev before switching it off, then kicked down the stand.

As the London traffic screeched around me I looked up at the four-storey house. It seemed dirtier and shabbier than I remembered. The whitened stone façade that faced the street on ground level had grown grubby with the London pollution and badly needed painting. The casement windows needed replacing, and paint was flaking off the black iron railings that formed a small forecourt and which also surrounded the balcony giving off from the first floor long sash windows.

I locked my helmet in the box on the bike. I had agreed nothing with Simon, though Simon probably thought I had by coming back here. I didn’t want to go inside the house but I knew I had to. Other memories would assail me: my mother’s strained face and lean body, her haunted sad eyes. The smell of her soft perfume and her gentle smile were always overshadowed by those last few years of her life and my father’s lack of understanding and intolerance towards illness. I felt panic fingering my throat but before it could get a hold Simon was striding towards me.

The house smelt of age and neglect. Simon climbed the stairs muttering something about a drink. I headed for the kitchen. It hadn’t changed: the cracked enamel sink, the ancient built-in oak cabinets with frosted glass, the pine table in the centre of the room with four chairs around it.

There was crockery on the drainer under a red and white striped tea towel.

I crossed to the french windows and gazed out on to a narrow strip of garden but it was too dark to see anything save the tall, wavering trees in the ill-tempered wind.

‘Whisky?’ Simon returned, waving a half full bottle.

‘No thanks.’

‘Well here’s to the old man.’ Simon tossed the drink back in one go and poured himself another.

Picking up the almost full bottle he said, ‘Might as well get this over with.’

Father’s study smelt of stale tobacco and dust.

The heavy oak furniture, shelves of dusty books, brown edged papers and dark velvet curtains all served to make me feel claustrophobic. I could hear my father’s brittle voice.
‘I’m disappointed in
you, Adam. To think a son of mine should suffer a mental
breakdown. We’ve certainly never had anything like this
in
my
family’.

Lawrence Greene would make no allowance for the loss of my mother when I was nine, the pressure he had piled on me, and Alison’s death.

Counselling and psychotherapy were for wimps.

In that battered grey metal filing cabinet in the far right-hand corner by the window were my father’s private papers including the reports on my progress from the psychiatrist. I needed to retrieve them but didn’t want to do so in front of Simon.

Simon was sitting at father’s desk going through his drawers. ‘Ah here it is. I thought he might have given it to the solicitor.’ Simon extracted a document from a slim manila envelope.

I didn’t need to be a mind reader to know what Father’s will contained; I could see it in Simon’s expression.

‘It’s all right,’ I said, pre-empting him. ‘You don’t have to tell me. He’s left me nothing.’

‘I’m sorry, Adam.’

‘I bet, you are,’ I threw at him. ‘Do I even need to ask who inherits?’

Simon shrugged.

‘Fine. Good bye, Simon.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Home, of course.’

‘Aren’t you going to stay and –’

‘Help you? You’ve got to be joking.’

‘There’s no need to be so bitter.’

‘I’m not.’ And I meant it. I didn’t want Father’s money, but neither did I see any need to hang around and help Simon. Besides I had other more important things to do. I had to find out about this fire in 1994. I was pinning my hopes on Vic Rushmere’s scrapbooks and those fire reports, yet I wondered if there was more I could do.

‘Let me know when the funeral is,’ I tossed over my shoulder as I left.

Before I knew it I was riding through the traffic lights at Hindhead. It was then I noticed the motorbike behind me. It kept a steady distance, but I could tell it was following me. I slowed and it slowed. I squinted in my mirrors to get a better look at it but it was dark and raining. Was it the same motorbike I’d seen along the promenade? Was it the young man I’d seen in the restaurant when I was with Simon?

I felt my pulse begin to race. What to do now?

I could hardly turn round and ride back towards him. Perhaps if I pulled in he would overtake me. Perhaps he would stop. There was nowhere to pull over here but I knew that not far ahead the road became a dual carriageway and just as it did there was a derelict building on the left that had once been a roadside café. I could pull in there and see what he did. If it was the unshaven young man then it was about time he told me why he was stalking me.

There it was, just ahead, not far now. I sped up, my eyes on that derelict building looking for somewhere to pull in. Suddenly a car shot out of nowhere. Jesus! I swung the bike to the right to avoid colliding with it, across the other side of the road, fighting to keep it upright, my heart slamming against my ribs fit to burst. A van was coming towards me, lights blazing horn blaring.

I swerved back to my left on to the correct side of the road with inches to spare as the van roared past. With my breath coming in gasps, and my head pounding, I eased the machine over in front of the derelict café and switched off the engine.