In Cold Daylight (9 page)

Jody was making a beeline for me. Now all I had to do was ditch the politician.

‘Hi.’

‘Hello,’ I smiled back at her. She was dressed in brown casual trousers and a tight fitting green cashmere cardigan setting off the colour of her eyes, which were smiling into mine with a hint of mischief that made my heart race. Around her smooth, slender neck was a bronze medallion necklace and she wore small amber droplet earrings. Her chestnut hair was spiky, she wore a hint of lipstick, and a trace of mascara accentuated her almond-shaped eyes. I cleared my throat, and remembering my manners introduced her to the politician.

‘I know the Minister,’ Jody replied rather tersely. ‘And his stance over the proposed development of Langstone Harbour.’

Bransbury looked uncomfortable, but Faye came to his rescue.

‘You’ve hogged the Minister long enough, darling,’ she said laughing whilst glaring at me.

Then her eyes swivelled to Jody. I saw a slight narrowing of her pupils and a minute rise of her finely plucked eyebrows. If Jody noticed it she didn’t let on; she was looking at Faye with undisguised interest.

I introduced my wife to Jody, and, after a rather frosty ‘hello,’ Faye turned her back on her, and swept Bransbury away.

‘I’m sorry if Faye was a little hostile,’ I began but Jody smiled.

‘Was she? I didn’t come here to see her.’

‘What
is
the Minister’s stance on the harbour?’

‘He’s for development. I’m against it like a good many people, but money talks unfortunately. Still nothing’s settled yet and the environmental lobby are very strong. Anyway, I haven’t come here to talk about that or him. Are you going to give me the guided tour?’

‘Love to, but I warn you I’ve just bored the pants off the Minister.’

‘From what I can see they look fantastic. The paintings, that is, and not the Minister’s pants.’

This time I found the tour a pleasure rather than a chore. I liked the sensation of being close to her. I liked the way she moved: slowly, casually, languorously like a contented cat. I felt some of my old enthusiasm about my paintings returning, which made me more talkative than usual and hotter. Or was that just the wine and the fact of being so close to her? The rest of the people in the room seemed to fade away.

‘Did you go to the police about Jack’s death?’

she asked when we had finished and were standing alone. More people had come in and the room was squeezed tight with bodies. I was surprised to realise it didn’t bother me in the least.

‘Yes, for all the good it did me.’

‘They didn’t believe you?’

‘Steve went through the motions, said he’d look into the fire reports, but I’m not holding my breath.’

‘So what now?’

‘
I
check it out and I think I might have some idea of where that fire was…’ I froze.

Not six feet from me stood the young motorbike rider. His eyes were boring into me.

It might have been the quality of his gaze that clinched it for me because something connected in my brain and recognition finally dawned. How could I not have seen it before? I must have been blind and stupid. He’d only been six then, but I knew without any doubt that he was Ben Lydeway, Alison’s brother.

It was as if everyone else had faded away, and only Ben and I were in the room. I knew what he had come for: revenge for his sister’s death.

He blamed me for it. I should go and talk to him, but I couldn’t move.

Then I saw him turn towards my painting of the international yachts moored up at Gunwharf Quays. His hand swept up and only then did I see he was holding a jar of something. There was a scream and then several screams, as he splashed some liquid from the jar on to my canvas and then on to another beside it. I felt as though someone had cemented my feet to the ground.

People were scattering like startled starlings.

They were shouting, rushing about. I registered a commotion out of the corner of my eye beside the door. I watched painting after painting being splattered with paint, and still couldn’t move.

Then two large men grabbed him, the jar fell to the floor and his body immediately went limp.

But his head was erect and his eyes never left me.

He was led away without a struggle but even then he swivelled his head and gave me one last look. I guessed the whole episode could only have taken a matter of seconds but it seemed to have lasted for hours. My legs felt weak, my stomach was churning, my palms sweating and my heart was beating so fast that I could hardly breathe. People were beginning to crowd in on me, their mouths opening and shutting; their expressions concerned, but I heard nothing.

Then Jody’s voice penetrated my senses. ‘Fresh air is what you need.’

She led me through the kitchens and out of the fire exit at the back of the building where I sank down on a crate. Jody disappeared to fetch me a drink of water.

