Lemonade and Lies (24 page)

The bastard was dead! The revelation hit me in much the same way the train must have done Viktor. And in an instant I saw how I’d misjudged Jamie and the injustice of that hasty judgement. But then life was often unfair and seldom, if ever, straightforward.

“You wouldn’t happen to be this eye witness, would you?”

“I owe you an explanation,” he said, his face serious.

“No you don’t, but I’d be interested in one anyway.”

“I knew where Viktor was. And I could see he was laughing at us.”

“So you decided to do a bit of freelance work, was that it?” I asked.

“Got it in one, Jill.” He seemed pleased that I had gone one step ahead and I was stupidly pleased that he was pleased, and when I looked over at David he seemed pleased that we were both pleased. A result all round then.

“Remember what I told you about being a policeman?”

He’d said lots of things. But right now the heat and the wine and his sudden presence next to me stole everything from my head.

“The most important thing about being a policeman,” he told me, “is that you have to stay within the law, whereas the bad guys don’t have to.”

“Sort of ties your hands, doesn’t it?” I meant the observation to show solidarity, an understanding of the strictures placed on the guardians of the law. But if Jamie heard it, he didn’t react. His eyes had a faraway look and he could well have been back on the crowded platform of a London tube station in the rush hour.

“There was only one way I could put a stop to it.”

“And you couldn’t do that without resigning, right?”

“Right. It became personal. And as a private citizen, I could do things that I couldn’t if I were still on the force.” He shivered as he remembered. Maybe he was thinking about what was left of Kabak, the remains that had to be scraped off a track somewhere on the Northern Line. “The bastard deserved all he got. You were on his list, Jill and he wouldn’t have given up until he . . .” He didn’t finish.

But I wasn’t stupid. I got it. He’d saved me. He’d come riding up on his white charger and killed the guy. Murdered him. For me? Or had he done it for himself, for his own masculine pride. I searched his face for some sort of clue.

Murder
. How exactly did I feel about that? About the man who could contemplate it?

“So, you set out to kill him?” I said.

“Not exactly.”

“Then,
what
exactly?”

Jamie was confused. (He could join the rest of the crew). I guess he thought I’d be pleased about him killing the scumbag. But by now my emotions were ganging up on me. I wanted to be happy, to be relieved that Kabak was dead. It was a victory. But it was tainted, for it made the man who carried it out a murderer. And I had feelings for that man. Strong feelings.

“You think I pushed him?” he asked.

I couldn’t answer. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

“I was following him, sure. A court of law might even say I was stalking him. But my idea was to put him in hospital, do what he’d done to you. The biblical eye-for-an-eye thing. I figured he deserved it.”

I didn’t argue. I felt the same.

“And I think I was really getting to him. The man looked haunted, like he was on his last bit of juice. I followed him into the underground; he must have felt like a rat in a trap. He knows me. He knew I wouldn’t give up.”

“You saying he jumped?” I asked.

“No. The platform was crowded, people jostling for position. He was desperate. Was trying to give me the slip. Him losing his balance like that, and falling onto the track was just a bonus. Some days the Gods are good to you.”

“So it was a happy accident,” I said.

“Happy? Yeah. You could say that.” But he looked unhappy. Wasn’t sure I believed him, I guess. “Jill, I went up to London to beat the holy crap out of him. The man deserved it. But you have to believe that I would
never
set out to murder anyone, no matter how evil a bastard they were.”

“I know that,” I said quietly.

I guess I’d known it all along.

Christmas Eve. I’ve always loved Christmas Eve. A magical time full of exciting possibilities, like my life.

“Hard to believe that’s really the end of it,” I said.

Jamie nodded. He felt the same. “There’s enough on Bill to put him away for a while. It’s going to be harder to nail Constantine, nothing in the paper trail leads to him, but we’ll have him for GBH at least. Could get five years. Means you’ll have to testify about his attack on you.” His eyes asked if I’d be willing to do that.

“Sure.”

“And David’s a credible witness as well. Now that he’s got himself some decent clobber.” He laughed.

“And Kabak.” I left it hanging. “And all that stuff in the Mangle Board. The documents Viktor’s accountant probably got himself killed for. All for nothing.”