‘Where’s Faye?’ I asked when she returned with a plastic beaker. I drank the icy cold water in one long draught.

‘She’s dealing with the press and the Minister.

Who is that young man?’

‘I don’t know.’

Would I never be able to speak about Alison? I knew her death had been an accident but the fact that I couldn’t remember where I was and what I had been doing at the time made me question myself. It was that uncertainty, the trauma of the incident, and the shame I felt over my breakdown that always kept me silent. The post mortem had found no bruises on her arms or upper body.

Alison had been stuffed full of cocaine. They had tested me too, of course. I was clean. Drugs had never been my scene; I couldn’t afford to lose control. Accidental death had been the verdict of the inquest but I had felt responsible. I
still
felt responsible. My row with her had led to her death whichever way I looked at it.

Would the police arrest Ben? Perhaps that was why he had vandalised my paintings. Did he want the police to re-open the investigation?

Jody’s voice broke through my thoughts. ‘He’s probably an environmental protester. He knew the Minister would be here and thought he’d get himself in the newspapers.’

‘Yes, that’s probably it.’ I pulled myself up. ‘I’m sorry this had to happen tonight.’

‘I don’t think you should be the one apologising.’

Faye looked up as we walked back inside. I saw her frown before she sailed across to me with a tight smile on her pretty face. ‘There you are, Adam.’

Jody said, ‘I think I’d better go.’

‘I need to talk to Martin,’ I said, rather abruptly.

I left Faye to fend off guests and crossed to the despoiled images. There were three in total. Ben had splashed dark red paint across each of them.

I snatched my head away. It was the colour of blood. I spent some time with Martin but can’t recall what was said. My mind was many years away.

‘Will you be able to salvage the paintings?’ Faye asked, as a taxi whisked us out of the city home.

‘Martin seems to think so.’ I didn’t really care.

I knew that I wouldn’t be able to touch them, not with that colour splattered all over them.

‘Do you know who he was? ’ Faye asked.

‘No,’ I lied.

‘I wonder what made him do such a terrible thing,’ she mused, and then answering her own question when I remained silent. ‘Jealousy, I suppose, although the police said it could have been directed at the Minister, an environmental protest. How do you know that woman?’

‘Jody?’ I hoped my voice didn’t betray my quickening heart beat. ‘She’s Rosie’s neighbour.’

‘Was she there when you rushed to Rosie’s help after the breakin?’

‘No.’ I ignored her sneering tone.

‘How did she get invited tonight?’

‘I invited her Faye. OK?’ I said hotly.

‘No need to be so aggressive, Adam.’

The taxi pulled up outside the house. Faye followed me into the hall.

‘You’ll have to go down to the station in the morning to make a statement.’

I tensed. ‘Why?’

‘Because that man destroyed your paintings.

That’s wilful damage or malicious intent or something,’ she snapped.

‘I’m not pressing charges.’

‘But, Adam –’

‘I won’t and that’s the end of it.’
If only it were
.

‘I don’t understand. Why not?’ Her voice was taut with anger.

I should have told her then about Alison.

‘Pressing charges won’t save my paintings. It won’t undo what has happened here tonight.

Let’s forget about it.’

‘You run away from everything, don’t you, Adam?’

If only she knew about Jack! ‘Drop it, Faye.’

‘You’re pathetic,’ and she flounced out of the room.

I let out a breath. I should have told her. The moment had come and gone but I had remained silent. I couldn’t get the words out. Soon I would have to. Soon Ben would tell the police everything and I’d have to explain what had happened to Alison not only to them but to Faye.

I didn’t think she was going to take the news very well.

I didn’t expect to sleep. I lay perfectly still not wanting to wake Faye, staring into the blackness trying hard to remember more of the circumstances of Alison’s death; they eluded me, as always. After a while I gave it up. It wasn’t getting me anywhere. Angrily I pushed the past away and returned to Jack. I could hear Faye’s gentle breathing beside me and, as the rain drummed against the windows I assembled the facts in my mind: I knew that the cancer had been caused by a fire, most probably on board a ship in the dockyard if Jack’s choice of ‘The Fighting
Temeraire
’ meant anything, and that ship must have had some kind of chemical substance on it. The incident could have occurred on 4th July 1994. I still couldn’t recall Jack mentioning anything about fighting a fire on board a ship, but then he had rarely talked about work when we were out sailing. I had to find out which ship and which substance. It sounded so simple.

Maybe the fire reports would give me the answers on Monday. Until then I could do nothing but wait.

I turned over and pulled the bedclothes over me. Faye stirred. Tomorrow I would know if Ben had told the police about Alison’s death.

It was ten o’clock the next morning when they telephoned. I was polite but firm. They pressed me but I stuck to my decision. As I saw it, I had no option. The next call was from Steve Langton ten minutes later.

‘What’s this I hear about you not wanting to press charges?’ he launched rather irritably. I didn’t blame him.

‘It’s not worth it, Steve. They’re only paintings; they can be cleaned.’ A moment’s silence in which I counted silently to five before Steve spoke.

‘It’s criminal damage. He could do it again.’

‘Charging him and letting him go won’t stop him, will it?’

‘It might for a while,’ he replied dubiously. ‘I can’t hold him. I’ve got a cell full of Christmas drunks and soccer hooligans.’

‘Then let him go.’ What if he comes here? I hoped he would. It was time for us to talk.

‘His name’s Ben Harrow.’

Harrow? Why not Lydeway? Had Alison’s father died and her mother remarried? Perhaps Ben had taken his new father’s name? Or had he changed it by deed poll? It didn’t really matter what he was called, I knew it was Alison’s younger brother. So he hadn’t told the police about Alison. Or was Steve just trying me out?

Steve said, ‘Do you know him?’

‘No.’ It was the truth after all. ‘Did he say why he did it?’

‘No. Martin says he didn’t damage the building but he does want to claim off the insurance for the damage to your paintings. He’ll need a crime number so the crime has to be logged. We have the culprit so we will need to charge him.’

‘Then Martin can press charges.’ I heard Steve sigh. ‘How did he get in to the exhibition?’

‘Said he was with the caterers, simply walked in.’

‘Did he say where he lived?’

‘He’s staying at the White Sails Hotel, Southsea. We checked. He registered in the name of Ben Harrow a week ago. It’s his real name according to his driving licence and passport. We ran a check through the computer: he’s not got a criminal record and he’s not claiming benefit.’

‘Any joy with Jack’s investigation?’ I didn’t expect anything but I thought I would ask anyway, if only to distract him from Ben Harrow.

‘I sent an officer around to question the neighbours, but he got the three monkeys: see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. I’ll apply to see the fire reports on Monday.’

‘I’ve already done that. Brookfield is putting in a request for me.’

‘Adam…’

‘I need to know why Jack died, Steve.’ Silence.

I said, ‘Did you know that Jack swapped his duty with another fire fighter called Ian?’

‘Adam, leave it. You’re barking up completely the wrong tree.’

Maybe I was but I didn’t admit to it. His comment also made me remain silent about my idea of the fire in 1994 being in the dockyard.

Red Watch was on nights tonight. I thought I might drop by and have a word with Ian.

After Faye had gone out shopping I headed for the White Sails Hotel. I steeled myself to meet Ben Lydeway’s hatred and anger. I tried to rehearse what to say but I couldn’t. What was there to say except that I was sorry his sister had died?

I parked in front of the hotel, which faced the rock gardens and the seafront, and removing my helmet walked up the four steps into a rather shabby reception where I interrupted a woman in her thirties in mid yawn. I asked for Ben Harrow.

‘Room 14. First floor.’

I climbed the stairs feeling nervous. My heart was pounding. Ben had wanted a meeting; the demonstration in the art gallery, and his subsequent silence at the police station, were his calling card. If he hadn’t spoken to the police then that could mean only one thing: he wanted to speak to me.

The door was ajar and the narrow corridor partly blocked by the chambermaid’s trolley. I knocked and waited. Nothing. I tried again. Still nothing. A grey-haired woman carrying a white miniature poodle came out of a room further down the corridor and glanced at me.

‘Ben, it’s Adam Greene,’ I said quietly. The woman tutted as if I’d said something obscene.

As she passed me she made childish noises to her little white dog.