“Not necessarily. Met’s got them. Might come in useful for the Norwegians and their fight against the cartel. Main thing is that you’re safe at last, Jill.”

Safe
. A small word, packing a huge punch. It was only just beginning to sink in that now life could seek a new level, find a new normality. The future was a blank slate to be written on as we all saw fit.

“No more random visits from people trying to throw me off cliffs or injure my family.”

“No,” he said and smiled. “But as I recall you weren’t too shabby yourself when it came to dishing out injuries. Remind me to get off-side when you’ve got a bottle of wine handy.” He laughed.

“You work with the tools to hand,” I said.

We were sitting in the parlour. We’d spent a lot of time together over the last few days. Gone for long walks arm in arm. Huddled together down by the harbour, pretending we owned a boat and could sail away. Watched the sunset going down over the bay. Played football with the kids.

Jamie was good with people and he instinctively knew that Tom was wary of him, felt threatened that someone might steal his mother’s affections from him. So he’d been sensitive. Had even allowed Tom to make him look like a gormless idiot at football, and suggested that my son show him how to do it properly. It was working. We were taking it slowly. No pressure. No promises. Day to day stuff.

Jamie was staying at a bed and breakfast place in Turnberry, only five minutes walk from the golf course, but so far he hadn’t walked there, or played golf. He only used his room for sleeping in. Most of the time he stayed with us.
With me.

My mother had invited him to Christmas dinner. The table was large enough and there’d be enough food to feed an army anyway. She’d bought two turkeys to take us through the holiday and some unspeakable looking thing that was a traditional Scottish dish for Hogmanay was lurking in the kitchen. It was made from offal, suet and oatmeal all encased in a sheep’s stomach.

Alice’s invitation to go to the Hogmanay party in Edinburgh grew more attractive when I thought about having to eat my mother’s Haggis. But you probably couldn’t even escape it there.

My mother headed a procession into the parlour. David was carrying a tray and the children followed behind. She had prepared an elaborate afternoon tea. High tea. She still did that sort of thing. I eyed the massive scones, thick with jam and cream; they would be the ones she’d made this morning while the rest of us were lazing in bed. The smell drifting from the Aga had woken me up.

“Thought you might be homesick,” she said and her eyes connected with mine. “Cornish cream from Roddas.”

“How’d you manage that?” I asked. I never for a minute doubted her cooking skills, but she was a magician as well. I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me.

“I know people,” she said and tapped the side of her nose with a forefinger. Shared a secret look with my father.

“Alice’ll be gutted she’s missed a Cornish cream tea,” I said.

“Got another big tub of Roddas in the fridge. And enough of my jam to keep us going for a while.”

“You’ll be safe from famine in this house,” agreed my father. An acknowledgement that my mother was a woman who produced what he called good, honest food. They called it rustic, hearty fare in cookery magazines. Stuff that gave you value for your calories. “No poncing around with this nouvelle cuisine stuff here,” he said. “What you need is something that sticks to your ribs in this cold weather.” He nodded at my mother. It was a compliment. And he’d never been a man big on compliments.

“What time’s Alice arriving?” Jamie asked.

I automatically looked at the large clock above his head. It was five. “Flight gets in at nine-twenty,” I said.

“Awe, that sucks. We’ll be in bed.”

My mother raised an eyebrow at Tom. Sucks wasn’t a word she was comfortable with. And I was catapulted back to my youth. She could do more with a raised eyebrow, I remember, than some other mothers could do with a tirade of abuse. She really was a magician, and to think I was only just beginning to understand that. Alice was right. Perspective was everything.

“Need to be in bed early tonight.” My father winked at the kids. “Otherwise, you know what. The man with the long white beard might change his mind and fly straight on by.”

“But there is no . . .” Millie didn’t get the rest out. For I raised a hand in warning. Tom was a committed supporter of Father Christmas, a true believer. I hadn’t realised that Millie, only eight, was already questioning his existence and a part of me felt saddened for her. It was another bit of her childhood slipping away.

God, hark at me. Bringing doom and gloom when everything was so positive for us. It was then I realised that it wasn’t my daughter I was sad about, but myself. The passing of my optimism. And right there I determined to resurrect it, whatever it took. It was Christmas.

“I’ll drive you to the airport,” I said, changing the subject. A conjurer’s misdirection. At least we could make sure that Tom would still enjoy the excitement of the myth a while longer.

“No problem. You know Alice,” David said. “Once she makes her mind up about something. She’s taking a taxi.” David looked unaccountably glum for a man expecting the imminent arrival of the love of his life (or even for someone looking forward to some decent sex).

“What, all the way from Prestwick,” I said, “when we’ve got a perfectly good car out there?”

“Jilly’s right,” my father agreed. “Besides, they’ll charge her a fortune on Christmas Eve.”

“All the same, she’s insisting. I tried to argue,” said David. “But she wouldn’t have it.”

“Sure, but . . .”

My mother raised an eyebrow. Leave it alone, it said. It was meant both for me and my father. It was subtle, but I could tell, for I was getting to grips with her signal flags now.

“How long those boys in the Met letting you loose?” My father turned to Jamie. He didn’t know yet, that this wasn’t just a Christmas holiday. That Jamie no longer had a job. (Another thing we had in common.)

“Could be a while. I’ve handed in my badge.” It came out corny, like he’d lifted it straight from a bad movie. But I guess when you’re put on the spot like that it isn’t easy.

“Oh?”

“Time for a change,” he said and it sounded lame.

“Change is good,” I said, handing him a lifeline.

“They’ve offered me another job,” he threw me an apologetic look. He hadn’t told me. “But I’m not sure I’ll take it. Civilian attached. Admin stuff. Driving a desk wouldn’t suit me.”

“No, can’t see you as a desk-jockey,” my father agreed.

“Thought I’d take myself an extended holiday up here. The place agrees with me,” he said and gave me a knowing smile. (Did that mean what I thought it meant?) “Might even try to learn golf.”

“Now you’re talking.” Enthusiasm bubbled from the old man. “You know we’ve got one of the finest courses in the country here, don’t you?”

He knows! The world and his brother had told him. It was getting to be a private joke with us now
.

“Turnberry Golf Course has hosted the British Open,” my father told him.

“That so?” said Jamie.

“Take a trot over there, give the place the once over. It’s only a short walk from your digs.”

“Maybe I will.”

“If you fancy it, you and I could take a trip out there sometime, now you’ve got time on your hands. Swing a few clubs.”

“Thanks, that’d be good,” Jamie said.

Would it? Him and my father getting all cosy. The boy’s club in action. I’d reserve judgement.

“Right. I’ll leave you good folks to get on with things.” Jamie made a move from the sofa. It was one of those comfortable ones that encouraged you to stay, to be a couch potato. Maybe he didn’t want to overstay his welcome.

My mother nodded to me. Another of her signal flags going up. Walk him to the door, girl, it said. Say goodnight. Next she’d be telling people we were ‘walking out together’. I hoped her matchmaking wasn’t as obvious to everyone. It was embarrassing.

As soon as the front door closed, he pounced on me. Covered my lips with his. Held me so tightly I couldn’t breathe. Breathing’s an overrated pastime anyway. And when we both came up for air I said, “Golf?”

“Yeah, well. That was for the old man.”

“You sure? Maybe you’re a closet golfer and you can’t wait to get the plus-fours on,” I laughed.

“Doesn’t hurt to keep your parents sweet,” he smiled and reached his hand out to my breast.

“Don’t,” I brushed the hand away. “They’ll all be watching.”

“They can get their own girl.”

“Corny,” I said. “But nice.”

“Okay, then I’ll woo you. See if I don’t.”

He gave me one long kiss that probed places in my mouth no one (except my dentist) had been before. And then he was gone. Leaving me to think about what exactly he’d meant by woo.

Oh I knew what it meant, of course, in the old-fashioned sense of the word. It meant to court someone you loved. And now, I guess it could mean making someone fall for you. Wow! I’d never had anyone promise to woo me before. It would be fun to see him try.

But he wouldn’t have to work that hard. For I’d already fallen for him.